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Day Poems

Table of Contents

  1. This Is God's Day by Annette Wynne
  2. Each Day a Life by Robert William Service
  3. A Recipe For a Day by Anonymous
  4. A Troubled Day by Anonymous
  5. The Sun by Annette Wynne
  6. A Summer Day by George Cooper
  7. Psalm of the Day by Emily Dickinson
  8. The Juggler of Day by Emily Dickinson
  9. Morning is the place for dew by Emily Dickinson
  10. Day's Parlor by Emily Dickinson
  11. Today by Thomas Carlyle
  12. A Drowsy Day by Laurence Dunbar
  13. I Marred a Day by Annette Wynne
  14. Days by Annette Wynne
  15. Each Dawn by Annette Wynne
  16. Each New Little Day Slips Out of My Hand by Annette Wynne
  17. To-day by Annette Wynne
  18. A Gray Day by Ruby Archer
  19. The Day is Done by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

  1. This Is God's Day

    by Annette Wynne

    This is God's day that he lent to me
    That I may use for good or ill;
    Fair and fresh as a day can be
    This is God's day that he lent to me.
    He took a wave from eternity's sea—
    Fashioned a day all blemish-free;
    This is God's day that he lent to me.
    That I may use for good or ill.

  2. Each Day a Life

    by Robert William Service

    I count each day a little life,
    With birth and death complete;
    I cloister it from care and strife
    And keep it sane and sweet.

    With eager eyes I greet the morn,
    Exultant as a boy,
    Knowing that I am newly born
    To wonder and to joy.

    And when the sunset splendours wane
    And ripe for rest am I,
    Knowing that I will live again,
    Exultantly I die.

    O that all Life were but a Day
    Sunny and sweet and sane!
    And that at Even I might say:
    "I sleep to wake again."

  3. A Recipe For a Day

    by Amos Russel Wells

    Take a little dash of water cold,
    And a little leaven of prayer,
    And a little bit of morning gold
    Dissolved in the morning air.

    Add to your meal some merriment,
    And a thought for kith and kin;
    And then, as your prime ingredient,
    A plenty of work throw in.

    But spice it all with the essence of love
    And a little whiff of play;
    Let a wise old Book and a glance above
    Complete the well-made day.

  4. A Troubled Day

    by Anonymous

    Thus built I my day,— with a beam at the base,
    Some windows turned sidewise, a chimney, a door,
    A cellar half finished, a roof out of place.
    And all the foundation heaped up on the floor!

    I wished it to rise in an orderly way,
    In symmetry fashioned, in beauty designed;
    And this is the product, this wilderness day,
    This riot and jumble of work and of mind!

    I thought of itself it would grow as it should,
    Part springing from part as a blossom unrolls,
    The stone and the brick and the neat-jointed wood,
    No jar or confusion, no cracks and no holes.

    O Architect, Master of days and of me.
    Thou Builder of homes where all ravishments dwell,
    No more will I venture to build without Thee!
    Plan Thou my to-morrow, and all will be well.

  5. The Sun

    by Annette Wynne

    Long before the postman comes
    The sun begins to rise,
    Far in the East if you should look
    You'd find it in the skies.
    At first it's just a streak of light
    Then all at once the world gets bright.

    Then in the sky from East to West
    The happy sun goes on its way.
    And all day long it shines its best
    To give us pleasant day.
    Dear God, who made the day and night,
    We thank Thee for the sun's good light.

  6. A Summer Day

    by George Cooper

    This is the way the morning dawns:
    Rosy tints on flowers and trees,
    Winds that wake the birds and bees,
    Dewdrops on the fields and lawns—
    This is the way the morning dawns.

    This is the way the sun comes up:
    Gold on brook and glossy leaves,
    Mist that melts above the sheaves,
    Vine, and rose, and buttercup—
    This is the way the sun comes up.

    This is the way the river flows:
    Here a whirl, and there a dance;
    Slowly now, then, like a lance,
    Swiftly to the sea it goes—
    This is the way the river flows.

    This is the way the rain comes down:
    Tinkle, tinkle, drop by drop,
    Over roof and chimney top;
    Boughs that bend, and skies that frown—
    This is the way the rain comes down.

