Poems About Objects

The Dying Lamp

Like thee, may she, who marked thy steady ray
Through the hushed night, and then thy quick decline,
Yield, while she treads life's short and shadowy way,
Some cheering light, with purpose pure as thine!

– Hannah Flagg Gould
The Dying Lamp

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by Hannah Flagg Gould

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Poor Dying Lamp! thou now art low and pale;
Thine oil of life is out, thy purpose o'er;
And thou art fainting, utterly to fail;
In a few moments thou must be no more!

The morning star has risen, and the dawn
Hastens to chase the scattering shades away.
They and thy feeble flame will soon be gone,
And both forgotten in the glorious day.

Well—thou hast done a kindly work to-night,
And freely worn thyself away to shed
Through the dark, silent chamber thy soft light,
And show the watcher to the sick one's bed.

A mild, bright minister of good to man,
Wasting thyself for others, thou hast been,
Since with the evening thy short life began,
Till o'er the world the light of heaven pours in.

But now thou art not needed thus to cast
Thy beams around to cheer the wakeful eye;
Since darkness with its solemn reign is past,
Before the morning calmly dost thou die.

Like thee, may she, who marked thy steady ray
Through the hushed night, and then thy quick decline,
Yield, while she treads life's short and shadowy way,
Some cheering light, with purpose pure as thine!

Then, when her work is finished—when her worth
To others in their dark, sad hours shall cease,
Not to survive it, may she pass from earth,
And like her dying lamp go out in peace!

¹⁴“You are the light of the world. A city set on a hill cannot be hidden. ¹⁵Nor do people light a lamp and put it under a basket, but on a stand, and it gives light to all in the house. ¹⁶In the same way, let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father who is in heaven.

– Matthew 5:14-16
The Bible, ESV

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A Thought On The Sea-Shore

by John Newton

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In ev'ry object here I see
Something, O Lord, that leads to thee:
Firm as the rocks thy promise stands,
Thy mercies countless as the sands,
Thy love a sea immensely wide,
Thy grace an ever-flowing tide.
In ev'ry object here I see
Something, my heart, that points at thee
Hard as the rocks that bound the strand,
Unfruitful as the barren sand,
Deep and deceitful as the ocean,
And, like the tide, in constant motion.

The Water Mill

by Sarah Doudney

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Oh! listen to the water mill, through all the livelong day,
As the clicking of the wheels wears hour by hour away;
How languidly the autumn wind does stir the withered leaves
As in the fields the reapers sing, while binding up their sheaves!
A solemn proverb strikes my mind, and as a spell is cast,
"The mill will never grind again with water that is past."

The summer winds revive no more leaves strewn o'er earth and main,
The sickle nevermore will reap the yellow garnered grain;
The rippling stream flows on—aye, tranquil, deep and still,
But never glideth back again to busy water mill;
The solemn proverb speaks to all with meaning deep and vast,
"The mill will never grind again with water that is past."

Ah! clasp the proverb to thy soul, dear loving heart and true,
For golden years are fleeting by and youth is passing too;
Ah! learn to make the most of life, nor lose one happy day,
For time will ne'er return sweet joys neglected, thrown away;
Nor leave one tender word unsaid, thy kindness sow broadcast—
"The mill will never grind again with water that is past."

Oh! the wasted hours of life, that have swiftly drifted by,
Alas! the good we might have done, all gone without a sigh;
Love that we might once have saved by a single kindly word,
Thoughts conceived, but ne'er expressed, perishing unpenned, unheard.
Oh! take the lesson to thy soul, forever clasp it fast—
"The mill will never grind again with water that is past."

Work on while yet the sun doth shine, thou man of strength and will,
The streamlet ne'er doth useless glide by clicking water mill;
Nor wait until to-morrow's light beams brightly on thy way,
For all that thou canst call thine own lies in the phrase "to-day."
Possession, power and blooming health must all be lost at last—
"The mill will never grind again with water that is past."

Oh! love thy God and fellowman, thyself consider last,
For come it will when thou must scan dark errors of the past;
Soon will this fight of life be o'er and earth recede from view,
And heaven in all its glory shine, where all is pure and true.
Ah! then thou'lt see more clearly still the proverb deep and vast,
"The mill will never grind again with water that is past."

Ode on a Grecian Urn

by John Keats

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Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness,
Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fring'd legend haunts about thy shape
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!

Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unwearied,
For ever piping songs for ever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!
For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,
For ever panting, and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.

Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
What little town by river or sea shore,
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul to tell Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.

O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden weed;
Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
"Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know."

The Vanity of Earthly Objects

by E.N.S.

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Away ye tempting toys—begone!
False joys do you present;
Your fairest proffers now I spurn,
In craftiness they're meant,
To lure me to the gilded bait,
Of promised happiness;
Where many find, alas! too late,
It cannot be possess'd.

