poetry selections.

Some favourite poems.

Light Shining out of darkness.

God Moves in mysterious ways,
His wonders to perform.
He plants his footsteps in the sea,
And rides upon the storm.

Deep in unfathomable mines,
Of never failing skill,
He treasures up his great design
And works his sovereign will.

Ye fearful saints fresh courage take,
The clouds ye so much dread,
Are filled with mercy and shall break,
with blessings on your head.

Judge not the lord by feeble sense
But trust him for his grace.
Behind the frowning providence
He hides a smiling face.

His purposes will ripen fast,
Unfolding every hour.
the bud may have a bitter taste,
But sweet will be the flower.

Blind unbelief is sure to err,
And scan his work in vain.
God is his own interpreter
And he will make it plain. 

Count your blessings.
Johnson otman

When upon life's billows you are tempest tossed,
When you are discouraged thinking all is lost,
Count your many blessings name them one by one.
And it will surprise you what the Lord hath done.

1. • Refrain:
     Count your blessings, name them one by one,
     Count your blessings, see what God hath done!
     Count your blessings, name them one by one,
     *Count your many blessings, see what God hath done.
     [*And it will surprise you what the Lord hath done.]
2. Are you ever burdened with a load of care?
   Does the cross seem heavy you are called to bear?
   Count your many blessings, every doubt will fly,
   And you will keep singing as the days go by.
3. When you look at others with their lands and gold,
   Think that Christ has promised you His wealth untold;
   Count your many blessings—*money cannot buy [*wealth can never buy]
   Your reward in heaven, nor your home on high.
4. So, amid the conflict whether great or small,
   Do not be discouraged, God is over all;
   Count your many blessings, angels will attend,
   Help and comfort give you to your journey’s end.

William wordsworth  london 1802.

O Friend!  I know not which way I must look
For comfort, being as I am, opprest
To think that now our life is only drest
For show mean handiwork of craftsman, cook
Or groom! We must run glittering like a brook
In the open sunshine, or we are unblest
No grandeur now in Nature or in Book
Delights us, Rapine avarice expense
This is idolatry and these we adore
Plain living and High thinking are no more
The homely beauty of the good old cause
Is gone, our peace, our fearful innocence
And pure religion breathing household laws.


Daffodils.
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed--and gazed--but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;

Solitary Reaper

Behold her, single in the field,

Yon solitary Highland Lass!

Reaping and singing by herself;

Stop here, or gently pass!

Alone she cuts and binds the grain,

And sings a melancholy strain;

O listen! for the Vale profound

Is overflowing with the sound.

No Nightingale did ever chaunt

More welcome notes to weary bands

Of travellers in some shady haunt,

Among Arabian sands:

A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard

In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,

Breaking the silence of the seas

Among the farthest Hebrides.

Will no one tell me what she sings?—

Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow

For old, unhappy, far-off things,

And battles long ago:

Or is it some more humble lay,

Familiar matter of to-day?

Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,

That has been, and may be again?

Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang

As if her song could have no ending;

I saw her singing at her work,

And o'er the sickle bending;—

I listened, motionless and still;

And, as I mounted up the hill,

The music in my heart I bore,

Long after it was heard no more.

Thomas Campbell.

Lord Ullins Daughter.

A chieftain, to the Highlands bound, 
Cries, ``Boatman, do not tarry! 
And I'll give thee a silver pound 
To row us o'er the ferry!''-- 

``Now, who be ye, would cross Lochgyle, 
This dark and stormy weather?'' 
``O, I'm the chief of Ulva's isle, 
And this, Lord Ullin's daughter.-- 

``And fast before her father's men 
Three days we've fled together, 
For should he find us in the glen, 
My blood would stain the heather. 

``His horsemen hard behind us ride; 
Should they our steps discover, 
Then who will cheer my bonny bride 
When they have slain her lover?''-- 

Out spoke the hardy Highland wight,-- 
``I'll go, my chief--I'm ready:-- 
It is not for your silver bright; 
But for your winsome lady: 

``And by my word! the bonny bird 
In danger shall not tarry; 
So, though the waves are raging white, 
I'll row you o'er the ferry.''-- 

"All Things Bright and Beautiful..."

All things bright and beautiful,

All creatures great and small,

All things wise and wonderful:

The Lord God made them all.

Each little flower that opens,

Each little bird that sings,

He made their glowing colors,

He made their tiny wings.

All things bright and beautiful,

All creatures great and small,

All things wise and wonderful:

The Lord God made them all.Refrain

The rich man in his castle,

The poor man at his gate,

He made them, high or lowly,

And ordered their estate.

All things bright and beautiful,

All creatures great and small,

All things wise and wonderful:

The Lord God made them all.

The purple headed mountains,

The river running by,

The sunset and the morning

That brightens up the sky.

All things bright and beautiful,

All creatures great and small,

All things wise and wonderful:

The Lord God made them all.

The cold wind in the winter,

The pleasant summer sun,

The ripe fruits in the garden,

He made them every one.

O Captain! My Captain!

BY WALT WHITMAN

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,

The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won,

The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,

While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;

                         But O heart! heart! heart!