    This is the way the birdie sings:
    "Baby birdies in the nest,
    You I surely love the best;
    Over you I fold my wings"—
    This is the way the birdie sings.

    This is the way the daylight dies:
    Cows are lowing in the lane,
    Fireflies wink on hill and plain;
    Yellow, red, and purple skies—
    This is the way the daylight dies.

  7. Psalm of the Day

    by Emily Dickinson

    A something in a summer's day,
    As slow her flambeaux burn away,
    Which solemnizes me.

    A something in a summer's noon, —
    An azure depth, a wordless tune,
    Transcending ecstasy.

    And still within a summer's night
    A something so transporting bright,
    I clap my hands to see;

    Then veil my too inspecting face,
    Lest such a subtle, shimmering grace
    Flutter too far for me.

    The wizard-fingers never rest,
    The purple brook within the breast
    Still chafes its narrow bed;

    Still rears the East her amber flag,
    Guides still the sun along the crag
    His caravan of red,

    Like flowers that heard the tale of dews,
    But never deemed the dripping prize
    Awaited their low brows;

    Or bees, that thought the summer's name
    Some rumor of delirium
    No summer could for them;

    Or Arctic creature, dimly stirred
    By tropic hint, — some travelled bird
    Imported to the wood;

    Or wind's bright signal to the ear,
    Making that homely and severe,
    Contented, known, before

    The heaven unexpected came,
    To lives that thought their worshipping
    A too presumptuous psalm.

  8. The Juggler of Day

    by Emily Dickinson

    Blazing in gold and quenching in purple,
    Leaping like leopards to the sky,
    Then at the feet of the old horizon
    Laying her spotted face, to die;

    Stooping as low as the otter's window,
    Touching the roof and tinting the barn,
    Kissing her bonnet to the meadow, —
    And the juggler of day is gone!

  9. Morning is the place for dew

    by Emily Dickinson

    Morning is the place for dew,
    Corn is made at noon,
    After dinner light for flowers,
    Dukes for setting sun!

  10. Day's Parlor

    by Emily Dickinson

    The day came slow, till five o'clock,
    Then sprang before the hills
    Like hindered rubies, or the light
    A sudden musket spills.

    The purple could not keep the east,
    The sunrise shook from fold,
    Like breadths of topaz, packed a night,
    The lady just unrolled.

    The happy winds their timbrels took;
    The birds, in docile rows,
    Arranged themselves around their prince
    (The wind is prince of those).

    The orchard sparkled like a Jew, —
    How mighty 't was, to stay
    A guest in this stupendous place,
    The parlor of the day!

  11. Today

    by Thomas Carlyle

    So here hath been dawning
    Another blue day;
    Think, wilt thou let it
    Slip useless away?

    Out of Eternity
    This new day is born;
    Into Eternity
    At night will return.

    Behold it aforetime
    No eye ever did;
    So soon it forever
    From all eyes is hid.

    Here hath been dawning
    Another blue day;
    Think, wilt thou let it
    Slip useless away?

  12. A Drowsy Day

    by Laurence Dunbar

    The air is dark, the sky is gray,
    The misty shadows come and go,
    And here within my dusky room
    Each chair looks ghostly in the gloom.
    Outside the rain falls cold and slow —
    Half-stinging drops, half-blinding spray.

    Each slightest sound is magnified,
    For drowsy quiet holds her reign;
    The burnt stick in the fireplace breaks,
    The nodding cat with start awakes,
    And then to sleep drops off again,
    Unheeding Towser at her side.

    I look far out across the lawn,
    Where huddled stand the silly sheep;
    My work lies idle at my hands,
    My thoughts fly out like scattered strands
    Of thread, and on the verge of sleep—
    Still half awake — I dream and yawn.

    What spirits rise before my eyes!
    How various of kind and form!
    Sweet memories of days long past,
    The dreams of youth that could not last,
    Each smiling calm, each raging storm,
    That swept across my early skies.

    Half seen, the bare, gaunt-fingered boughs
    Before my window sweep and sway,
    And chafe in tortures of unrest.
    My chin sinks down upon my breast;
    I cannot work on such a day,
    But only sit and dream and drowse.

