Loading...
Loading...
2,201 illustrations — Poetic illustrations and verse for preaching
Where man's profane and tainting hand Nature's primaeval loveliness has marred, And some few souls of the high bliss debarred Which else obey her powerful command; ...mountain piles That load in grandeur Cambria's emerald vales.
I READ the "Christabel;" Very well: I read the "Missionary;" Pretty--very: I tried at "Ilderim;" Ahem! I read a sheet of "Marg'ret of _Anjou_;" _Can you_? I turned a page of Webster's "Waterloo;" Pooh! I looked at Wordsworth's milk-white "Rylstone Doe;" Hillo!
An Antiquated Tree Is cherished of the Crow Because that Junior Foliage is disrespectful now To venerable Birds Whose Corporation Coat Would decorate Oblivion's Remotest...
Nature affects to be sedate Upon occasion, grand But let our observation shut Her practices extend To Necromancy and the Trades Remote to understand Behold...
The world is taking little heed And plods from day to day: The vulgar flourish like a weed, The learned pass away. We miss him on the summer path The lonely summer day, Where mowers cut the pleasant swath And maidens make the hay.
BENEATH Blessington's eyes The reclaimed Paradise Should be free as the former from evil; But if the new Eve For an Apple should grieve, What mortal would not play the Devil?
Somewhat, to hope for, Be it ne'er so far Is Capital against Despair -- Somewhat, to suffer, Be it ne'er so keen -- If terminable,...
THE Son of Love and Lord of War I sing; Him who bade England bow to Normandy, And left the name of Conqueror more than King To his unconquerable dynasty.
Did I sing -- too loud? But -- I can say a little "Minor" Timid as a Bird! Wouldn't the Angels try me -- Just -- once -- more -- Just -- see -- if I troubled them -- But don't -- shut the door!
The words are wild. Suck any sense from that who can: 'The child is father to the man.' No; what the poet did write ran, 'The man is father to the child.' 'The child is father to the man!' How can he be?
O rose, thou art sick! The invisible worm, That flies in the night, In the howling storm, Has found out thy bed Of crimson joy, And his dark secret love Does thy life destroy.
Orpheus with his lute made trees, And the mountain tops that freeze, Bow themselves, when he did sing: To his music plants and flowers Ever...
As Summer into Autumn slips And yet we sooner say "The Summer" than "the Autumn," lest We turn the sun away, And almost count it...
Faint with love, the Lady of the South Lay in the paradise of Lebanon Under a heaven of cedar boughs: the drouth Of love was on her lips; the light was gone Out of her eyes--
WOMEN sit, or move to and fro—some old, some young; The young are beautiful—but the old are more beautiful than the young.
JOHN ADAMS lies here, of the parish of Southwell, A _Carrier_ who _carried_ his can to his mouth well; He carried so much and he carried so fast, He could carry no more--so was carried at last; For the liquor...
Little Fly, Thy summer's play My thoughtless hand Has brushed away. Am not I A fly like thee? Or art not thou A man like me? For I dance And drink, and sing, Till some blind hand Shall brush my wing.
To thirst and find no fill--to wail and wander With short unsteady steps--to pause and ponder-- To feel the blood run through the veins and tingle Where busy thought and blind sensation mingle; To nurse the image of unfelt caresses...
The Stars are old, that stood for me -- The West a little worn -- Yet newer glows the only Gold I ever cared to...
I have desired to go Where springs not fail, To fields where flies no sharp and sided hail And a few lilies blow. And I have asked to be Where no storms come, Where the green swell is in the...
Perhaps you'd like to buy a flower, But I could never sell -- If you would like to borrow, Until the Daffodil Unties her yellow...
LOCATIONS and times—what is it in me that meets them all, whenever and wherever, and makes me at home? Forms, colors, densities, odors—what is it in me that corresponds with them?
LOOK down, fair moon, and bathe this scene; Pour softly down night’s nimbus floods, on faces ghastly, swollen, purple; On the dead, on their backs, with their arms toss’d wide, Pour down your unstinted nimbus, sacred moon.
On whose last steps I climb, Trembling at that where I had stood before; When will return the glory of your prime? No more--Oh, never more!
SermonWise.ai generates complete sermon outlines for any passage across 17 theological traditions.
Generate a sermon →