Similar poems: Set 03

 Henry Wotton (1568-1639), The Character of a Happy Life

How happy is he born and taught

That serveth not another's will;

Whose armour is his honest thought,

And simple truth his utmost skill!

Whose passions not his masters are;

Whose soul is still prepared for death,

Untied unto the world by care

Of public fame or private breath;

Who envies none that chance doth raise,

Nor vice; who never understood

How deepest wounds are given by praise;

Nor rules of state, but rules of good;

Who hath his life from rumours freed;

Whose conscience is his strong retreat;

Whose state can neither flatterers feed,

Nor ruin make oppressors great;

Who God doth late and early pray

More of His grace than gifts to lend;

And entertains the harmless day

With a religious book or friend;

—This man is freed from servile bands

Of hope to rise or fear to fall:

Lord of himself, though not of lands,

And having nothing, yet hath all.

Rudyard Kipling (1865-1936), If—

If you can keep your head when all about you   

    Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,   

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,

    But make allowance for their doubting too;   

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,

    Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,

Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,

    And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;   

    If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;   

If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster

    And treat those two impostors just the same;   

If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken

    Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,

Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,

    And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings

    And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,

And lose, and start again at your beginnings

    And never breathe a word about your loss;

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew

    To serve your turn long after they are gone,   

And so hold on when there is nothing in you

    Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,   

    Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,

If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,

    If all men count with you, but none too much;

If you can fill the unforgiving minute

    With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,   

Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,   

    And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!

Similar poems: Set 02

 Francis Beaumont (1584-1616), On the Tombs in Westminster Abbey

MORTALITY, behold and fear!

What a change of flesh is here!

Think how many royal bones

Sleep within this heap of stones:

Here they lie had realms and lands,

Who now want strength to stir their hands:

Where from their pulpits seal'd with dust

They preach, 'In greatness is no trust.'

Here 's an acre sown indeed

With the richest, royall'st seed

That the earth did e'er suck in

Since the first man died for sin:

Here the bones of birth have cried—

'Though gods they were, as men they died.'

Here are sands, ignoble things,

Dropt from the ruin'd sides of kings;

Here 's a world of pomp and state,

Buried in dust, once dead by fate.

James Shirley (1596-1666), Victorious Men of Earth

Victorious men of earth, no more

Proclaim how wide your empires are;

Though you bind in every shore

And your triumphs reach as far

As night or day,

Yet you, proud monarchs, must obey

And mingle with forgotten ashes, when

Death calls ye to the crowd of common men.

Devouring Famine, Plague, and War,

Each able to undo mankind,

Death's servile emissaries are;

Nor to these alone confined,

He hath at will

More quaint and subtle ways to kill;

A smile or kiss, as he will use the art,

Shall have the cunning skill to break a heart.

PB Shelley (1792-1822), Ozymandias

I met a traveller from an antique land,

Who said—“Two vast and trunkless legs of stone

Stand in the desert. . . . Near them, on the sand,

Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,

And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,

Tell that its sculptor well those passions read

Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,

The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;

And on the pedestal, these words appear:

My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings;

Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!

Nothing beside remains. Round the decay

Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare

The lone and level sands stretch far away.”

Similar poems: Set 01

 Josuah Sylvester (1563-1618), Love's Omnipresence

Where I was base as is the lowly plain,

And you, my Love, as high as heaven above,

Yet should the thoughts of me your humble swain

Ascend to heaven, in honour of my Love.

Where I as high as heaven above the plain,

And you, my Love, as humble and as low

As are the deepest bottoms of the main,

Whereso'er you were, with you my love should go.

Were you the earth, dear Love, and I the skies,

My love should shine on you like to the sun,

And look upon you with thousand eyes

Till heaven wax'd blind, and till the world were done.

Whereso'er I am, below, or else above you,

Whereso'er you are, my heart shall truly love you.

Emily Dickinson (1830-1886), I Cannot Live with You

I cannot live with You – 

It would be Life – 

And Life is over there – 

Behind the Shelf

The Sexton keeps the Key to – 

Putting up

Our Life – His Porcelain – 

Like a Cup – 

Discarded of the Housewife – 

Quaint – or Broke – 

A newer Sevres pleases – 

Old Ones crack – 

I could not die – with You – 

For One must wait

To shut the Other’s Gaze down – 

You – could not – 

And I – could I stand by

And see You – freeze – 

Without my Right of Frost – 

Death's privilege?

Nor could I rise – with You – 

Because Your Face

Would put out Jesus’ – 

That New Grace

Glow plain – and foreign

On my homesick Eye – 

Except that You than He

Shone closer by – 

They’d judge Us – How – 

For You – served Heaven – You know,

Or sought to – 

I could not – 

Because You saturated Sight – 

And I had no more Eyes

For sordid excellence

As Paradise

And were You lost, I would be – 

Though My Name

Rang loudest

On the Heavenly fame – 

And were You – saved – 

And I – condemned to be

Where You were not – 

That self – were Hell to Me – 

So We must meet apart – 

You there – I – here – 

With just the Door ajar

That Oceans are – and Prayer – 

And that White Sustenance – 

Despair –