33 Greatest Poems about Thoughts

We all have diverse thoughts and opinions every day. It differs from what kinds of persons we are and what kind of situations we are in. Same with our poets, they also created masterpieces while sharing their thoughts through their poems.

These are thirty-three (33) greatest poems about thoughts. If you are fond of knowing what kinds of thoughts some poets have, these poems are for you.

Keep reading!

The Inner Vision

Most sweet it is with unuplifted eyes
To pace the ground, if path there be or none,
While a fair region round the traveller lies
Which he forbears again to look upon;
Pleased rather with some soft ideal scene,
The work of fancy, or some happy tone
Of meditation, slipping in between
The beauty coming and the beauty gone.
If Thought and Love desert us, from that day
Let us break off all commerce with the Muse:
With Thought and Love companions of our way,—
Whate’er the senses take or may refuse,—
The mind’s internal Heaven shall shed her dews
Of inspiration on the humblest lay.

William Wordsworth


When I am all alone
Envy me most,
Then my thoughts flutter round me
In a glimmering host;

Some dressed in silver,
Some dressed in white,
Each like a taper
Blossoming light;

Most of them merry,
Some of them grave,
Each of them lithe
As willows that wave;

Some bearing violets,
Some bearing bay,
One with a burning rose
Hidden away.

When I am all alone
Envy me then,
For I have better friends
Than women and men.

Sara Teasdale


As they draw to a close,
Of what underlies the precedent songs of my aims in them;
Of the seed I have sought to plant in them;
Of joy, sweet joy, through many a year, in them;
(For them for them have I lived In them my work is done;)
Of many an aspiration fond of many a dream and plan,
Of you, O mystery great! to place on record faith in you, O death!
To compact you, ye parted, diverse lives!
To put rapport the mountains, and rocks, and streams,
And the winds of the north, and the forests of oak and pine,
With you, O soul of man.

Walt Whitman


Thought is deeper than all speech,
Feeling deeper than all thought;
Souls to souls can never teach
What unto themselves was taught.

We are spirits clad in veils;
Man by man was never seen;
All our deep communing fails
To remove the shadowy screen.

Heart to heart was never known;
Mind with mind did never meet;
We are columns left alone
Of a temple once complete.

Like the stars that gem the sky,
Far apart, though seeming near,
In our light we scattered lie;
All is thus but starlight here.

What is social company
But a babbling summer stream?
What our wise philosophy
But the glancing of a dream?

Only when the sun of love
Melts the scattered stars of thought,
Only when we live above
What the dim-eyed world hath taught,

Only when our souls are fed
By the fount which gave them birth,
And by inspiration led
Which they never drew from earth,

We, like parted drops of rain,
Swelling till they meet and run,
Shall be all absorbed again,
Melting, flowing into one.

Christopher Pearse Cranch


Of obedience, faith, adhesiveness;
As I stand aloof and look, there is to me something profoundly affecting in large masses of men, following the lead of those who do not believe in men.

Walt Whitman


From the Spanish by Edward Fitzgerald

From “Such Stuff As Dreams Are Made of”

And yet—and yet—in these our ghostly lives,
Half night, half day, half sleeping, half awake,
How if our waking life, like that of sleep,
Be all a dream in that eternal life
To which we wake not till we sleep in death?
How if, I say, the senses we now trust
For date of sensible comparison,—
Ay, ev’n the Reason’s self that dates with them,
Should be in essence of intensity
Hereafter so transcended, and awoke
To a perceptive subtlety so keen
As to confess themselves befooled before,
In all that now they will avouch for most?
One man—like this—but only so much longer
As life is longer than a summer’s day,
Believed himself a king upon his throne,
And played at hazard with his fellows’ lives,
Who cheaply dreamed away their lives to him.
The sailor dreamed of tossing on the flood:
The soldier, of his laurels grown in blood:
The lover, of the beauty that he knew
Must yet dissolve to dusty residue:
The merchant and the miser of his bags
Of fingered gold; the beggar of his rags:
And all this stage of earth on which we seem
Such busy actors, and the parts we played
Substantial as the shadow of a shade,
And Dreaming but a dream within a dream!

