Poet Unknown
Count not loss the hopes that fall
Like leaves in autumn, one by one,
Nor dream the light is vanished all
As the dark, dreary night wears on.
You shall know at last that loss was gain,
That through your weary, toilsome way,
As you saw the stars in your life-star wave,
The night was leading to heavenly day.
by IngersoIl
When the day is done,
When the work of a life is finished,
When the gold of evening meets the dusk of night,
Beneath the silent stars
The tired laborer should fall asleep.
Good Night Poems
Poet: Grace Duffield Goodwin
The gloom of night is dense and deep;
Rough is the path as we grope along;
Courage, Heart, as the shadows creep -
This is the matin-song:
After the night is noon;
After the journey, rest;
The world will waken in gladness soon,
And the heart that sings is blest!
The glare of the sun is hard and hot;
The road is dusty, the way is long;
Shift your burden, and heed it not, —
This is the even song:
After the noon is night;
After the journey, rest;
For the wind will wake and the stars be bright.
And the heart that sings is blest!
Poet: Lauka S. R. McCarthy
'Tis night mid-glory. Earth, so calm, so still,
On couch of space is wrapped in slumber's spell;
How soft and pure her bosom's rounded swell
'Neath fleecy robes and placid radiance shed
From silver orb, like watcher's lamp, o'erhead!
While starry legions dimly throng and fill
Her airy chamber, whence all sound is fled
Save breath of rising prayer, or whir of wings
As angels viewless pass, or heavenward springs
The guardian who hath wrought the Father's will.
Midnight and moonlight, silence, stars, and God -
Sublimest height Diurnal Time hath trod.
Poet: Robert Louis Stevenson
All night long and every night,
When my mamma puts out the light,
I see the people marching by,
As plain as day, before my eye.
Armies and emperors and kings.
All carrying different kinds of things.
And marching in so grand a way.
You never saw the like by day.
So fine a show was never seen,
At the great circus on the green;
For every kind of beast and man
Is marching in that caravan.
At first they move a little slow.
But still the faster on they go.
And still beside them close I keep
Until we reach the town of Sleep.
Funny Poems
Poet: Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
I heard the trailing garments of the Night
Sweep through her marble halls;
I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light
From the celestial walls.
I felt her presence, by its spell of might,
Stoop o'er me from above;
The calm, majestic presence of the Night,
As of the one I love.
I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight,
The manifold, soft chimes,
That fill the haunted chambers of the Night,
Like some old poet's rhymes.
From the cool cisterns of the midnight air
My spirit drank repose;
The fountain of perpetual peace flows there -
From those deep cisterns flows.
O holy Night! from thee I learn to bear
What man has borne before!
Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care,
And they complain no more.
Peace! Peace! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer!
Descend with broad-wingred flight,
The welcome, the thrice-prayed for most fair,
The best-beloved Night!
Poet: Catherine Pulsifer
In shadows deep, where darkness veils the light,
Some shrink in fear, each whisper spurs fright.
But with a steadfast faith in God above,
The night becomes a hymn of boundless love.
Though moon may wane and fears may seek a home,
Within my heart, His presence ever roams.
With trust unfailing, no dark can abide,
For God, my lantern, walks right by my side.
Poet: F. W. Bourdilhn
The night has a thousand eyes,
And the day but one;
Yet the light of the bright world dies
With the dying sun.
The mind has a thousand eyes,
And the heart but one;
Yet the light of a whole life dies
When love is done.
Poet: Unknown
Low hangs the heavy moon, and low
The drowsy locust droops with sleep;
Across the quiet fields below,
And where the languid lilies blow
On sluggish waters, still and deep,
The balmy zephyrs, to and fro,
In slumbrous silence creep.
The stars seem pausing in the sky
Around their listless planet-queen;
The trees have hushed their lullaby;
And sylvan songsters, cradled high,
Dream lightly in their chambers green;
All things are resting; only I,
Sink not in sleep serene.
Poet: Elsie E. Egermeier
When the twilight steals upon us,
Ending thus the wintry day,
When the atmosphere is chilly
And the sky is cold and gray,
We retreat with willing footsteps
Near the fire-glow on the hearth
Where the family circle gathers -
Dearest spot in all the earth.
Soon the twilight shades grow deeper
Till they darken into night,
And we hear the north wind sobbing
As if driven on in fright
Through the treetops, round the corner,
Till at last its mournful tone
Slowly dies out in the distance
And no more we hear it moan.
Then, while we are lost in slumber,
Silently doth Nature toil
Robing earth in dazzling garments -
Nothing does her efforts foil;
Every tree and shrub and bower
Must be clothed with special care
In the clear and crystal raiment
Which she wishes them to wear.
When this task she has completed,
She retires with ease and grace
To await the dawn of morning
In her own appointed place.
Not one twig has been neglected,
Not one withered blade of grass,
Each one now is well enclosed
In its winter house of glass.
Now the early dawn is breaking,
Bidding darkness flee away;
See, upon the clear horizon
Shines the glowing orb of day;
Night is past — behold the morning
Bursting forth with glorious light!
Could there be a scene whose beauty
Would surpass this lovely sight?
