Birth poems from famous poets and best beautiful poems to feel good. Best birth poems ever written. Read all poems about birth.
A voice said, Look me in the stars
And tell me truly, men of earth,
If all the soul-and-body scars
Were not too much to pay for birth.
All nature has a feeling: woods, fields, brooks
Are life eternal: and in silence they
Speak happiness beyond the reach of books;
There's nothing mortal in them; their decay
Oh when I think of my long-suffering race,
For weary centuries despised, oppressed,
Enslaved and lynched, denied a human place
In the great life line of the Christian West;
Because my love is quick to come and go-
A little here, and then a little there-
What use are any words of mine to swear
My heart is stubborn, and my spirit slow
Art thou pale for weariness
Of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth,
Among the stars that have a different birth,
There is never a sight more beautiful
Or so amazing than that of a tree,
In summer with branches and leaves so full
With gently swaying boughs for all to see.
The same stream of life that runs through my veins night and day
runs through the world and dances in rhythmic measures.
It is the same life that shoots in joy through the dust of the earth
Once I dipt into the future far as human eye could see,
And I saw the Chief Forecaster, dead as any one can be--
Dead and damned and shut in Hades as a liar from his birth,
With a record of unreason seldome paralleled on earth.
Thou hast made me endless, such is thy pleasure. This frail
vessel thou emptiest again and again, and fillest it ever with fresh life.
This little flute of a reed thou hast carried over hills and dales,
In the ancient days, when the first quiver of speech came to my lips, I ascended the holy mountain and spoke unto God,
A daughter is beauty at its finest.
Heart of an angel, soul so pure, and sweet.
Penetrates the wonderful womb of wisdom
Ordained to inspire hope and re-script destiny
Enlightens to minus the miasma of the masses
Trained for titillation and tutored for titivation
Through the pregnant universe rumbles life's terrific thunder,
And Earth's bowels quake with terror; strange and terrible storms break,
Lightning-torches flame the heavens, kindling souls of men, thereunder:
Africa! long ages sleeping, O my motherland, awake!
A young man of strong body, weakened by hunger, sat on the walker's portion of the street stretching his hand toward all who passed, begging and repeating his hand toward all who passed, begging and repeating the sad song of his defeat in life, while suffering from hunger and from humiliation.
When night came, his lips and tongue were parched, while his hand was still as empty as his stomach.
After the rain the air is sweet
With glist`ning pools beneath my feet
Raindrops dripping down from the eaves
Teardrops slipping off shining leaves
Baby sweet, baby mine,
King of Kings, so sublime,
Born for us on Christmas Day,
Master of all that you'll survey.
Simply she stands at the cathedral’s
great ascent, close to the rose window,
with the apple in the apple-pose,
guiltless-guilty once and for all
No days such honored days as these! While yet
Fair Aphrodite reigned, men seeking wide
For some fair thing which should forever bide
On earth, her beauteous memory to set
The tempest calmed after bending the branches of the trees and leaning heavily upon the grain in the field. The stars appeared as broken remnants of lightning, but now silence prevailed over all, as if Nature's war had never been fought.
At that hour a young woman entered her chamber and knelt by her bed sobbing bitterly. Her heart flamed with agony but she could finally open her lips and say, 'Oh Lord, bring him home safely to me. I have exhausted my tears and can offer no more, oh Lord, full of love and mercy. My patience is drained and calamity is seeking possession of my heart. Save him, oh Lord, from the iron paws of War; deliver him from such unmerciful Death, for he is weak, governed by the strong. Oh Lord, save my beloved, who is Thine own son, from the foe, who is Thy foe. Keep him from the forced pathway to Death's door; let him see me, or come and take me to him.'
Birth and death are common happenings in natural life as two sides of the same coin'
If demise of better half on the first day and birth day of husband come on the second day,
Will he morn for the death or celebrate for the birth in the life of the world?
