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 Canary Bird 4/21/2010
24. To The Pure All Things Are Pure 4/21/2010
25. Who Hath Ears To Hear Let Him Hear 4/21/2010
26. The Trees Of Life 4/21/2010
27. The Soldier 4/21/2010
28. The Son 4/21/2010
29. Time 4/21/2010
30. The Prayer 4/21/2010
31. The War 4/21/2010
32. To The Hummingbird 4/21/2010
33. The Grave Yard 4/21/2010
34. The Spirit 4/21/2010
35. The Stranger's Gift 4/21/2010
36. Yourself 4/21/2010
37. The Robe 4/21/2010
38. The Old Road 4/21/2010
39. The Light From Within 4/21/2010
40. Night 4/21/2010

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Best Poem of Jones Very

The Dead

I see them crowd on crowd they walk the earth
Dry, leafless trees no Autumn wind laid bare,
And in their nakedness find cause for mirth,
And all unclad would winter's rudeness dare;
No sap doth through their clattering branches flow,
Whence springing leaves and blossoms bright appear;
Their hearts the living God have ceased to know,
Who gives the spring time to th'expectant year;
They mimic life, as if from him to steal
His glow of health to paint the livid cheek;
They borrow words for thoughts they cannot feel,
That with a seeming heart their tongue...

Read the full of The Dead

The Eagles

THE eagles gather on the place of death
So thick the ground is spotted with their wings,
The air is tainted with the noisome breath
The wind from off the field of slaughter brings;
Alas! no mourners weep them for the slain,
But all unburied lies the naked soul;
The whitening bones of thousands strew the plain,
Yet none can now the pestilence control;
The eagles gathering on the carcase feed,