Springtime has her buds and blossoms,
Summer boasts of roses fair,
Autumn's pride is golden harvests,
But of these can none compare
With the glowing charms of Winter
When his crystal fields we view,
Sparkling in the brilliant sunlight
As the day breaks forth anew.
Good Morning Poems
Poet: Louisa P. W. Palmiter
"Tis sweet to sit,
Ere the lamps are lit,
By the vine-wreathed casement, listening
When the winds are still,
And the cricket's trill
Is heard where the dew is glistening:
"Cheereet, cheereet."
'Tis a summer night,
With a moon so bright,
That the fire-fly lamps are pale,
And all night long-,
Comes a mournful song
From a lone bird in the vale:
"Whippoorwill, whippoorwill."
In a shady nook,
By the side of the brook,
Hid away from the prying moon,
On a moss-grown log,
Some love-lorn frog
Is singing this mellow tune:
"Ker-chug, ker-chug."
And a little beyond,
Just over the pond,
From a tall tree on the bank,
Comes faint, but clear
To my listening ear,
The song of a feathered crank:
"Too-whoo, too-whoo."
Then a gossip unseen,
In the ivy green,
Repeats to a drowsy bird
A scandalous tale
Of some mortal frail,
And these are the words I heard:
"Katydid, katydid."
And across the way,
By the bright moon's ray
A youth and maiden are seen,
And I hear a repeat
Of the old words, sweet,
As the gate swings to, between:
"Good-night, good-night."
Poems About The Moon
Poet: J. J. McGirk
Sadly dies the autumn day,
In moaning winds and sunset gray;
The forest trees, with branches bare.
Upraise their arms as though in prayer,
While at their feet the dead leaves lie
Hushed and sad and silently.
The gray squirrel from his dizzy height
Perceives the fast approaching night,
And with quick and startled leap,
Scrambles to his nest and sleep,
While deep within the wood is heard
The plaintive cry of the midnight bird.
Now just above the western hills,
The dark clouds part, and sunlight fills
The forest, and the saddened scene
Is glorified in the golden sheen
Of the setting sun.
So, sweetly on my saddened life,
Dark with sickness and with strife,
There falls the sunlight of God's love,
With hope that in his home above,
"When life and sorrow both be past,
My weary feet will rest at last.
Poet: Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
The day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wings of Night,
As a feather is wafted downward
From an eagle in his flight.
I see the lights of the village
Gleam through the rain and the mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me
That my soul can not resist:
A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only
As the mist resembles the rain.
Come, read to me some poem,
Some simple and heartfelt lay,
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
And banish the thoughts of day.
Not from the grand old masters,
Not from the bards sublime,
Whose distant footsteps echo
Through the corridors of Time;
For, like strains of martial music,
Their mighty thoughts suggest
Life's endless toil and endeavor,
And tonight I long for rest.
Read from some humbler poet,
Whose songs gushed from his heart,
As showers from the clouds of summer,
Or tears from the eyelids start;
Who, through long days of labor.
And nights devoid of ease,
Still heard in his soul the music
Of wonderful melodies.
Such songs have power to quiet
The restless pulse of care,
And come like the benediction
That follows after prayer.
Then read from the treasured volume
The poem of thy choice,
And lend to the rhyme of the poet
The beauty of thy voice.
And the night shall be filled with music,
And the cares, that infest the day,
Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.
Poet: Catherine Pulsifer
On the spookiest night of the whole dang year,
When ghouls and ghosts are lurking near,
Halloween creeps in, ready to scare,
With pumpkins carved with eerie glare.
Costumes galore, a chance to disguise,
Frightful creatures underneath moonlit skies,
Witches cackle, werewolves howl,
It's all just a laugh, don't throw in the towel!
So grab your broomstick and join the fun,
Make sure you’ve got plenty of candy, hun,
For on Halloween, we embrace the fright,
But remember, it’s all just for one spooky night!
Poet: Edgar A. Guest
How fine it is at night to say:
"I have not wronged a soul to-day.
I have not by a word or deed,
In any breast sowed anger's seed,
Or caused a fellow being pain;
Nor is there on my crest a stain
That shame has left. In honor's way,
With head erect, I've lived this day."
When night slips down and day departs
And rest returns to weary hearts.
How fine it is to close the book
Of records for the day, and look
Once more along the traveled mile
And find that all has been worth while;
To say : " In honor I have toiled;
My plume is spotless and unsoiled."
Yet cold and stern a man may be
Retaining his integrity;
And he may pass from day to day
A spirit dead, in living clay.
Observing strictly morals, laws.
Yet serving but a selfish cause;
So it is not enough to say:
"I have not stooped to shame to-day!"
It is a finer, nobler thought
When day is done and night has brought
The contemplative hours and sweet,
And rest to weary hearts and feet.
If man can stand in truth and say:
"I have been useful here to-day.
Back there is one I chanced to see
With hope newborn because of me.
"This day in honor I have toiled;
My shining crest is still unsoiled;
But on the mile I leave behind
Is one who says that I was kind;
And someone hums a cheerful song
Because I chanced to come along."
Sweet rest at night that man shall own
Who has not lived his day alone.