What is life? Life is both birth and death in the world we all live supported by Nature!
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retarded blinds. light.
(meta-birth is that of birth talking about birth.)
Upon this blank page, before the whispers of the letter is spoken into the weave of the word which spells the meaning, the message born within, through which, intertwined with the next letter and the next, comes joined together with another word weaved, through which their conjoined meanings combine and align to create words in sequence, as the poetry begins to give birth before the fertile womb of the blank page, as the words weave and intertwine into the next word and the next. Creating a poetry seething, beautiful, intricate, intimately complex, as the meanings of the words come together to create a poem that breathes the life of inner meaning, in the depth of their sacred inner sounds, with deeper depths of meanings profound, as they abound upon the blank page, as if written by an ancient sage, as they weave and intertwine in a paragraph made with lines; of words with voices strong and true, that speak to the depths inside of you, as one word joins another, and those words are two, and then another comes and the verse flows free, the words now a trinity, and as the verse is borne from the sacred power of the silence before the storm of the poetry seething within, the birthing pains of the muse are the sounds of a lover giving birth, to the beauty found within the chiming fetters of the blank page, as I rue and sing a lament for the death of sweet silence, as the story unfolds before the words broken silence, and in the music that is born, from the birthing cries of the muse with love in her heart and tears in her eyes. She cry's, calls to the pen, and the child's hand, holds him like a lover, bows to a king, crowns him a man, in the delicate fateful stroke of her graceful sovereign hand, with which in love she pours forth to entwine within his soul a verse, filling his heart with new birth, as the inspiration flows from her jeweled heart, shinning light to entwine upon his art, that begins as he starts to write first the letters then the words, spoken before the power of the blank page, that whispers of promise so sweet despite its age, the king crowned child with steady hands, hears the whispers of his muse sing upon the lyre in his heart, louder than the lion, champion to the music in his soul. As she bestows. Words begotten from the deepest corners of time itself, to dance with poetry amongst the fairies and the elves, that they might join in chorus, in the middle of the forest, with the music that graces their ears, as the music sings a melody to the deep and the wild, a poetry seething, in the heart of a child. That sung his song, pen in hand, upon the sacred power of the blank page, that he might wage war upon the silence, with a sovereign providence, of words of deeper depth, that as he pens his poem in melodic verse the fairies and angels do rehearse, the many colors and notes of this poetry alive, which breathes with a music from deep inspiration, that comes from the titillation of the music of the muse, her heart strumming the strings of the lyre, into the listening ear of her lover so dear, the child, her king, and the poem their child. As verse after verse the poem is compiled, by the wits whim and whiles of the muse and her lover, as each sings a song to one another, and in heated hearts the song is heard, as if the sound was the song of angelic birds humming to the music of words written upon the soul, that they may find lovers of their own, as they wrap, the two lovers, the muse and her king, under the brilliant white feathers of their wings, to raise in chorus, as the fairies sing, and the many bells the angels ring, the trumpeting music of heaven, that sings as notes as soft as mist, to intertwine in the poetry of this. that as the poetry seethes and burns with life, the muse, with lips locked upon the child's heart, consecrates herself as his wife, and the two lovers, form a dance in verse, which upon sheets of the blank page they give perfect birth.
Alarming sound of ambulances goes on in ample numbers everyday everywhere;
Death has become a routine matter due to various versions of Corona pandemic;
And birth has become a countering matter with celebration in fun distributing sweets;
This Cosmic Dance of Lord Siva depicts death and birth by fire pot and deer in two hands!
"Light gave birth to the existence.
Existence gave birth to reality.
Reality gave birth to eternity.
Eternity gave birth to time.
I have witness the birth of a new country
I have witness the birth of a new nation
My Savior, Amida Buddha
when wisdom is ripe enough to give birth to uncreative silence, ...
When the bad activities done in the earlier birth,
Without knowing the fact of doing charity might help to sever
the sin by which it might be of help in the future birth,
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