Jones Very

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

Jones Very Poems

41. On Visiting The Graves Of Hawthorne And Thoreau 4/21/2010
42. He Was Acquainted With Grief 4/21/2010
43. The Latter Rain 1/1/2004
44. The Fair Morning 1/1/2004
45. Bread 4/21/2010
46. The Acorn 4/21/2010
47. The Slave 4/21/2010
48. To The Fossil Flower 4/21/2010
49. The Ark 4/21/2010
50. In Him We Live 4/21/2010
51. Day 4/21/2010
52. The Canary Bird 4/21/2010
53. Morning 4/21/2010
54. The Clouded Morning 1/1/2004
55. The Eagles 1/1/2004
56. Memory 4/21/2010
57. Lines To A Withered Leaf Seen On A Poet's Table 4/21/2010
58. Worship 4/21/2010
59. Thy Beauty Fades 4/21/2010
60. Ehue! Fugaces, Posthume, Labuntur Anni 4/21/2010
61. Beauty 4/21/2010
62. The Columbine 1/1/2004
63. The Rail Road 4/21/2010
64. Change 4/21/2010
65. The Song 1/1/2004
66. How Many Of The Body's Health Complain, 1/1/2004
67. The New Man 1/1/2004
68. The New Birth 1/1/2004
69. The Violet 4/21/2010
70. Faith 4/21/2010
71. Psyche 1/1/2004
72. He Gave Me No Meat 4/21/2010
73. Love 4/21/2010
74. Soul-Sickness 4/21/2010
75. I Was Sick And In Prison 4/21/2010
76. The Barberry-Bush 4/21/2010
77. The Dead 1/1/2004
78. Thy Better Self 1/1/2004
79. Enoch 1/1/2004
80. Nature 1/1/2004

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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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