The Boy Out Of Church.

As Jesus and his followers
    Upon a Sabbath morn
Were walking by a wheat field
    They plucked the ears of corn.

They plucked it, they rubbed it,
    They blew the husks away,
Which grieved the pious pharisees
    Upon the Sabbath day.

And Jesus said, "A riddle
    Answer if you can,
Was man made for the Sabbath
    Or Sabbath made for man?"

I do not love the Sabbath,
    The soapsuds and the starch,
The troops of solemn people
    Who to Salvation march.

I take my book, I take my stick
    On the Sabbath day,
In woody nooks and valleys
    I hide myself away.

To ponder there in quiet
    God's Universal Plan,
Resolved that church and Sabbath
    Were never made for man.

Robert von Ranke Graves

Robert von Ranke Graves was a British poet, historical novelist, critic, and classicist. His father was Alfred Perceval Graves, a distinguished Irish poet and figure in the Gaelic revival. Known for his war poetry, love poems, and scholarly works, he created a lasting literary legacy, including his interpretations of the Greek myths. Graves was also a soldier in World War I, an experience that profoundly influenced his writing.

Robert von Ranke Graves

1915

Robert von Ranke Graves, Simple Poetry

The Voice Of Beauty Drowned.

Robert von Ranke Graves, Simple Poetry

The Promised Lullaby.

Robert von Ranke Graves, Simple Poetry

Baloo Loo For Jenny.

Robert von Ranke Graves, Simple Poetry

English

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

The Sabbath.

Who, careless, would behold a goodly tree
Or noble palace stricken to decay?
Who would drop precious jewels in the sea
Or cast rare heirlooms on the trodden way?
Who, but a prodigal in wantonness,
Would waste his patrimony for swine's food?
Who would his birthright sell for pottage-mess
But a dull, sensual Esau, blind to good?

Our tree o'ershadowing the sons of care,
Our palace welcoming the weary guest,
Our precious jewel and our heirloom rare,
Our birthright and our patrimony blest,
Art thou, to guard and keep for ever fair,
Sweet Christian Sabbath-day of joy and rest.

W. M. MacKeracher

Ode To Sir Andrew Agnew, Bart.[1]

"At certain seasons he makes a prodigious clattering with his bill." - SELBY.

"The bill is rather long, flat, and tinged with green." - BEWICK.


O Andrew Fairservice, - but I beg pardon,
You never labor'd in Di Vernon's garden,
On curly kale and cabbages intent, -
Andrew Churchservice was the thing I meant, -
You are a Christian - I would be the same,
Although we differ, and I'll tell you why,
Not meaning to make game,
I do not like my Church so very High!

When people talk, as talk they will,
About your bill,
They say, among their other jibes and small jeers,
That, if you had your way,
You'd make the seventh day
As overbearing as the Dey of Algiers.
Talk of converting Blacks -
    By your attacks,
You make a thing so horrible o...

Thomas Hood

Sunday.

The Sabbath-day, of every day the best,
The poor mans happiness, a poor man sings;
When labour has no claim to break his rest,
And the light hours fly swift on easy wings.
What happiness this holy morning brings,
How soft its pleasures on his senses steal;
How sweet the village-bells' first warning rings;
And O how comfortable does he feel,
When with his family at ease he takes his early meal.

The careful wife displays her frugal hoard,
And both partake in comfort though they're poor;
While love's sweet offsprings crowd the lowly board,
Their little likenesses in miniature.
Though through the week he labour does endure,
And weary limbs oft cause him to complain,
This welcome morning always brings a cure;
It teems with joys his soul to entertain,
And...

John Clare

A Sabbath Morning In The Country.

'Tis morning, and the meadows yet,
Are wet with gracious drops of dew.
Each blade of grass, and flow'r, is set
With sparkling gems of richest hue.
The sun, with rising glory, sheds
A radiance, that none divine,
Save those, who early leave their beds,
When glist'ning dew-drops briefly shine.

Just ere the rising sunbeams play,
From glorious orb, of rosy red,
There is no sound of life, no hum,
And but, seemingly, all things are dead.

But when the blessed, welcome beams,
Light up, and cheer, and warm the earth,
All things awaken from their dreams,
To celebrate Creation's birth.

The very fields are filled with life,
With hum of bee, and insect throng;
The woods are vocal, with the strife
Of friendly rivalry, in song.
But 'tis t...

Thomas Frederick Young

A Boy In Church

"Gabble-gabble,... brethren,... gabble-gabble!"
My window frames forest and heather.
I hardly hear the tuneful babble,
Not knowing nor much caring whether
The text is praise or exhortation,
Prayer or thanksgiving, or damnation.

Outside it blows wetter and wetter,
The tossing trees never stay still.
I shift my elbows to catch better
The full round sweep of heathered hill.
The tortured copse bends to and fro
In silence like a shadow-show.

The parson's voice runs like a river
Over smooth rocks. I like this church:
The pews are staid, they never shiver,
They never bend or sway or lurch.
"Prayer," says the kind voice, "is a chain
That draws down Grace from Heaven again."

I add the hymns up, over and over,
Until there's not the least...

Robert von Ranke Graves

Sunday.

God made the day of rest,
    The holy Sabbath day,
For us to think and talk of Him,
    And not for work or play.

I'll put away my toys
    Safely, the night before;
And Sundays I'll be very still,
    Till Monday comes once more.

And then mamma will say,
    That, though I am so small,
I yet can please the great, good God,
    Who takes care of us all.

I love these Sabbath days,
    Which God to us doth give;
And may I love them more and more,
    Each day and year I live!

H. P. Nichols