Lenten Poetry Challenge
Thursday Lent Poem 15
Wednesday Lent Poem 14
Oscar Wilde 1881
All her bright golden hair
Lily-like, white as snow,
Coffin-board, heavy stone,
Peace, peace, she cannot hear
Tuesday Lent Poem 13
The Universal Prayer
In every clime adored,
By saint, by savage, and by sage,
Jehovah, Jove, or Lord!
Who all my sense confined
To know but this, that Thou art good
And that myself am blind.
To see the good from ill;
And, binding Nature fast in fate,
Left free the human will.
Or warns me not to do,
This teach me more than Hell to shun,
That more than Heaven pursue.
Let me not cast away;
For God is paid when man receives:
To enjoy is to obey.
Thy goodness let me bound.
Or think Thee Lord alone of man,
When thousand worlds are round.
Presume Thy bolts to throw,
And teach damnation round the land
On each I judge Thy foe.
Still in the right to stay;
If I am wrong, oh teach my heart
To find that better way!
Or impious discontent,
At aught Thy wisdom has denied,
Or aught that goodness lent.
To right the fault I see;
That mercy I to others show,
That mercy show to me.
Since quickened by Thy breath;
Oh, lead me wheresoe’er I go,
Through this day’s life or death.
All else beneath the sun
Though know’st if best bestowed or not,
And let Thy will be done!
Monday Lent Poem 12
No birth, identity, form–no object of the world.
Nor life, nor force, nor any visible thing;
Appearance must not foil, nor shifted sphere confuse thy brain.
Ample are time and space–ample the fields of Nature.
The body, sluggish, aged, cold–the embers left from earlier fires,
The light in the eye grown dim, shall duly flame again;
The sun now low in the west rises for mornings and for noons continual;
To frozen clods ever the spring’s invisible law returns,
With grass and flowers and summer fruits and corn.
Sunday Lent Poem 11
Letter from town: On a Grey Morning in March
While north of them all, at the farthest ends, stands one
With fire as it guards the wild north cloud-coasts, red-fire
seas running through
The rocks where ravens flying to windward melt as a well-shot lance.You should be out by the orchard, where violets secretly darken the earth,
Or there in the woods of the twilight, with northern
wind-flowers shaken astir.
Think of me here in the library, trying and trying a song that is worth
Tears and swords to my heart, arrows no armour will turn or deter.
You tell me the lambs have come, they lie like daisies white in the grass
Of the dark-green hills; new calves in shed; peewits turn after the plough –
It is well for you. For me the navvies work in the road where I pass
And I want to smite in anger the barren rock of each waterless brow.
Like the sough of a wind that is caught up high in the mesh
of the budding trees,
A sudden car goes sweeping past, and I strain my soul to hear
The voice of the furtive triumphant engine as it rushes past like a breeze,
To hear on its mocking triumphance unwitting the after-echo of fear.