Parable of the Old Men and the Young

    So Abram rose, and clave the wood, and went,
    And took the fire with him, and a knife.
    And as they sojourned both of them together,
    Isaac the first-born spake and said, My Father,
    Behold the preparations, fire and iron,
    But where the lamb for this burnt-offering?
    Then Abram bound the youth with belts and straps,
    And builded parapets and trenches there,
    And stretch\ed forth the knife to slay his son.
    When lo! an angel called him out of heaven,
    Saying, Lay not thy hand upon the lad,
    Neither do anything to him. Behold,
    A ram caught in a thicket by its horns;
    Offer the Ram of Pride instead of him.
    But the old man would not so, but slew his son. . . .

Wilfred Edward Salter Owen

Wilfred Owen was an influential English poet, renowned for his poignant war poetry on the horrors of trenches and gas warfare during World War I. His works, such as 'Dulce et Decorum Est' and 'Anthem for Doomed Youth,' convey the brutal realities of war and challenge the romanticized notions of it. Owen's poetry, characterized by its stark realism and exploration of soldiers' suffering, has had a lasting impact on both literature and the collective memory of the war.

Wilfred Edward Salter Owen

Strange Meeting *Another Version*

Wilfred Edward Salter Owen, Simple Poetry

Conscious

Wilfred Edward Salter Owen, Simple Poetry

Smile, Smile, Smile

Wilfred Edward Salter Owen, Simple Poetry

Apologia pro Poemate Meo

Wilfred Edward Salter Owen, 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.

Abraham's Sacrifice.

The noontide sun streamed brightly down
    Moriah's mountain crest,
The golden blaze of his vivid rays
    Tinged sacred Jordan's breast;
While towering palms and flowerets sweet,
Drooped low 'neath Syria's burning heat.

In the sunny glare of the sultry air
    Toiled up the mountain side
The Patriarch sage in stately age,
    And a youth in health's gay pride,
Bearing in eyes and in features fair
The stamp of his mother's beauty rare.

She had not known when one rosy dawn,
    Ere they started on their way,
She had smoothed with care his clustering hair,
    And knelt with him to pray,
That his father's hand and will alike
Were nerved at his young heart to strike.

The Heavenly Power that with such dower
    Of love fills a mot...

Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon

The Song Of Lamech

Hearken to me, ye mothers of my tent:
Ye wives of Lamech, hearken to my speech:
Adah, let Jubal hither lead his goats:
And Tubal Cain, O Zillah, hush the forge;
Naamah her wheel shall ply beside, and thou,
My Jubal, touch, before I speak, the string.
Yea, Jubal, touch, before I speak, the string.
Hear ye my voice, beloved of my tent,
Dear ones of Lamech, listen to my speech.

For Eve made answer, Cain, my son, my own,
O, if I cursed thee, O my child, I sinned,
And He that heard me, heard, and said me nay:
My first, my only, one, thou shalt not go;
And Adam answered also, Cain, my son,
He that is gone forgiveth, we forgive:
Rob not thy mother of two sons at once;
My child, abide with us and comfort us.

Hear ye my voice; Adah and Zillah, hear;

Arthur Hugh Clough

Two Altars.

"And Cain talked with Abel, his brother."



The sun was rising on earth, sin-tainted, yet beautiful,
Delicate gold-colored cloudlets in all their primeval beauty,
Ushered the bright orb of day to his task well appointed,
Like a bevy of beautifal girls in the court of their monarch,
Or a regiment of soldiers all bright in new rose-colored armour.
Two altars arose between earth and the cloud-speckled firmament;
Cain walked in a stern and defiant advance to his altar,
A recklessness flashed from his eyes, and passions unconquered,
As he scornfully looked on the kneeling, worshipping Abel,
Ay scornfully thus he addressed his young innocent brother:

"Look at my sacrifice, Abel, these glistening dew-colored roses,
Those delicate lillies and mosses, these graceful ...

Harriet Annie Wilkins

Jacob

My sons, and ye the children of my sons,
Jacob your father goes upon his way,
His pilgrimage is being accomplished.
Come near and hear him ere his words are oer.
Not as my fathers or his fathers days,
As Isaacs days or Abrahams, have been mine;
Not as the days of those that in the field
Walked at the eventide to meditate,
And haply, to the tent returning, found
Angels at nightfall waiting at their door.
They communed, Israel wrestled with the Lord.
No, not as Abrahams or as Isaacs days,
My sons, have been Jacob your fathers days,
Evil and few, attaining not to theirs
In number, and in worth inferior much.
As a man with his friend, walked they with God,
In His abiding presence they abode,
And all their acts were open to His face.
But I have ha...

Arthur Hugh Clough

The Doom of Cain.

The Lord Said, "What hast thou done?"



                Oh, erring Cain,
What hast thou done? Upon the blighted earth
I hear a melancholy wail resounding;
Among the blades of grass where flowers have birth
I hear a new-born tone mournfully sounding.
        It is thy brother's blood
        Crying aloud to God
                In helpless pain.

                Unhappy Cain!
Thou hast so loved to wreathe the clinging vine,
And welcomed with pure joy the delicate fruit,
Till thou hast felt a kindred feeling twine
Around thy heart, grown with each fibrous root
        Of tree, or moss, or flower,
        Growing in field or bower,
                Or ripening grain.

                But henceforth, Cain,
When the bright gleaming...

Harriet Annie Wilkins

The Ballad Of The Elder Son

A son of elder sons I am,
Whose boyhood days were cramped and scant,
Through ages of domestic sham
And family lies and family cant.
Come, elder brothers mine, and bring
Dull loads of care that you have won,
And gather round me while I sing
The ballad of the elder son.

Twas Christ who spake in parables,
To picture man was his intent;
A simple tale He simply tells,
And He Himself makes no comment.
A morbid sympathy is felt
For prodigals, the selfish ones,
The crooked world has ever dealt
Unjustly by the elder sons.

The elder son on barren soil,
Where life is crude and lands are new,
Must share the fathers hardest toil,
And share the fathers troubles too.
With no child-thoughts to meet his own
His childhood is a lonely one:...

Henry Lawson