Poems.

    Poems are holy things. Eternal Truth,
    Borrowing the robes of song and lovely grown,
    In them her glory unto man proclaims
    And fills his longing soul. They softly speak
    Of Nature's beauty and the secrets old
    Concealed behind the shadows of the hills,
    And love on angel fingers borne to men,
    Naming them over in so sweet a voice
    That music leads their footsteps in the ways
    Where God has walked; and with a lofty Harp,
    As wondrous as the gentle harps of heaven,
    Uplifts, ennobles, soothes and leads the race
    Unto its last great ultimate of power,
    To words of tenderness and goodly deeds.

Freeman Edwin Miller

Freeman Edwin Miller was an American poet, journalist, and teacher, best known for his work in Oklahoma. Born on November 9, 1864, in New Jersey, Miller moved to Oklahoma in 1894, where he became a prominent figure in the literary and educational communities. He is remembered for his contributions to early Oklahoma literature, as well as his work in promoting education and journalism in the region. He passed away on July 14, 1951.

Freeman Edwin Miller

Quaff The Glass, The Wine Is Red.

Freeman Edwin Miller, Simple Poetry

O, Weak And Weary World!

Freeman Edwin Miller, Simple Poetry

Sing Me The Old Songs, Mother.

Freeman Edwin Miller, Simple Poetry

Nature Has A Thousand Choirs.

Freeman Edwin Miller, 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.

O, Sacred Souls That Grandly Sing.

    O sacred souls that grandly sing
        The secret songs of human hearts,
        Where your wild music madly starts,
    The sorrows into raptures spring!
    Within the warbles of your chimes
        Man reads the longings of his days,
        And finds, amid your lofty lays,
    Glad music for his gloomy times.

    How sweet the mute, melodious cries
        Which only lives like yours may hear,
        Where pleasures thrill the singer's ear
    With laughing strains of lullabies!
    You know soft voices, rich with love,
        That mingle in the fields and woods,
        To bless the silent solitudes
    With carols coming from above.

    Your golden harps resound alway,
        Where valley bound with blossom lies,
        An...

Freeman Edwin Miller

O, Gentle Shade Of Quiet Woods.

    O, gentle shade of quiet woods,
        Where nature dwells in leafy halls,
        I love the sacred voice that falls
    In music o'er thy solitudes!
    Within thine arms the weary heart
        Is hidden from the toils of men,
    And pleasure makes ambition start
        Into a nobler life again.

    Among the fragrant shadows throng
        With all the riches of their truth,
        Glad echoes from the days of youth
    And mingle into laughing song;
    While angel fingers touch the keys
        That slumber in the silent breast,
    Till mem'ry wakes her lullabies
        And childhood fancies rock to rest.

    Again the hours of early joy
        Upon the aged years intrude,
        And dance amid the summer wood
    T...

Freeman Edwin Miller

Nature Has A Thousand Choirs.

    Nature has a thousand choirs
        Singing in the sylvan shadows,
    And the music of her lyres
        Echoes in the merry meadows;
    Always glad with golden glee
    Sounds her happy melody,
    Swelling wild in fairy measure
    With the songs of purest pleasure.

    Where the dancing fountains play
        Winding warbles shake and shiver,
    And soft carols rise alway
        From the ripples of the river;
    Sweetest voices fondly call
    From the fleecy waterfall,
    And the joyful chimes are creeping
    Where the lovely lake is sleeping.

    Raptures echo in the wood,
        Where the pimpernel reposes;
    Gladness fills the solitude
        Where the blushes kiss the roses;
    Sunny beam and somber gloo...

Freeman Edwin Miller

The Growth Of Song.

    A tender song in shadows grew,
    And humble hearts were homes it knew.

    But through its wondrous music stole
    The longings of the human soul;

    The hopes of hosts unsatisfied
    Within its numbers wandered wide;

    And strangely wet with toilsome tears
    It held the yearnings of the years;

    Till millions with their woes oppressed,
    Proclaimed the song of peace and rest;

    Till nations in their troubled ways
    Found comfort in the joyous lays,

    And all the halting race of wrong
    Exalts the loving might of song!

    Ah, song that soothes our many cries
    With fondness of thy lullabies,

    We love, we bless, we scepter thee
    Proud empress of the hearts that be!

Freeman Edwin Miller

Compensation.

    The softest beams of the stars are born in the farthest skies,
    And fairest rays of the sun where evening shadows rise;
    The sweetest songs of the bird are sung in the darkest days,
    And rarest blooms of the spring are found in the wildest ways.

    The brightest blush of the rose is blown as the petals fade.
    The greenest grass of the earth is grown in the hidden glade;
    The fondest rhyme of the rill is heard in the secret vale,
    And lightest lays of the breeze are borne from the dying gale.

    The highest hopes of the heart in saddest of sorrows grow,
    The purest pleasures of joy arise in the wane of woe;
    The gladdest smiles of the lips are seen in the hours of pain,
    And proudest days of the free are spent by the broken chain.

Freeman Edwin Miller

Poetry.

        Poetry to us is given,
        As stars beautify the Heaven,
        Or, as the sunbeams when they gleam,
        Sparkling so bright upon the stream,
        And the poetry of motion
        Is ship sailing o'er the ocean;
        Or, when the bird doth graceful fly,
        Seeming to float upon the sky,
        For poetry is the pure cream,
        And essence of the common theme.

        Poetic thoughts the mind doth fill,
        When on broad plain to view a hill,
        On barren heath how it doth cheer,
        To see in distance herd of deer,
        And poetry breathes in each flower,
        Nourished by the gentle shower,
        In song of birds upon the trees,
        And humming of busy bees,
        'Tis solace for the ...

James McIntyre