Pedro Calderón de la Barca


Of persons arrived at high positions, ceremonies, wealth, scholarships, and the like;
To me, all that those persons have arrived at, sinks away from them, except as it results to their Bodies and Souls,
So that often to me they appear gaunt and naked;
And often, to me, each one mocks the others, and mocks himself or herself,
And of each one, the core of life, namely happiness, is full of the rotten excrement of maggots,
And often, to me, those men and women pass unwittingly the true realities of life, and go toward false realities,
And often, to me, they are alive after what custom has served them, but nothing more,
And often, to me, they are sad, hasty, unwaked sonnambules, walking the dusk.

Walt Whitman

“My minde to me a kingdom is”

My minde to me a kingdom is;
Such perfect joy therein I finde
As farre exceeds all earthly blisse
That God or nature hath assignde;
Though much I want that most would have,
Yet still my minde forbids to crave.

Content I live; this is my stay,—
I seek no more than may suffice.
I presse to beare no haughtie sway;
Look, what I lack my mind supplies.
Loe, thus I triumph like a king,
Content with that my minde doth bring.

I see how plentie surfets oft,
And hastie clymbers soon do fall;
I see that such as sit aloft
Mishap doth threaten most of all.
These get with toile, they keepe with feare;
Such cares my minde could never beare.

No princely pompe nor welthie store,
No force to win the victorie,
No wylie wit to salve a sore,
No shape to winne a lover’s eye,—
To none of these I yeeld as thrall;
For why, my mind despiseth all.

Some have too much, yet still they crave;
I little have, yet seek no more.
They are but poore, though much they have,
And I am rich with little store.
They poor, I rich; they beg, I give;
They lacke, I lend; they pine, I live.

I laugh not at another’s losse,
I grudge not at another’s gaine;
No worldly wave my mind can tosse;
I brooke that is another’s bane.
I feare no foe, I fawne no friend;
I lothe not life, nor dread mine end.

I joy not in no earthly blisse;
I weigh not Crœsus’ wealth a straw;
For care, I care not what it is;
I feare not fortune’s fatal law;
My minde is such as may not move
For beautie bright, or force of love.

I wish but what I have at will;
I wander not to seeke for more;
I like the plaine, I clime no hill;
In greatest stormes I sitte on shore,
And laugh at them that toile in vaine
To get what must be lost againe.

I kisse not where I wish to kill;
I feigne not love where most I hate;
I breake no sleepe to winne my will;
I wayte not at the mightie’s gate.
I scorne no poore, I feare no rich;
I feele no want, nor have too much.

The court ne cart I like ne loath,—
Extreames are counted worst of all;
The golden meane betwixt them both
Doth surest sit, and feares no fall;
This is my choyce; for why, I finde
No wealth is like a quiet minde.

My wealth is health and perfect ease;
My conscience clere my chiefe defence;
I neither seeke by bribes to please,
Nor by desert to breed offence.
Thus do I live; thus will I die;
Would all did so as well as I!

Sir Edward Dyer


As I sit with others, at a great feast, suddenly, while the music is playing,
To my mind, (whence it comes I know not,) spectral, in mist, of a wreck at sea;
Of certain ships, how they sail from port with flying streamers, and wafted kisses, and that is the last of them!
Of the solemn and murky mystery about the fate of the President;
Of the flower of the marine science of fifty generations, foundered off the Northeast coast, and going down, Of the steamship Arctic going down,
Of the veiled tableau, Women gathered together on deck, pale, heroic, waiting the moment that draws so close, O the moment!
A huge sob, A few bubbles, the white foam spirting up, And then the women gone,
Sinking there, while the passionless wet flows on, And I now pondering, Are those women indeed gone?
Are Souls drowned and destroyed so?
Is only matter triumphant?

