Jones Very

(28 August 1813 – 8 May 1880 / Salem, Massachusetts)

Jones Very Poems

1. The Call 4/21/2010
2. The Jew 4/21/2010
3. The Morning Watch 4/21/2010
4. The Clay 4/21/2010
5. The Earth 4/21/2010
6. The Heart 4/21/2010
7. The Idler 4/21/2010
8. The Disciple 4/21/2010
9. The New World 4/21/2010
10. Thy Brother's Blood 4/21/2010
11. The Wind-Flower 4/21/2010
12. The Robin 4/21/2010
13. To The Painted Columbine 4/21/2010
14. The Rose 4/21/2010
15. The Presence 4/21/2010
16. The Cottage 4/21/2010
17. The Garden 1/1/2004
18. The Tree 4/21/2010
19. The Living God 4/21/2010
20. The Gifts Of God 4/21/2010
21. The Poor 4/21/2010
22. The Spirit Land 4/21/2010
23. To The Pure All Things Are Pure 4/21/2010
24. Who Hath Ears To Hear Let Him Hear 4/21/2010
25. The Soldier 4/21/2010
26. The Son 4/21/2010
27. The Trees Of Life 4/21/2010
28. Time 4/21/2010
29. The Prayer 4/21/2010
30. The War 4/21/2010
31. To The Hummingbird 4/21/2010
32. The Grave Yard 4/21/2010
33. The Spirit 4/21/2010
34. The Stranger's Gift 4/21/2010
35. The Robe 4/21/2010
36. The Light From Within 4/21/2010
37. Night 4/21/2010
38. On Visiting The Graves Of Hawthorne And Thoreau 4/21/2010
39. He Was Acquainted With Grief 4/21/2010
40. The Fair Morning 1/1/2004
Best Poem of Jones Very

Life

IT is not life upon Thy gifts to live,
But, to grow fixed with deeper roots in Thee;
And when the sun and shower their bounties give,
To send out thick-leaved limbs; a fruitful tree,
Whose green head meets the eye for many a mile,
Whose moss-grown arms their rigid branches rear,
And full-faced fruits their blushing welcome smile
As to its goodly shade our feet draw near;
Who tastes its gifts shall never hunger more,
For 'tis the Father spreads the pure repast,
Who, while we eat, renews the ready store,
Which at his bounteous board must ever last; ...

Read the full of Life

The Fair Morning

The clear bright morning, with its scented air
And gaily waving flowers, is here again;
Man's heart is lifted with the voice of prayer,
And peace descends, as falls the gentle rain;
The tuneful birds, that all the night have slept,
Take up at dawn the evening's dying lay,
When sleep upon their eyelids gently crept
And stole with stealthy craft their song away.
High overhead the forest's swaying boughs

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