Everymaid

King's Daughter!
Wouldst thou be all fair,
Without--within--
Peerless and beautiful,
A very Queen?

Know then:--
Not as men build unto the Silent One,--
With clang and clamour,
Traffic of rude voices,
Clink of steel on stone,
And din of hammer;--
Not so the temple of thy grace is reared.
But,--in the inmost shrine
Must thou begin,
And build with care
A Holy Place,
A place unseen,
Each stone a prayer.
Then, having built,
Thy shrine sweep bare
Of self and sin,
And all that might demean;
And, with endeavour,
Watching ever, praying ever,
Keep it fragrant-sweet, and clean:
So, by God's grace, it be fit place,--
His Christ shall enter and shall dwell therein.
Not as in earthly fane--where chase
Of steel on stone may strive to win
Some outward grace,--
Thy temple face is chiselled from within.

William Arthur Dunkerley (John Oxenham)

William Arthur Dunkerley, better known by his pen name John Oxenham, was an English journalist, novelist, and poet. He was a prolific writer in the early 20th century, producing a wide range of literary works including poetry, hymns, and novels. His works often reflected Christian themes and were popular during his time. Dunkerley also contributed to the establishment of the Boys' Brigade, a notable youth organization in the UK. His legacy includes a significant contribution to both literature and social causes.

William Arthur Dunkerley (John Oxenham)

Freemen

William Arthur Dunkerley (John Oxenham), Simple Poetry

Life's Chequer-Board

William Arthur Dunkerley (John Oxenham), Simple Poetry

Victory Day

William Arthur Dunkerley (John Oxenham), Simple Poetry

Blinded!

William Arthur Dunkerley (John Oxenham), Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

Glastonbury Abbey And Wells Cathedral.

WRITTEN AFTER VIEWING THE RUINS OF THE ONE, AND HEARING THE CHURCH SERVICE IN THE OTHER.

Glory and boast of Avalon's fair vale,
How beautiful thy ancient turrets rose!
Fancy yet sees them, in the sunshine pale,
Gleaming, or, more majestic, in repose,
When, west-away, the crimson landscape glows,
Casting their shadows on the waters wide.[198]
How sweet the sounds, that, at still day-light's close,
Came blended with the airs of eventide,
When through the glimmering aisle faint "Misereres" died!

But all is silent now! silent the bell,
That, heard from yonder ivied turret high,
Warned the cowled brother from his midnight cell;
Silent the vesper-chant, the litany
Responsive to the organ! - scattered lie
The wrecks of the proud pile, 'mid arches gray,
Wh...

William Lisle Bowles

Her Temple

Dear, think not that they will forget you:
If craftsmanly art should be mine
I will build up a temple, and set you
Therein as its shrine.

They may say: "Why a woman such honour?"
Be told, "O, so sweet was her fame,
That a man heaped this splendour upon her;
None now knows his name."

Thomas Hardy

The Temple

Enter the temple beautiful! The house not made with hands!
Rain-washed and green, wind-swept and clean,
Beneath the blue it stands,
And no cathedral anywhere
Seemeth so holy or so fair.

It hath no heavy gabled roof, no door with lock and key,
No window-bars shut out the stars,
The aisles are wide and free -
Here through the night each altar-light
Is but a moon-beam, silver-white.

Silently as the temple grew at Solomon's command,
Still as things seem within a dream
This rose from out the land:
And all the pillars, grey and high,
Lifted their arches to the sky.

Here is the perfume of the leaves, the incense of the pines -
The magic scent that hath been pent
Within the tangled vines:
No censor filled with spices rare
E'er swung su...

Virna Sheard

The Cottage Maid.

Aloft on the brow of a mountain,
And hard by a clear running fountain,
In neat little cot,
Content with her lot,
Retired, there lives a sweet maiden.

Her father is dead, and her brother,
And now she alone with her mother
Will spin on her wheel,
And sew, knit, and reel,
And cheerfully work for their living.

To gossip she never will roam,
She loves, and she stays at, her home,
Unless when a neighbour
In sickness does labour,
Then, kindly, she pays her a visit.

With Bible she stands by her bed,
And when some blest passage is read,
In prayer and in praises
Her sweet voice she raises
To Him who for sinners once died.

Well versed in her Bible is she,
Her language is artless and free,
Imparting pure joy,
That...

Patrick Bronte

My New-Cut Ashler

My New-Cut ashlar takes the light
Where crimson-blank the windows flare.
By my own work before the night,
Great Overseer, I make my prayer.

If there be good in that I wrought
Thy Hand compelled it, Master, Thine,
Where I have failed to meet Thy Thought
I know, through Thee, the blame was mine.

The depth and dream of my desire,
The bitter paths wherein I stray,
Thou knowest Who hast made the Fire,
Thou knowest Who hast made the Clay.

Who, lest all thought of Eden fade,
Bring'st Eden to the craftsman's brain,
Godlike to muse o'er his own Trade
And manlike stand with God again!

One stone the more swings into place
In that dread Temple of Thy worth.
It is enough that, through Thy Grace,
I saw nought common on Thy Earth.
...

Rudyard

Restoration Of Malmesbury Abbey.[201]

Monastic and time-consecrated fane!
Thou hast put on thy shapely state again,
Almost august as in thy early day,
Ere ruthless Henry rent thy pomp away.
No more the mass on holidays is sung,
The Host high raised, or fuming censer swung;
No more, in amice white, the fathers, slow,
With lighted tapers, in long order go;
Yet the tall window lifts its arched height,
As to admit heaven's pale, but purer light;
Those massy clustered columns, whose long rows,
Even at noonday, in shadowy pomp repose,
Amid the silent sanctity of death,
Like giants seem to guard the dust beneath.
Those roofs re-echo (though no altars blaze)
The prayer of penitence, the hymn of praise;
Whilst meek Religion's self, as with a smile,
Reprints the tracery of the holy pile,
Worthy it...

William Lisle Bowles