    Turn, turn, my wheel! What is begun
    At daybreak must at dark be done,
    To-morrow will be another day;
    To-morrow the hot furnace flame
    Will search the heart and try the frame,
    And stamp with honor or with shame
    These vessels made of clay.

    – Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
    The Song of the Potter

  13. I Marred a Day

    by Annette Wynne

    I marred a day, a shining day,
    (God lent it clean and bright);
    I sent it lusterless away,
    I dimmed its gracious light;
    And God I know was sorrowing
    For that poor soiled and tarnished thing.

    In everlasting tenderness
    Another day of light
    God sent; each hour I strove to bless,
    I kept it clean and bright;
    And God was glad—it shone away
    The meanness of my other day.

  14. Days

    by Annette Wynne

    Every sort of day together,
    Makes a year of every weather,
    Rainy days and clear days, warm days and cool,
    Holidays, vacation days and days to go to school,
    Winter days and summer days and days of spring and fall,
    To make the calendar, my dear, we have to take them all;
    Here's a pretty day for trying, here's a rainy day for working,
    But I cannot find a single day in all the year for shirking.
    There are days when we are very glad,
    And days when we are still and sad;
    But on all days, I find it good
    To do to others as I would
    Be done by—that's the way
    To keep each passing day
    And so spend happy times together
    In sunny or in windy weather.

  15. Each Dawn

    by Annette Wynne

    Each dawn before my eyes I see
    A shining new day spread for me;
    All trace of worn-out yesterday
    The winds of night have washed away.
    O let me use God's hand-work well—
    His glorious daily miracle!

  16. Each New Little Day Slips Out of My Hand

    by Annette Wynne

    Each new little day slips out of my hand,
    And then with another new day I stand;
    But soon that is gone and folded away—
    I wish I might keep forever one day!
    I wish that one good day might always stay,
    For the good days hurry on so fast,
    Only the bad days seem to last;
    But soon the worst of days is past;
    And now within my room I stand
    With a new little day within my hand.

  17. To-day

    by Annette Wynne

    To-morrow, what does it matter?
    To-day—that is here!
    To lend or to spend for my purpose—
    All without hindrance or tear,
    To-day only matters—to-morrow's
    A dream and a fear!

    To-morrow, I never shall own it—
    To-day—that is mine!
    What if I take it and make it
    To something divine!

    So shall I never fear sorrow,
    Dear Time, if you go soon or stay,
    So shall I fear no to-morrow
    And gratefully live each to-day!

  18. A Gray Day

    by Ruby Archer

    A gray day, and the gulls are gone.
    Visor of mist o'er the sun is drawn.
    The cordage creaks and the sails all strain,
    The deck is drenched with the rushing rain,
    The waves leap strong at the struggling keel,
    And the ship rides madly with plunge and reel.
    But the sailors shout as they haul away,
    And merrily sing, for it's naught care they
    For the wind that screams on the lee,
    Or a gray day out at sea.

  19. The Day is Done

    by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

    The day is done, and the darkness
    Falls from the wings of Night,
    As a feather is wafted downward
    From an eagle in his flight.

    I see the lights of the village
    Gleam through the rain and the mist,
    And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me
    That my soul cannot resist:

    A feeling of sadness and longing,
    That is not akin to pain,
    And resembles sorrow only
    As the mist resembles the rain.

    Come, read to me some poem,
    Some simple and heartfelt lay,
    That shall soothe this restless feeling,
    And banish the thoughts of day.

    Not from the grand old masters,
    Not from the bards sublime,
    Whose distant footsteps echo
    Through the corridors of Time.

    For, like strains of martial music,
    Their mighty thoughts suggest
    Life's endless toil and endeavor;
    And to-night I long for rest.

    Read from some humbler poet,
    Whose songs gushed from his heart,
    As showers from the clouds of summer,
    Or tears from the eyelids start;

    Who, through long days of labor,
    And nights devoid of ease,
    Still heard in his soul the music
    Of wonderful melodies.

    Such songs have power to quiet
    The restless pulse of care,
    And come like the benediction
    That follows after prayer.

    Then read from the treasured volume
    The poem of thy choice,
    And lend to the rhyme of the poet
    The beauty of thy voice.

    And the night shall be filled with music,
    And the cares, that infest the day,
    Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
    And as silently steal away.