Walt Whitman


Of equality, As if it harmed me, giving others the same chances and rights as myself, As if it were not indispensable to my own rights that others possess the same.

Walt Whitman

Of a Contented Spirit

When all is done and said, in the end this shall you find:
He most of all doth bathe in bliss that hath a quiet mind;
And, clear from worldly cares, to dream can be content
The sweetest time in all this life in thinking to be spent.

The body subject is to fickle Fortune’s power,
And to a million of mishaps is casual every hour;
And death in time doth change it to a clod of clay;
Whenas the mind, which is divine, runs never to decay.

Companion none is like unto the mind alone,
For many have been harmed by speech,—through thinking, few or none;
Fear oftentimes restraineth words, but makes not thought to cease;
And he speaks best that hath the skill when for to hold his peace.

Our wealth leaves us at death, our kinsmen at the grave;
But virtues of the mind unto the heavens with us we have:
Wherefor, for Virtue’s sake, I can be well content
The sweetest time of all my life to deem in thinking spent.

Thomas, Lord Vaux


Of what I write from myself, As if that were not the resume;
Of Histories, As if such, however complete, were not less complete than the preceding poems;
As if those shreds, the records of nations, could possibly be as lasting as the preceding poems;
As if here were not the amount of all nations, and of all the lives of heroes.

Walt Whitman

The Sower and his Seed

He planted an oak in his father’s park
And a thought in the minds of men,
And he bade farewell to his native shore,
Which he never will see again.
Oh merrily stream the tourist throng
To the glow of the Southern sky;
A vision of pleasure beckons them on,
But he went there to die.

The oak will grow and its boughs will spread,
And many rejoice in its shade,
But none will visit the distant grave,
Where a stranger youth is laid;
And the thought will live when the oak has died,
And quicken the minds of men,
But the name of the thinker has vanished away,
And will never be heard again.

William Edward Hartpole Lecky


I am not poor, but I am proud,
Of one inalienable right,
Above the envy of the crowd,–
Thought’s holy light.

Better it is than gems or gold,
And oh! it cannot die,
But thought will glow when the sun grows cold,
And mix with Deity.

BOSTON, 1823.

Ralph Waldo Emerson

Thought Of A Briton On The Sunjugation Of Switzerland

Two Voices are there; one is of the sea,
One of the mountains; each a mighty Voice:
In both from age to age thou didst rejoice,
They were thy chosen music, Liberty!
There came a Tyrant, and with holy glee
Thou fought’st against him; but hast vainly striven:
Thou from thy Alpine holds at length art driven,
Where not a torrent murmurs heard by thee.
Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft:
Then cleave, O cleave to that which still is left;
For, high-souled Maid, what sorrow would it be
That Mountain floods should thunder as before,
And Ocean bellow from his rocky shore,
And neither awful Voice be heard by thee!

William Wordsworth

A Thought

It’s very nice to think of how
In every country lives a Cow
To furnish milk with all her might
For Kittens’ comfort and delight.

Oliver Herford

A Thought Of The Nile

It flows through old hushed Egypt and its sands,
Like some grave mighty thought threading a dream,
And times and things, as in that vision, seem
Keeping along it their eternal stands,–
Caves, pillars, pyramids, the shepherd bands
That roamed through the young world, the glory extreme
Of high Sesostris, and that southern beam,
The laughing queen that caught the world’s great hands.

Then comes a mightier silence, stern and strong,
As of a world left empty of its throng,
And the void weighs on us; and then we wake,
And hear the fruitful stream lapsing along
Twixt villages, and think how we shall take
Our own calm journey on for human sake.

James Henry Leigh Hunt

Thought On The Seasons

Flattered with promise of escape
From every hurtful blast,
Spring takes, O sprightly May! thy shape,
Her loveliest and her last.

Less fair is summer riding high
In fierce solstitial power,
Less fair than when a lenient sky
Brings on her parting hour.

