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poems about life

Many famous poets from both the past and present have helped and inspired people to face and overcome life's many challenges through the words of their poems. Such poems about life help people to see they are not alone in their struggles and that it is possible to overcome their problems. We are the sum of experiences that we encounter as we go through life. Day to day struggles and triumphs are experienced by all of the world's creatures. As human beings, when we encounter a challenge, we have freedom to choose how to react. Get access to all Poems about life, Short poems about life, and Famous poems about life, poems about life struggles, short poems about life, poems about life struggles, poems about life and love.

 
Poems    Poems about life
 
 

They may rail at this life -- from the hour I began it
I found it a life full of kindness and bliss;
And, until they can show me some happier planet,
More social and bright, I'll content me with this.
As long as the world has such lips and such eyes
As before me this moment enraptured I see,
They may say what they will of their orbs in the skies,
But this earth is the planet for you, love, and me.
In Mercury's star, where each moment can bring them
New sunshine and wit from the fountain on high,
Though the nymphs may have livelier poets to sing them,
They've none, even there, more enamour'd than I.
And, as long as this harp can be waken'd to love,
And that eye its divine inspiration shall be,
They may talk as they will of their Edens above,
But this earth is the planet for you, love, and me.
In that star of the west, by whose shadowy splendour,
At twilight so often we've roam'd through the dew,
There are maidens, perhaps, who have bosoms as tender,
And look, in their twilights, as lovely as you.
But though they were even more bright than the queen
Of that Isle they inhabit in heaven's blue sea,
As I never those fair young celestials have seen,
Why -- this earth is the planet for you, love, and me.
As for those chilly orbs on the verge of creation,
Where sunshine and smiles must be equally rare,
Did they want a supply of cold hearts for that station,
Heaven knows we have plenty on earth we could spare,
Oh! think what a world we should have of it here,
If the haters of peace, of affection and glee,
Were to fly up to Saturn's comfortless sphere,
And leave earth to such spirits as you, love, and me.
They May Rail At This Life
Thomas Moore

TO THE HONOURED MR ENDYMION PORTER, GROOM OF
THE BED-CHAMBER TO HIS MAJESTY
Sweet country life, to such unknown,
Whose lives are others', not their own!
But serving courts and cities, be
Less happy, less enjoying thee.
Thou never plough'st the ocean's foam
To seek and bring rough pepper home:
Nor to the Eastern Ind dost rove
To bring from thence the scorched clove:
Nor, with the loss of thy loved rest,
Bring'st home the ingot from the West.
No, thy ambition's master-piece
Flies no thought higher than a fleece:
Or how to pay thy hinds, and clear
All scores: and so to end the year:
But walk'st about thine own dear bounds,
Not envying others' larger grounds:
For well thou know'st, 'tis not th' extent
Of land makes life, but sweet content.
When now the cock (the ploughman's horn)
Calls forth the lily-wristed morn;
Then to thy corn-fields thou dost go,
Which though well soil'd, yet thou dost know
That the best compost for the lands
Is the wise master's feet, and hands.
There at the plough thou find'st thy team,
With a hind whistling there to them:
And cheer'st them up, by singing how
The kingdom's portion is the plough.
This done, then to th' enamell'd meads
Thou go'st; and as thy foot there treads,
Thou seest a present God-like power
Imprinted in each herb and flower:
And smell'st the breath of great-eyed kine,
Sweet as the blossoms of the vine.
Here thou behold'st thy large sleek neat
Unto the dew-laps up in meat:
And, as thou look'st, the wanton steer,
The heifer, cow, and ox draw near,
To make a pleasing pastime there.
These seen, thou go'st to view thy flocks
Of sheep, safe from the wolf and fox,
And find'st their bellies there as full
Of short sweet grass, as backs with wool:
And leav'st them, as they feed and fill,
A shepherd piping on a hill.
For sports, for pageantry, and plays,
Thou hast thy eves, and holydays:
On which the young men and maids meet,
To exercise their dancing feet:
Tripping the comely country Round,
With daffadils and daisies crown'd.
Thy wakes, thy quintels, here thou hast,
Thy May-poles too with garlands graced;
Thy Morris-dance; thy Whitsun-ale;
Thy shearing-feast, which never fail.
Thy harvest home; thy wassail bowl,
That's toss'd up after Fox i' th' hole:
Thy mummeries; thy Twelve-tide kings
And queens; thy Christmas revellings:
Thy nut-brown mirth, thy russet wit,
And no man pays too dear for it.--
To these, thou hast thy times to go
And trace the hare i' th' treacherous snow:
Thy witty wiles to draw, and get
The lark into the trammel net:
Thou hast thy cockrood, and thy glade
To take the precious pheasant made:
Thy lime-twigs, snares, and pit-falls then
To catch the pilfering birds, not men.
--O happy life! if that their good
The husbandmen but understood!
Who all the day themselves do please,
And younglings, with such sports as these:
And lying down, have nought t' affright
Sweet Sleep, that makes more short the night.
CAETERA DESUNT--
The Country Life:
Robert Herrick

A Different Path
by Brian Emerson
It's time to go, to leave this place
A shadowy voice does cry.
But the voice belongs to me alone,
And still I wonder why.
The time is here upon me now
Like a weight, heavy pounding.
Or has it Lifted? Hard to tell
The Questions keep arising.

The unknown awaits, as it does
For foolish few who dare.

Is it foolishness?
Curiosity perhaps?
Or something I'm not aware.
For I am scared and poignant now
More than ever at present.
Tears cloud my eyes as pen meets paper,
And I hope for my ascent.
I leave behind what I comprehend
And even with all communication.
I know for now without doubt,
I drift, en route a new location.
But who's to say what shall pass
And what still lies ahead.
I only know that were I'm at,
I'll yearn 'till forever dead.
Yet for now the flame still burns inside
However daily dying.
To light the path less traveled by
In haste I'm already striding.
But am I running from that I cannot?
Escape from oneself is ever brief.
Before we are again confronted,
Hunting for relief.
Yet still I follow my perilous path
To wherever it might be leading.
And well it may, onto something new,
And strangely more inviting.
Or perhaps not . . .
But who's to know, not I as yet
The fate of anyone on this Earth,
I wouldn't like to bet.
For life can lead in many ways
Often now undesired.
Fate can deal a cruel hand sometimes,
But we play on, cold and tired.
And art is born of life
Hard, dejected and trodden.
Hence emerges exquisite beauty,
And some direction from the coffin.
Finding it is a difficult thing
Sometimes left without thought.
But time it ticks, and years they fly,
I'm sure it can't be bought.
So we search, as do I
For things that bring on the 'morrow.
The weak are those who don't pursue,
And languish in their sorrow.
Happiness is that I chase
And hope to find someday.
I'll count the means again I'm sure,
There is always another way . . .

 
 
 

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