John Bunyan

(28 November 1628 – 31 August 1688 / Elstow, Bedfordshire, England.)

John Bunyan Poems

1. Of The Cuckoo 1/3/2003
2. Upon The Hour Glass 1/1/2004
3. Upon The Horse And His Rider 1/1/2004
4. Upon Over-Much Niceness 1/1/2004
5. Upon The Flint In The Water 1/1/2004
6. Upon The Barren Fig-Tree In God's Vineyard 1/1/2004
7. Upon The Whipping Of The Top 1/1/2004
8. Upon The Sacraments 1/1/2004
9. Upon The Vine Tree 1/1/2004
10. Upon The Lark And The Fowler 1/1/2004
11. Upon The Disobedient Child 1/1/2004
12. Upon The Lord's Prayer 1/1/2004
13. Upon Fire 1/1/2004
14. Upon The Pismire 1/1/2004
15. Of The Rose Bush 1/1/2004
16. The Necessity Of A New Heart 1/1/2004
17. To The Reader 1/1/2004
18. The Fowls Flying In The Air 1/1/2004
19. Of Uprightness And Sincerity 1/1/2004
20. On Promising Fruitfulness Of A Tree 1/1/2004
21. On The Cackling Of A Hen 1/1/2004
22. Upon A Lowering Of Morning 1/1/2004
23. Of The Spouse Of Christ 4/20/2010
24. Upon A Looking Glass 1/1/2004
25. Of The Flie At The Candle 1/1/2004
26. The Operation Of Faith 1/1/2004
27. Upon The Bee 1/1/2004
28. From Mount Ebal 1/1/2004
29. Of Love To God 1/1/2004
30. Upon A Sheet Of White Paper 1/1/2004
31. Of The Going Down Of The Sun 1/1/2004
32. Of The Mole In The Ground 1/1/2004
33. Upon The Frog 1/1/2004
34. Upon The Sun's Reflection Upon The Clouds In A Fair Morning 1/1/2004
35. Of Death 1/1/2004
36. On The Rising Of The Sun 1/1/2004
37. Upon A Penny Loaf 1/1/2004
38. The Pilgrim 4/20/2010
39. From Mount Gerizzim 1/1/2004
40. Upon The Sight Of A Pound Of Candles Falling To The Ground 1/1/2004
Best Poem of John Bunyan

Upon A Snail

She goes but softly, but she goeth sure,
She stumbles not, as stronger creatures do.
Her journey's shorter, so she may endure
Better than they which do much farther go.
She makes no noise, but stilly seizeth on
The flower or herb appointed for her food,
The which she quietly doth feed upon
While others range and glare, but find no good.
And though she doth but very softly go,
However, 'tis not fast nor slow, but sure;
And certainly they that do travel so,
The prize they do aim at they do procure.


Although they seem not much to stir, ...

Read the full of Upon A Snail

Of The Cuckoo

Thou booby, say'st thou nothing but cuckoo?
The robin and the wren can thee outdo.
They to us play thoróugh their little throats,
Not one, but sundry pretty tuneful notes.

But thou hast fellows, some like thee can do
Little but suck our eggs, and sing cuckoo.

Thy notes do not first welcome in our spring,

[Hata Bildir]