When earth repays with golden sheaves
The labours of the plough,
And ripening fruits and forest leaves
All brighten on the bough;

What pensive beauty autumn shows,
Before she hears the sound
Of winter rushing in, to close
The emblematic round!

Such be our Spring, our Summer such;
So may our Autumn blend
With hoary Winter, and Life touch,
Through heaven-born hope, her end!

William Wordsworth

A Thought Went Up My Mind To-Day

A thought went up my mind to-day
That I have had before,
But did not finish, — some way back,
I could not fix the year,

Nor where it went, nor why it came
The second time to me,
Nor definitely what it was,
Have I the art to say.

But somewhere in my soul, I know
I ‘ve met the thing before;
It just reminded me — ‘t was all —
And came my way no more.

Emily Elizabeth Dickinson


I am glad when men of genius
Array a common thought,
In imperishable beauty
That it cannot be forgot.

The heart thoughts all bright and burnished
By high poetic art,
As sweet as the wood-bird’s warble
Touching the very heart.

Have not I, poor workday mortal,
Some thoughts of living light,
In the spirit’s inner chambers,
Moving with spirit might?

And they come in the fair spring time
Of heart and life and year,
When sweet Nature’s wild rejoicings,
Draws votaries very near

To the heart of all that’s lovely
On earth and in the sky;
Making audible the music
Of the inner melody.

Underlying all the sunshine,
Whispering through every breeze,
As it crests the ruffled ocean
Or sways the forest trees.

Bright thoughts that are heart prisoners
Vibrating on its chords,
For, alas! I have not genius
To bring them forth in words.

But full oft, like friendship’s greeting
Upon life’s weary way,
Do I meet in other’s language
What I most wished to say.

To such words my bosom echoes,
I feel they are my own,
They bright echo of my day dreams,
That else were ever flown.

Ah to think, ye men of genius,
What joy your art affords,
Giving to the thoughts of millions
The dress of glowing words!

And a blessing on these words then
To bear them far and free;
That they glad the hearts of many
As they have gladdened me.

Nora Pembroke (Margaret Moran Dixon McDougall)


By sound of name, and touch of hand,
Thro’ ears that hear, and eyes that see,
We know each other in this land,
How little must that knowledge be?

How souls are all the time alone,
No spirit can another reach;
They hide away in realms unknown,
Like waves that never touch a beach.

We never know each other here,
No soul can here another see —
To know, we need a light as clear
As that which fills eternity.

For here we walk by human light,
But there the light of God is ours,
Each day, on earth, is but a night;
Heaven alone hath clear-faced hours.

I call you thus — you call me thus —
Our mortal is the very bar
That parts forever each of us,
As skies, on high, part star from star.

A name is nothing but a name
For that which, else, would nameless be;
Until our souls, in rapture, claim
Full knowledge in eternity.

Abram Joseph Ryan


Thoughts do not need the wings of words
To fly to any goal.
Like subtle lightnings, not like birds,
They speed from soul to soul.

Hide in your heart a bitter thought –
Still it has power to blight;
Think Love -although you speak it not
It gives the world more light.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Thoughts At Sea.

Here is the boundless ocean, there the sky,
O’er-arching broad and blue
Telling of God and heaven how deep, how high,
How glorious and true!

Upon the wave there is an anthem sweet,
Whispered in fear and love,
Sending a solemn tribute to the feet
Of Him who sits above.

God of the waters! Nature owns her King!
The Sea thy sceptre knows;
At thy command the tempest spreads its wing,
Or folds it to repose.

And when the whirlwind hath gone rushing by,
Obedient to thy will,
What reverence sits upon the wave and sky,
Humbled, subdued, and still!

Oh! let my soul, like this submissive sea,
With peace upon its breast,
By the deep influence of thy Spirit be
Holy and hushed to rest.

And as the gladdening sun lights up the morn,
Bidding the storm depart,
So may the Sun of Righteousness adorn,
With love, my shadowed heart.

