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

W. M. MacKeracher was a poet known for his contributions to Canadian literature during the early 20th century. His works often focused on themes of nature, human emotion, and the simplicity of rural life. Though not as widely known as some of his contemporaries, MacKeracher's poetry has been appreciated for its lyrical quality and depth. Much of his work was published in regional journals and anthologies, capturing the essence of Canadian landscapes and the human experience within them. His exact birth and death dates remain obscure.

W. M. MacKeracher

On Moving Into A New House.

W. M. MacKeracher, Simple Poetry

The Parson At The Hockey Match.

W. M. MacKeracher, Simple Poetry

My Valentine.

W. M. MacKeracher, Simple Poetry

Know'st Thou The Land?

W. M. MacKeracher, 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.

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

Sabbath Memories.

I love thee, Sabbath morn! - I cannot say
    But 'tis because my father loved thee so, -
    Because my mother's care-worn face would grow
So sweetly placid in thy peaceful ray; -

It may be, that is part of what endears
    Thee, Sabbath, to my soul; for memory stirs
    Old buried thoughts of his voice and of hers -
Heard never more on Earth - till sudden tears

So sadly sweet well up, I bid them flow,
    They leave a Sabbath in the soul when past;
    As when the sky, by April clouds o'ercast,
Shows fairer in the sun's returning glow.

I see the grass-grown lane we trod of old,
    Dear father, sainted mother! while
    The Sabbath sun looked down with loving smile,
And touched the hills and streams with rippling gold.

I hear y...

Pamela S. Vining (J. C. Yule)

Sunday Walks.

How fond the rustic's ear at leisure dwells
On the soft soundings of his village bells,
As on a Sunday morning at his ease
He takes his rambles, just as fancies please,
Down narrow balks that intersect the fields,
Hid in profusion that its produce yields:
Long twining peas, in faintly misted greens;
And wing'd-leaf multitudes of crowding beans;
And flighty oatlands of a lighter hue;
And speary barley bowing down with dew;
And browning wheat-ear, on its taper stalk,
With gentle breezes bending o'er the balk,
Greeting the parting hand that brushes near
With patting welcomes of a plenteous year.
Or narrow lanes, where cool and gloomy-sweet
Hedges above-head in an arbour meet,
Meandering down, and resting for awhile
Upon a moss-clad molehill or a stile;
...

John Clare

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

Lines Written On A Sabbath Morning.

    The snow lies pure and peaceful on the ground,
        Serenely smiles the azure sky o'erhead:
    The Sabbath spirit dwells on all around,
        And weekly toils and discords all are fled.

    But, ah! my soul is filled with worldly thought,
        My God, 'tis filled with thoughts of self and sin:
    With seeming care and trouble it is fraught,
        And peaceless discontentment reigns within.

    Send down from heaven the Spirit of Thy love,
        Its soothing influence in my soul instil;
    Uplift my worldly thoughts to things above,
        Subserve my wishes to Thy better will.

W. M. MacKeracher

The Sabbath Of The Woods

Sundown--and silence--and deep peace,--
Night's benediction and release;--
The tints of day die out and cease.

This morn I heard the Sabbath bells
Across the breezy upland swells;--
My path lay down the woodland dells.

To-day, I said, the dust of creeds,
The wind of words reach not my needs;--
I worship with the birds and weeds.

From height to height the sunbeam sprung,
The wild vine, touched with vermeil, clung,
The mountain brooklet leapt and sung.

The white lamp of the lily made
A tender light in deepest shade,--
The solitary place was glad.

The very air was tremulous,--
I felt its deep and reverent hush,--
God burned before me in the bush!

And nature prayed with folded palm,
And looks that wear perpetual c...

Kate Seymour Maclean