The 7 poems about joy, by 6 poets, ranked by third-party data. How poems are ranked
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"I have no name;I am but two days old."What shall I call thee?"I happy am,Joy is my name."Sweet joy befall thee!
Pretty joy!Sweet joy, but two days old.Sweet joy I call thee;Thou dost smile,I sing the while;Sweet joy befall thee!
The Home Book of Verse, ed. Burton Egbert Stevenson
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Now the joys of the road are chiefly these:A crimson touch on the hard-wood trees;
A vagrant's morning wide and blue,In early fall, when the wind walks, too;
A shadowy highway cool and brownAlluring up and enticing down
From rippled water to dappled swamp,From purple glory to scarlet pomp;
The outward eye, the quiet will,And the striding heart from hill to hill;
The tempter apple over the fence;The cobweb bloom on the yellow quince;
The palish asters along the wood,--A lyric touch of the solitude;
An open hand, an easy shoe,And a hope to make the day go through,--
Another to sleep with, and a thirdTo wake me up at the voice of a bird;
The resonant far-listening morn,And the hoarse whisper of the corn;
The crickets mourning their comrades lost,In the night's retreat from the gathering frost;
(Or is it their slogan, plaintive and shrill,As they beat on their corselets, valiant still?)
A hunger fit for the kings of the sea,And a loaf of bread for Dickon and me;
A thirst like that of the Thirsty Sword,And a jug of cider on the board;
An idle noon, a bubbling spring,The sea in the pine-tops murmuring;
A scrap of gossip at the ferry;A comrade neither glum nor merry,
Asking nothing, revealing naught,But minting his words from a fund of thought.
A keeper of silence eloquent,Needy, yet royally well content,
Of the mettled breed, yet abhorring strife,And full of the mellow juice of life,
A taster of wine, with an eye for a maidNever too bold, and never afraid,
Never heart-whole, never heart-sick,(These are the things I worship in Dick)
No fidget and no reformer, justA calm observer of ought and must,
A lover of books, but a reader of man,No cynic and no charlatan,
Who never defers and never demands,But, smiling, takes the world in his hands,--
Seeing it good as when God first sawAnd gave it the weight of his will for law.
And O the joy that is never won,But follows and follows the journeying sun,
By marsh and tide, by meadow and stream,A will-o'-the-wind, a light-o'-dream,
Delusion afar, delight anear,From morrow to morrow, from year to year,
A jack-o'-lantern, a fairy fire,A dare, a bliss, and a desire!
The racy smell of the forest loam,When the stealthy, sad-heart leaves go home;
(O leaves, O leaves, I am one with you,Of the mould and the sun and the wind and the dew!)
The broad gold wake of the afternoon;The silent fleck of the cold new moon;
The sound of the hollow sea's releaseFrom stormy tumult to starry peace;
With only another league to wend;And two brown arms at the journey's end!
These are the joys of the open road--For him who travels without a load.
The Home Book of Verse, ed. Burton Egbert Stevenson
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Oh, hark to the brown thrush! hear how he sings!How he pours the dear pain of his gladness!What a gush! and from out what golden springs!What a rage of how sweet madness!
And golden the buttercup blooms by the way,A song of the joyous ground;While the melody rained from yonder sprayIs a blossom in fields of sound.
How glisten the eyes of the happy leaves!How whispers each blade, "I am blest!"Rosy Heaven his lips to flowered earth gives,With the costliest bliss of his breast.
Pour, pour of the wine of thy heart, O Nature!By cups of field and of sky,By the brimming soul of every creature!--Joy-mad, dear Mother, am I.
Tongues, tongues for my joy, for my joy! more tongues!--Oh, thanks to the thrush on the tree,To the sky, and to all earth's blooms and songs!They utter the heart in me.
The Home Book of Verse, ed. Burton Egbert Stevenson
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Wynter wakeneth al my care,Nou this leves waxeth bare;Ofte I sike ant mourne sare When hit cometh in my thoht Of this worldes joie, hou hit goth al to noht.
Nou hit is, and nou hit nys,Al so hit ner nere, ywys;That moni mon seith, soth hit ys: Al goth bote Godes wille: Alle we shule deye, thah us like ylle.
Al that gren me graueth grene,Nou hit faleweth albydene:Jesu, help that hit be sene Ant shild us from helle! For y not whider y shal, ne hou longe her duelle.
The Oxford Book of English Verse 1250–1900, 1900
In 0 Wikipedias 0 anthologies Poet in 91 Wikipedias
WHEN the spring comes round, and a certain dayLooks out from the brume by the eastern copsetrees And says, Remember, I begin again, as if it were new, A day of like date I once lived through, Whiling it hour by hour away; So shall I do till my December, When spring comes round.
I take my holiday then and my restAway from the dun life here about me, Old hours re-greeting With the quiet sense that bring they must Such throbs as at first, till I house with dust, And in the numbness my heartsome zest For things that were, be past repeating When spring comes round.
Moments of Vision and Miscellaneous Verses, 1929
In 0 Wikipedias 0 anthologies Poet in 52 Wikipedias
Who, but a Lover, can expressThe Joys, the Pants, the Tenderness,That the soft amorous Soul invades,While the dear Billetdoux he reads:Raptures Divine the Heart o’erflow,Which he that loves not cannot know.A thousand Tremblings, thousand Fears,The short-breath’d Sighs, the joyful Tears!The Transport, where the Love’s confest;The Change, where Coldness is exprest;The diff’ring Flames the Lover burns,As those are shy, or kind, by turns.
The Works of Aphra Behn, Volume VI, ed. Montague Summers, 1915
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BEYOND the dark, deep grave, whose lowly portalMust yet be passed by every living mortal,
There gleams a light;'T is not of earth. It wavers not; it glowethWith a clear radiance which no changing knoweth,
Constant and bright.We love to gaze at it; we love to cherishThe cheering thought, that, when this earth shall perish,
And naught remainOf all these temples,--things we now inherit,Each unimprisoned, no more fettered spirit
Shall life retain.And ever, through eternity unending,It shall unto that changeless light be tending,
Till perfect dayShall be its great reward; and all of mysteryThat hath made up its earthly life, its history,
Be passed away!O, joyous hour! O, day most good and glorious!When from the earth the ransomed rise victorious,
Its conflict o'er;When joy henceforth each grateful soul engages,Joy unalloyed through never-ending ages, Joy evermore!
Town and Country; Or, Life at Home and Abroad, Without and Within Us, 1855
6 poets
| Century | Poems |
|---|---|
| 17th | 1 |
| 19th | 3 |
| 20th | 2 |