Samuel Griswold Goodrich

Thoughts Fer The Discuraged Farmer

The summer winds is sniffin’ round the bloomin’ locus’ trees;
And the clover in the pastur is a big day fer the bees,
And they been a-swiggin’ honey, above board and on the sly,
Tel they stutter in theyr buzzin’ and stagger as they fly.
The flicker on the fence-rail ‘pears to jest spit on his wings
And roll up his feathers, by the sassy way he sings;
And the hoss-fly is a-whettin’-up his forelegs fer biz,
And the off-mare is a-switchin’ all of her tale they is.

You can hear the blackbirds jawin’ as they foller up the plow –
Oh, theyr bound to git theyr brekfast, and theyr not a-carin’ how;
So they quarrel in the furries, and they quarrel on the wing –
But theyr peaceabler in pot-pies than any other thing:
And it’s when I git my shotgun drawed up in stiddy rest,
She’s as full of tribbelation as a yeller-jacket’s nest;
And a few shots before dinner, when the sun’s a-shinin’ right,
Seems to kindo’-sorto’ sharpen up a feller’s appetite!

They’s been a heap o’ rain, but the sun’s out to-day,
And the clouds of the wet spell is all cleared away,
And the woods is all the greener, and the grass is greener still;
It may rain again to-morry, but I don’t think it will.
Some says the crops is ruined, and the corn’s drownded out,
And propha-sy the wheat will be a failure, without doubt;
But the kind Providence that has never failed us yet,
Will be on hands onc’t more at the ‘leventh hour, I bet!

Does the medder-lark complane, as he swims high and dry
Through the waves of the wind and the blue of the sky?
Does the quail set up and whissel in a disappinted way,
Er hang his head in silunce, and sorrow all the day?
Is the chipmuck’s health a-failin’? – Does he walk, er does he run?
Don’t the buzzards ooze around up thare just like they’ve allus done?
Is they anything the matter with the rooster’s lungs er voice?
Ort a mortul be complainin’ when dumb animals rejoice?

Then let us, one and all, be contentud with our lot;
The June is here this morning, and the sun is shining hot.
Oh! let us fill our harts up with the glory of the day,
And banish ev’ry doubt and care and sorrow fur away!
Whatever be our station, with Providence fer guide,
Sich fine circumstances ort to make us satisfied;
Fer the world is full of roses, and the roses full of dew,
And the dew is full of heavenly love that drips fer me and you.

James Whitcomb Riley

Thoughts: Mahomed Akram

If some day this body of mine were burned
(It found no favour alas! with you)
And the ashes scattered abroad, unurned,
Would Love die also, would Thought die too?
But who can answer, or who can trust,
No dreams would harry the windblown dust?

Were I laid away in the furrows deep
Secure from jackal and passing plough,
Would your eyes not follow me still through sleep
Torment me then as they torture now?
Would you ever have loved me, Golden Eyes,
Had I done aught better or otherwise?

Was I overspeechful, or did you yearn
When I sat silent, for songs or speech?
Ah, Beloved, I had been so apt to learn,
So apt, had you only cared to teach.
But time for silence and song is done,
You wanted nothing, my Golden Sun!

What should you want of a waning star?
That drifts in its lonely orbit far
Away from your soft, effulgent light
In outer planes of Eternal night?

Laurence Hope (Adela Florence Cory Nicolson)



Of ownership, As if one fit to own things could not at pleasure enter upon all, and incorporate them into himself or herself.


Of waters, forests, hills;
Of the earth at large, whispering through medium of me;
Of vista, Suppose some sight in arriere, through the formative chaos, presuming the growth, fulness, life, now attained on the journey;
(But I see the road continued, and the journey ever continued;)
Of what was once lacking on earth, and in due time has become supplied, And of what will yet be supplied,
Because all I see and know, I believe to have purport in what will yet be supplied.

