Poems about sunshine
Take The Dead We Love To Sit,
though thine attention stop not on me
as by the dead we love to sit,
and take the sunshine in my hands,
and life would all be spring!
It Seemed The Lonely Road,
and dwell a little everywhere
a stranger pressed a kingdom,
upon the lonely road,
light laughs the breeze in her castle of sunshine;
a wind with fingers goes,
since heaven and he are one,
oh the earth was made for lovers, for damsel, and hopeless swain,
what more the woman can,
death is but one and comes but once
it seemed the common way,
why, look out for the little brook in march,
all things do go a courting, in earth, or sea, or air,
myself and it, in majesty
and all day long, with dance and game,
without that forcing, in my breath
There Is Another Sunshine,
at news that he ceased human nature
steady my soul, what issues
it's like the morning,
and there is another sunshine,
I Went
we dream it is good we are dreaming
i could not hope for mine
because i could not stop for death,
i could suffice for him, i knew
for fear i hear her say
i pondered how the bliss would look
and so around the words i went
and there is another sunshine,
and a deal of sad reflection, and wailing instead of song?
my business, just a life i left,
a mountain in my mind
this place is bliss this town is heaven
Not Make It Feel,
nor will i, the little heart's ease
what little of him we possessed
and did the sunshine face his way
and lets the morning go
we can but follow to the sun
i could not see to see,
but could not make it feel,
madonna dim, to whom all feet may come,
than that, be sweeter wise;
that you be not ashamed
and whom you told it to beside
gave even as to all
though life's reward be done
possibly but we would rather
not like the gnat had i
Yet, How Still The Sunshine Face His
i should not fear the foe then
that never did alight,
as far as it could see
and did the sunshine face his way
and yet, how still the landscape stands!
too wide for any night but heaven
and did the sunshine face his way
some one the sum could tell
a night there lay the days between
on this late morn the sun
of this could man deprive me
it cannot be again
gratitude is not the mention
to our endeavor not so real