John Bunyan

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

John Bunyan Poems

41. The Shepherd Boy Sings In The Valley Of Humiliation 1/4/2003
42. The Sinner And The Spider 1/1/2004
43. The Song Of The Shepherd Boy In The Valley Of Humiliation 4/20/2010
44. The Spirit Of Prayer 1/1/2004
45. To The Reader 1/1/2004
46. Upon A Looking Glass 1/1/2004
47. Upon A Lowering Of Morning 1/1/2004
48. Upon A Penny Loaf 1/1/2004
49. Upon A Sheet Of White Paper 1/1/2004
50. Upon A Snail 1/1/2004
51. Upon Apparel 1/3/2003
52. Upon Fire 1/1/2004
53. Upon Over-Much Niceness 1/1/2004
54. Upon The Barren Fig-Tree In God's Vineyard 1/1/2004
55. Upon The Bee 1/1/2004
56. Upon The Disobedient Child 1/1/2004
57. Upon The Fish In The Water 1/1/2004
58. Upon The Flint In The Water 1/1/2004
59. Upon The Frog 1/1/2004
60. Upon The Horse And His Rider 1/1/2004
61. Upon The Hour Glass 1/1/2004
62. Upon The Lark And The Fowler 1/1/2004
63. Upon The Lord's Prayer 1/1/2004
64. Upon The Pismire 1/1/2004
65. Upon The Sacraments 1/1/2004
66. Upon The Sight Of A Pound Of Candles Falling To The Ground 1/1/2004
67. Upon The Skilfull Player Of An Instrument 1/1/2004
68. Upon The Sun's Reflection Upon The Clouds In A Fair Morning 1/1/2004
69. Upon The Swallow 1/1/2004
70. Upon The Thief 1/1/2004
71. Upon The Vine Tree 1/1/2004
72. Upon The Whipping Of The Top 1/1/2004
73. Upon Thebegger 1/1/2004
74. Upon Time And Eternity 1/3/2003
75. Who Would True Valour See 1/3/2003
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,

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