Walt Whitman

Thoughts Of Phena – At News Of Her Death

Not a line of her writing have I,
Not a thread of her hair,
No mark of her late time as dame in her dwelling, whereby
I may picture her there;
And in vain do I urge my unsight
To conceive my lost prize
At her close, whom I knew when her dreams were upbrimming with light,
And with laughter her eyes.

What scenes spread around her last days,
Sad, shining, or dim?
Did her gifts and compassions enray and enarch her sweet ways
With an aureate nimb?
Or did life-light decline from her years,
And mischances control
Her full day-star; unease, or regret, or forebodings, or fears
Disennoble her soul?

Thus I do but the phantom retain
Of the maiden of yore
As my relic; yet haply the best of her fined in my brain
It maybe the more
That no line of her writing have I,
Nor a thread of her hair,
No mark of her late time as dame in her dwelling, whereby
I may picture her there.

March 1890.

Thomas Hardy

Thoughts On Leaving Japan

A changing medley of insistent sounds,
Like broken airs, played on a Samisen,
Pursues me, as the waves blot out the shore.
The trot of wooden heels; the warning cry
Of patient runners; laughter and strange words
Of children, children, children everywhere:
The clap of reverent hands, before some shrine;
And over all the haunting temple bells,
Waking, in silent chambers of the soul,
Dim memories of long-forgotten lives.

But oh! the sorrow of the undertone;
The wail of hopeless weeping in the dawn
From lips that smiled through gilded bars at night.

Brave little people, of large aims, you bow
Too often, and too low before the Past;
You sit too long in worship of the dead.
Yet have you risen, open eyed, to greet
The great material Present. Now salute
The greater Future, blazing its bold trail
Through old traditions. Leave your dead to sleep
In quiet peace with God. Let your concern
Be with the living, and the yet unborn;
Bestow on them your thoughts, and waste no time
In costly honours to insensate dust.
Unlock the doors of usefulness, and lead
Your lovely daughters forth to larger fields,
Away from jungles of the ancient sin.

For oh! the sorrow of that undertone,
The wail of hopeless weeping in the dawn
From lips that smiled through gilded bars at night.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Thoughts On Peace.

Still e’er that shrine defiance rears its head,
Which rolls in sullen murmurs o’er the dead,
That shrine which conquest, as it stems the flood.
Too often tinges deep with human blood;
Still o’er the land stern devastation reigns,
Its giant mountains, and its spreading plains,
Where the dark pines, their heads all gloomy, wave,
Or rushing cataracts, loud-sounding, lave
The precipice, whose brow with awful pride
Tow’rs high above, and scorns the foaming tide;
The village sweet, the forest stretching far,
Groan undistinguish’d, ‘midst the shock of war.
There, the rack’d matron sees her son expire,
There, clasps the infant son his murder’d sire,
While the sad virgin on her lover’s face,
Weeps, with the last farewel, the last embrace,
And the lone widow too, with frenzied cries,
Amid the common wreck, unheeded dies.
O Peace, bright Seraph, heaven-lov’d maid, return!
And bid distracted nature cease to mourn!
O, let the ensign drear of war be furl’d,
And pour thy blessings on a bleeding world;
Then social order shall again expand,
It’s sovereign good again shall bless the land,
Elate the simple villager shall see,
Contentment’s inoffensive revelry;
Then, once again shall o’er the foaming tide,
The swelling sail of commerce fearless ride,
With bounteous hand shall plenty grace our shore,
And cheerless want’s complaint be known no more.
Then hear a nation’s pray’r, lov’d goddess, hear!
Wipe the wan cheek, deep-lav’d by many a tear;
Nature, the triumph foul of horror o’er,
Shall raise her frame to scenes of blood no more;
Pale recollection shall recall her woes,
Again shall paint her agonizing throes:
These, o’er the earth thine empire firm shall raise,
Unaw’d by war’s destructive storms, the bliss of future days.

Thomas Gent

Thoughts On The 1St October, 1781.

