Joy Poems | Poems of Joy, Hope, and Community to Bring Us Together

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    Joy And Pleasure Poem by William Henry Davies

    Now, joy is born of parents poor,
    And pleasure of our richer kind;
    Though pleasure’s free, she cannot sing
    As sweet a song as joy confined.

    Pleasure’s a Moth, that sleeps by day
    And dances by false glare at night;
    But Joy’s a Butterfly, that loves
    To spread its wings in Nature’s light.

    Joy’s like a Bee that gently sucks
    Away on blossoms its sweet hour;
    But pleasure’s like a greedy Wasp,
    That plums and cherries would devour.

    Joy’s like a Lark that lives alone,
    Whose ties are very strong, though few;
    But Pleasure like a Cuckoo roams,
    Makes much acquaintance, no friends true.

    Joy from her heart doth sing at home,
    With little care if others hear;
    But pleasure then is cold and dumb,
    And sings and laughs with strangers near.

     

     

    The Joy Of Giving Poem by Aniruddha Pathak

    Be it no more than just a glass of water,
    A walking-stick alive rendered by daughter,
    Care and concern, warm smile, none far too hotter;

    Or quality time spent with someone old,
    A warm blanket in times forlorn and cold,
    In times of need a willing shoulder-hold;

    A pair of slippers to feet walking bare,
    Not in loud charity to show you care,
    Heart-born feelings shown above false air;

    Anything given short of counting ways,
    Given to brighten up sinking heart’s greys,
    To lighten load that too heavily weighs;

    Give it in cash though kindest give in kind,
    A gift of willing heart and well inclined,
    A gift coming from soul— body and mind.

    Give, the only joy greater than getting,
    The only joy rarer than receiving,
    Be the joy of giving and forgetting!

     

    The Angel That Presided O’Er My Birth Poem by William Blake

    The Angel that presided o’er my birth
    Said, ‘Little creature, form’d of Joy and Mirth,
    ‘Go love without the help of any Thing on Earth.’

     

     

    Several Questions Answered Poem by William Blake

    What is it men in women do require?
    The lineaments of Gratified Desire.
    What is it women do in men require?
    The lineaments of Gratified Desire.

    The look of love alarms
    Because ’tis fill’d with fire;
    But the look of soft deceit
    Shall Win the lover’s hire.

    Soft Deceit & Idleness,
    These are Beauty’s sweetest dress.

    He who binds to himself a joy
    Dot the winged life destroy;
    But he who kisses the joy as it flies
    Lives in Eternity’s sunrise.

     

     

    Returning, We Hear The Larks Poem by Isaac Rosenberg

    Sombre the night is.
    And though we have our lives, we know
    What sinister threat lies there.

    Dragging these anguished limbs, we only know
    This poison-blasted track opens on our camp –
    On a little safe sleep.

    But hark! joy – joy – strange joy.
    Lo! heights of night ringing with unseen larks.
    Music showering our upturned list’ning faces.

    Death could drop from the dark
    As easily as song –
    But song only dropped,
    Like a blind man’s dreams on the sand
    By dangerous tides,
    Like a girl’s dark hair for she dreams no ruin lies there,
    Or her kisses where a serpent hides.

     

     

    Life Is A Tall, Tender Tree Poem by Dr. Debasish Mridha

    For if life is a tall tender tree,
    For then, life is joy, life is free.
    The tree is dancing in the air, sunny or showers,
    With his joy, with his love, with his flowers.

    For if life is a tall tender tree,
    There is no pain or gain, she or he.
    No complaining, only serving and caring.
    Creating life for joy of sharing.

    For if life is a tall tender tree,
    For then, there are no you and me.
    We are nature; we are love; we are beauty.
    Giving and loving is our eternal duty.

     

     

    The Schoolboy Poem by William Blake

    I love to rise in a summer morn
    When the birds sing on every tree;
    The distant huntsman winds his horn,
    And the skylark sings with me.
    O! what sweet company!

    But to go to school on a summer morn,
    O! it drives all joy away;
    Under a cruel eye outworn,
    The little ones spend the day
    In sighing and dismay.

    Ah! then at times I drooping sit,
    And spend many an anxious hour,
    Nor in my book can I take delight,
    Nor sit in learning’s bower,
    Worn thro’ with the dreary shower.

    How can the bird that is born for joy
    Sit in a cage and sing?
    How can a child, when fears annoy,
    But droop his tender wing,
    And forget his youthful spring?

    O! father and mother, if buds are nipped
    And blossoms blown away,
    And if the tender plants are stripped
    Of their joy in the springing day,
    By sorrow and care’s dismay,

    How shall the summer arise in joy,
    Or the summer’s fruits appear?
    Or how shall we gather what griefs destroy,
    Or bless the mellowing year,
    When the blasts of winter appear?

     

     

    From Blossoms Poem by Li-Young Lee

    From blossoms comes
    this brown paper bag of peaches
    we bought from the joy
    at the bend in the road where we turned toward
    signs painted Peaches.

    From laden boughs, from hands,
    from sweet fellowship in the bins,
    comes nectar at the roadside, succulent
    peaches we devour, dusty skin and all,
    comes the familiar dust of summer, dust we eat.

    O, to take what we love inside,
    to carry within us an orchard, to eat
    not only the skin, but the shade,
    not only the sugar, but the days, to hold
    the fruit in our hands, adore it, then bite into
    the round jubilance of peach.

    There are days we live
    as if death were nowhere
    in the background; from joy
    to joy to joy, from wing to wing,
    from blossom to blossom to
    impossible blossom, to sweet impossible blossom.

     

     

    Infant Joy Poem by William Blake

    ‘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!

     

     

    Sonnet 54 Poem by Edmund Spenser

    Of this worlds theatre in which we stay,
    My love like the spectator ydly sits
    Beholding me that all the pageants play,
    Disguysing diversly my troubled wits.
    Sometimes I joy when glad occasion fits,
    And mask in myrth lyke to a comedy:
    Soone after when my joy to sorrow flits,
    I waile and make my woes a tragedy.
    Yet she, beholding me with constant eye,
    Delights not in my merth nor rues my smart:
    But when I laugh she mocks, and when I cry
    She laughs and hardens evermore her heart.
    What then can move her? if nor merth nor mone,
    She is no woman, but a senceless stone.