Loading...
Loading...
2,201 illustrations — Poetic illustrations and verse for preaching
Her Sweet turn to leave the Homestead Came the Darker Way -- Carriages -- Be Sure -- and Guests -- too -- But for Holiday...
'Tis better to be vile than vile esteem'd, When not to be receives reproach of being; And the just pleasure lost, which is so deem'd Not by our feeling, but by others' seeing: For why should others' false adulterate eyes...
Were my bosom as false as thou deem'st it to be, I need not have wandered from far Galilee; It was but abjuring my creed...
Fairest of the Destinies, Disarray thy dazzling eyes: Keener far thy lightnings are Than the winged thou bearest, And the smile thou wearest Wraps thee as a star Is wrapped in light.
What was he doing, the great god Pan, Down in the reeds by the river? Spreading ruin and scattering ban, Splashing and paddling with hoofs of a goat, And breaking the golden lilies afloat With the dragon-fly on the river.
BUT lately seen in gladsome green, The woods rejoic’d the day, Thro’ gentle showers, the laughing flowers In double pride were gay: But now our joys are fled On winter blasts awa; Yet maiden May, in rich array, Again shall bring them a’.
Going to Him! Happy letter! Tell Him -- Tell Him the page I didn't write -- Tell Him -- I only said the Syntax --...
First time he kissed me, he but only kissed The fingers of this hand wherewith I write; And ever since, it grew more clean and white, Slow to world-greetings, quick with its 'Oh, list,' When the angels speak.
The King was on his throne, The Satraps thronged the hall: A thousand bright lamps shone O'er that high festival. A thousand cups of gold, In Judah deemed divine-- Jehovah's vessels hold The godless Heathen's wine!
Spit in my face you Jews, and pierce my side, Buffet, and scoff, scourge, and crucify me, For I have sinned, and sinned, and only he Who could do no iniquity hath died: But by my death can not be...
THERE'S something in a stupid ass, And something in a heavy dunce; But never since I went to school I heard or saw so damned a fool As William Wordsworth is for once.
THE CATRINE woods were yellow seen, The flowers decay’d on Catrine lee, Nae lav’rock sang on hillock green, But nature sicken’d on the e’e. Thro’ faded groves Maria sang, Hersel’ in beauty’s bloom the while; And aye the wild-wood ehoes...
No spring nor summer Beauty hath such grace As I have seen in one autumnall face. Young beauties force our love, and that's a rape, This doth but counsel, yet you cannot 'scape. If 'twere a shame to love, here...
You say you love, and yet your eye No symptom of that love conveys, You say you love, yet know not why, Your cheek no sign of love betrays.
Thou art fair, and few are fairer Of the Nymphs of earth or ocean; They are robes that fit the wearer-- Those soft limbs of thine, whose motion Ever falls and shifts and glances As the life within them dances.
I would I were a careless child, Still dwelling in my Highland cave, Or roaming through the dusky wild, Or bounding o'er the dark blue...
Is it the Eternal Triune, is it He Who dares arrest the wheels of destiny And plunge me in the lowest Hell of Hells? Will not the lightning's blast destroy my frame? Will not steel drink the blood-life where it swells?
Love, though it is not chill and cold, But burning like eternal fire, Is yet not of approaches bold, Which gay dramatic tastes admire. Oh...
BY yon Castle wa’, at the close of the day, I heard a man sing, tho’ his head it was grey: And as he was singing, the tears doon came,— There’ll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.
One Sister have I in our house, And one, a hedge away. There's only one recorded, But both belong to me. One came the road...
Since she whom I loved hath paid her last debt To Nature, and to hers, and my good is dead, And her soul early into heaven ravished, Wholly on heavenly things my mind is set.
How fresh, O Lord, how sweet and clean Are thy returns! ev'n as the flowers in spring; To which, besides their own demean, The late-past frosts tributes of pleasure bring. Grief melts away Like snows in May, As if there were no such cold thing.
Pipes of the misty moorlands, Voice of the glens and hills; The droning of the torrents, The treble of the rills! Not the braes of bloom and heather, Nor the mountains dark with rain, Nor maiden bower, nor border tower, Have heard your sweetest strain!
When Man, expell'd from Eden's bowers, A moment linger'd near the gate, Each scene recall'd the vanish'd hours, And bade him curse his future fate.
SermonWise.ai generates complete sermon outlines for any passage across 17 theological traditions.
Generate a sermon →