What mean the joyous sounds from yonder vine-clad height?
What the exulting Evoe?
Why glows the cheek? Whom is’t that I, with pinions light,
Swinging the lofty Thyrsus see?

Is it the genius whom the gladsome throng obeys?
Do I his numerous train descry?
In plenty’s teeming horn the gifts of heaven he sways,
And reels from very ecstacy!

See how the golden grape in glorious beauty shines,
Kissed by the earliest morning-beams!
The shadow of yon bower, how lovingly it signs,
As it with countless blessings teams!

Ha! glad October, thou art welcome unto me!
October’s first-born, welcome thou!
Thanks of a purer kind, than all who worship thee,
More heartfelt thanks I’m bringing now!

For thou to me the one whom I have loved so well,
And love with fondness to the grave,
Who merits in my heart forevermore to dwell,
The best of friends in Rieger gave.

‘Tis true thy breath doth rock the leaves upon the trees,
And sadly make their charms decay;
Gently they fall: and swift, as morning phantasies
With those who waken, fly away.

‘Tis true that on thy track the fleecy spoiler hastes,
Who makes all Nature’s chords resound
With discord dull, and turns the plains and groves to wastes,
So that they sadly mourn around.

See how the gloomy forms of years, as on they roll,
Each joyous banquet overthrows,
When, in uplifted hand, from out the foaming bowl,
Joy’s noble purple brightly flows!

See how they disappear, when friends sweet converse hold,
And loving wander arm-in-arm;
And, to revenge themselves on winter’s north wind cold,
Upon each other’s breasts grow warm!

And when spring’s children smile upon us once again,
When all the youthful splendor bright,
When each melodious note of each sweet rapturous strain
Awakens with it each delight:

How joyous then the stream that our whole soul pervades!
What life from out our glances pours!
Sweet Philomela’s song, resounding through the glades,
Ourselves, our youthful strength restores!

Oh, may this whisper breathe (let Rieger bear in mind
The storm by which in age we’re bent!)
His guardian angel, when the evening’s star so kind
Gleams softly from the firmament!

In silence be he led to yonder thundering height,
And guided be his eye, that he,
In valley and on plain, may see his friends aright.
And that, with growing ecstacy,

On yonder holy spot, when he their number tells,
He may experience friendship’s bliss,
Now first unveiled, until with pride his bosom swells,
Conscious that all their love is his.

Then will the distant voice be loudly heard to say:
“And G , too, is a friend of thine!
When silvery locks no more around his temples play,
G still will be a friend of thine!”

“E’en yonder” and now in his eye the crystal tear
Will gleam “e’en yonder he will love!
Love thee too, when his heart, in yonder spring-like sphere,
Linked on to thine, can rapture prove!”

Friedrich Schiller

Thoughts On The Commandments.

“Love your neighbor as yourself,”
So the parson preaches;
That’s one-half the Decalogue.
So the Prayer-book teaches.
Half my duty I can do
With but little labor,
For with all my heart and soul
I do love my neighbor.

Mighty little credit, that,
To my self-denial;
Not to love her, though, might be
Something of a trial,
Why, the rosy light, that peeps
Through the glass above her,
Lingers round her lips: you see
E’en the sunbeams love her.

So to make my merit more,
I’ll go beyond the letter;
Love my neighbor as myself?
Yes, and ten times better.
For she’s sweeter than the breath
Of the Spring, that passes
Through the fragrant, budding woods,
O’er the meadow-grasses.

And I’ve preached the word I know,
For it was my duty
To convert the stubborn heart
Of the little beauty.
Once again success has crowned
Missionary labor,
For her sweet eyes own that she
Also loves her neighbor.

George Augustus Baker, Jr.