                            O the bleeding drops of red,

                               Where on the deck my Captain lies,

                                  Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;

Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills,

For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding,

For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;

                         Here Captain! dear father!

                            The arm beneath your head!

                               It is some dream that on the deck,

                                 You’ve fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,

My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,

The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,

From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;

                         Exult O shores, and ring O bells!

                            But I with mournful tread,

                               Walk the deck my Captain lies,

                                  Fallen cold and dead.

Who put the gold into the sunshine.

who put the gold into the sunshine, who put the sparkle in the star.
who put the silver in the moon light, who made earth and man.
who put the scent into the roses, who taught the honey bee to dance.
who put the trees inside the acorn, it surely can't be chance.
who made trees and leaves and seas, who made snow and winds that blow.
who made streams and rivers flow.
God made all of these.


By William shakespeare

Creatures that by a rule in nature teach

The act of order to a peopled kingdom.

They have a king, and officers of sorts;

Where some, like magistrates, correct at home;

Others, like soldiers, armed in their strings,

Make boot upon the summer’s velvet buds;

Which pillage they with merry march bring home

To the rent royal of their emperor;

Who, busied in his majesty, surveys,

The singing masons building roofs of gold,

The civil citizens kneading up the honey,

The poor mechanic porters crowding in

Their heavy burdens at his narrow gate,

The sad-eyed justice, with his surly hum,

Delivering o’er to executors pale

The lazy yawning drone. 

Sir Henry Wotton

How happy is he born or taught,
That serveth not another's will;
Whose armour is his honest thought,
And simple truth his highest skill;

Whose passions not his masters are;
Whose soul is still prepar'd for death
Untied unto the world with care
Of princes' grace or vulgar breath;

Who envies none whom chance doth raise,
Or vice; who never understood
The deepest wounds are given by praise,
By rule of state, but not of good;

Who hath his life from rumours freed;
Whose conscience is his strong retreat;
Whose state can neither flatterers feed,
Nor ruins make accusers great;

Who God doth late and early pray,
More of his grace than goods to send,
And entertains the harmless day
With a well-chosen book or friend.

This man is free from servile bands
Of hope to rise or fear to fall;
Lord of himself, though not of lands;
And having nothing, yet hath all.

 Ode to a Nightingale John Keats

MY heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
But being too happy in thine happiness,
That thou, light-wingèd Dryad of the trees,
In some melodious plot
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,
Singest of summer in full-throated ease.
O for a draught of vintage! that hath been
Cool'd a long age in the deep-delvèd earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country-green,
Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!
O for a beaker full of the warm South!
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
And purple-stainèd mouth;
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
And with thee fade away into the forest dim:
Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
What thou among the leaves hast never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret
Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last grey hairs,
Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
And leaden-eyed despairs;
Where beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.
Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:
Already with thee! tender is the night,
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays
But here there is no light,
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.
I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
But, in embalmèd darkness, guess each sweet
Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;
Fast-fading violets cover'd up in leaves;
And mid-May's eldest child,
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.
Darkling I listen; and, for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Call'd him soft names in many a musèd rhyme,
To take into the air my quiet breath;
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
In such an ecstasy!
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain—
To thy high requiem become a sod.
Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
No hungry generations tread thee down;
The voice I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown:
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
The same that ofttimes hath
Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.
Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
To toll me back from thee to my sole self!
Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
As she is famed to do, deceiving elf.
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep
In the next valley-glades:
Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
Fled is that music:—do I wake or sleep? Abou Ben Adhem by James Leigh Hunt. Abou Ben Adhem (May his tribe increase) Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, And saw, within the moonlight in his room, Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom, An angel writing in a book of Gold:- Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold, And to the presence in the room he said, "What writest thou?"   -- The vision rais'd its head, And with a look made of all sweet accord, Answer'd  "The names of those who love the Lord" And is mine one? said Abou. 'Nay not so," Replied the angel: Abou spoke more low, But cheerly still and said, I pray thee, then, 'write me as one that loves his fellow men." The angel wrote and vanished.  The next night It came again with a great wakening light, And show'd the names whom love of God had blest, And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest. O Nightingale thou surely art A creature of "fiery heart" these notes of thine they pierce and pierce. tumultous harmony and fierce thou singest as if the god of wine Had helped thee to a valentine A song in mockery and despite. of shades and dews and silent nights. and steady bliss and all the loves Now sleeping in these peaceful groves I heard a stock dove sing or say His homely tale this very day. His voice was burried amoung trees Yet to become at by the breeze He did not cease, but cooed and cooed and somewhat pensively he wooed. He sang of love with quiet blending. slow to begin and never ending of serious faith and inward glee. that was the song the song for me. Home they brought her warrior dead. Home they brought her warrior dead. she nor swooned, nor uttered a cry, all her maidens watching said, She must weep or she will die. Then they praised him soft and low, called him worthy to be loved, truest friend and noblest foe, yet she neither spoke nor moved. stole a maiden from her place lightly to the warrior stepped took the face clot from the face yet she neither moved nor wept. rose a nurse of ninety years, set his child upon her knee like summer tempest came her tears sweet my child, i live for thee. Alfred Lord Tennyson.