Thoughts On The Shape Of The Human Body

How can we find? how can we rest? how can
We, being gods, win joy, or peace, being man?
We, the gaunt zanies of a witless Fate,
Who love the unloving and lover hate,
Forget the moment ere the moment slips,
Kiss with blind lips that seek beyond the lips,
Who want, and know not what we want, and cry
With crooked mouths for Heaven, and throw it by.
Love’s for completeness! No perfection grows
‘Twixt leg, and arm, elbow, and ear, and nose,
And joint, and socket; but unsatisfied
Sprawling desires, shapeless, perverse, denied.
Finger with finger wreathes; we love, and gape,
Fantastic shape to mazed fantastic shape,
Straggling, irregular, perplexed, embossed,
Grotesquely twined, extravagantly lost
By crescive paths and strange protuberant ways
From sanity and from wholeness and from grace.
How can love triumph, how can solace be,
Where fever turns toward fever, knee toward knee?
Could we but fill to harmony, and dwell
Simple as our thought and as perfectible,
Rise disentangled from humanity
Strange whole and new into simplicity,
Grow to a radiant round love, and bear
Unfluctuant passion for some perfect sphere,
Love moon to moon unquestioning, and be
Like the star Lunisequa, steadfastly
Following the round clear orb of her delight,
Patiently ever, through the eternal night!

Rupert Brooke


Of these years I sing,
How they pass and have pass’d, through convuls’d pains as through parturitions;
How America illustrates birth, muscular youth, the promise, the sure fulfillment, the Absolute Success, despite of people Illustrates evil as well as good;
How many hold despairingly yet to the models departed, caste, myths, obedience, compulsion, and to infidelity;
How few see the arrived models, the Athletes, the Western States or see freedom or spirituality or hold any faith in results,
(But I see the Athletes and I see the results of the war glorious and inevitable and they again leading to other results;)
How the great cities appear How the Democratic masses, turbulent, wilful, as I love them;
How the whirl, the contest, the wrestle of evil with good, the sounding and resounding, keep on and on;
How society waits unform’d, and is for awhile between things ended and things begun;
How America is the continent of glories, and of the triumph of freedom, and of the Democracies, and of the fruits of society, and of all that is begun;
And how The States are complete in themselves And how all triumphs and glories are complete in themselves, to lead onward,
And how these of mine, and of The States, will in their turn be convuls’d, and serve other parturitions and transitions,
And how all people, sights, combinations, the Democratic masses, too, serve and how every fact, and war itself, with all its horrors, serves,
And how now, or at any time, each serves the exquisite transition of death.

Of seeds dropping into the ground of birth,
Of the steady concentration of America, inland, upward, to impregnable and swarming places,
Of what Indiana, Kentucky, Ohio and the rest, are to be,
Of what a few years will show there in Nebraska, Colorado, Nevada, and the rest;
(Or afar, mounting the Northern Pacific to Sitka or Aliaska;)
Of what the feuillage of America is the preparation for and of what all sights, North, South, East and West, are;
Of This Union, soak’d, welded in blood of the solemn price paid of the unnamed lost, ever present in my mind;
Of the temporary use of materials, for identity’s sake,
Of the present, passing, departing of the growth of completer men than any yet,
Of myself, soon, perhaps, closing up my songs by these shores,
Of California, of Oregon and of me journeying to live and sing there;
Of the Western Sea of the spread inland between it and the spinal river,
Of the great pastoral area, athletic and feminine, of all sloping down there where the fresh free giver, the mother, the Mississippi flows,
Of future women there of happiness in those high plateaus, ranging three thousand miles, warm and cold;
Of mighty inland cities yet unsurvey’d and unsuspected, (as I am also, and as it must be;)
Of the new and good names of the modern developments of inalienable homesteads;
Of a free and original life there of simple diet and clean and sweet blood;
Of litheness, majestic faces, clear eyes, and perfect physique there;
Of immense spiritual results, future years, far west, each side of the Anahuacs;
Of these leaves, well understood there, (being made for that area;)
Of the native scorn of grossness and gain there;
(O it lurks in me night and day What is gain, after all, to savageness and freedom?)

Walt Whitman

Here is the greatest compilation of poems about the thoughts.

Let me know which one is your favorite! 😉


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