For where shall happiness be found,
In this terrestrial frame?
We search this ample globe around,
And find it but in name;
As we approach, the vision flies,
We lose the form so fair,
Ere we can grasp the wish'd for prize,
We find it nought but air;
True happiness alone is found
In that bright world above,
Where purity and peace abound,
And harmony and love.

The Old Canoe

by Anonymous

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Where the rocks are gray, and the shore is steep,
And the waters below look dark and deep;
Where the rugged pine in its lonely pride
Leans gloomily over the murky tide;
Where the reeds and rushes are long and lank,
And the weeds grow thick on the winding bank;
Where the shadow is heavy the whole day through,—
There lies at its moorings the old canoe.

The useless paddles are idly dropped,
Like a sea-bird's wing that the storm has lopped,
And crossed on the railing one o'er one,
Like the folded hands when the work is done;
While busily back and forth between
The spider stretches his silvery screen,
And the solemn owl, with its dull tu-whoo,
Settles down on the side of the old canoe.

The stern half sunk in the slimy wave
Rots slowly away in its living grave,
And the green moss creeps o'er its dull decay,
Hiding its mouldering dust away,
Like the hand that plants o'er the tomb a flower,
Or the ivy that mantles the falling tower;
While many a blossom of loveliest hue
Springs up o'er the stern of the old canoe.

The currentless waters are dead and still,
The twilight-wind plays with the boat at will,
And lazily in and out again
It floats the length of its rusty chain;
Like the weary march of the hands of Time
That meet and part at the noontide chime,
As the shore is kissed at each turn anew,
By the dripping bow of the old canoe.

Oh, many a time, with careless hand,
I have pushed it away from the pebbly strand!
And paddled it down where the stream runs quick,
Where the whirls are wild and the eddies thick.
And laughed as I leaned o'er the rocking side,
And looked below in the broken tide,
To see that the faces and boats were two
That were mirrored back from the old canoe.

But now, as I lean o'er the crumbling side
And look below in the sluggish tide,
The face that I see there is graver grown,
And the laugh that I hear has a soberer tone,
And the hands that lent to the light skiff wings
Have grown familiar with sterner things.
But I love to think of the hours that sped
As I rocked where the whirls their white spray shed,
Ere the blossom waved or the green grass grew
O'er the mouldering stern of the old canoe.

The Old Frying Pan

by James W. Whilt

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You may talk of your broilers, both single and double,
Your roasters and toasters, they're all lots of trouble;
But when out in the hills, just find if you can,
Any kind of a dish like the old frying pan.

Over a campfire you don't need a stove,
Out in the hills, the place we all love,
Such hotcakes they never were tasted by man,
With many the thanks to the old frying pan.

When the trout are all fried to a rich golden brown,
I know old epicures would look, with a frown
At the meal set before me; dispute it who can,
With naught for a plate but the old frying pan.

With the venison cooked, the potatoes all fried,
Bannocks like bed-quilts, with coffee beside,
You could eat till you busted, dispute it who can;
Was dish e'er invented like the old frying pan?

Many a miner, in the good days of old,
Way back in the foothills a-searching for gold
Deep in some creek-bed, for the rich yellow sand,
Has panned out a grub-stake with the old frying pan.

There's been cattle rustlers, when in a great hurry
Used no other iron, but why should they worry,
For many and many and many the brand,
That has been blotched out with an old frying pan.

So your praises I'll shout, both far, wide and high,
That you're the best dish, till the day that I die;
Why, there's many a woman "cleaned up" on her man
With no other club but the old frying pan.

Boxes

by Annette Wynne

Boxes are for holding things,
Nails or candies, coal or rings,
Holding anything at all,
Big or medium or small;
I sometimes think the house a box
With doors and windows, keys and locks.

The Patchwork Quilt

by Margaret E. Sangster

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In sheen of silken splendor,
With glinting threads of gold,
I've seen the priceless marvels
Once hung in halls of old,
Where fair hands wrought the lily,
And brave hands held the lance,
And stately lords and ladies
Stepped through the courtly dance.

I've looked on rarer fabrics,
The wonders of the loom,
That caught the flowers of summer,
And captive held their bloom;
But not their wreathing beauty,
Though fit for queens to wear,
Can with one household treasure,
That's all my own, compare.

It has no golden value,
The simple patchwork spread,—
Its squares in homely fashion
Set in with green and red;
But in those faded pieces
For me are shining bright,
Ah! many a summer morning,
And many a winter night.

The dewy breath of clover,
The leaping light of flame,
Like spells my heart come over,
As one by one I name
These bits of old-time dresses—
Chintz, cambric, calico—
That looked so fresh and dainty
On my darlings long ago.

This violet was mother's;
I seem to see her face,
That ever like a sunrise
Lit up the shadiest place.
This buff belonged to Susan;
That scarlet spot was mine;
And Fannie wore this pearly white,
Where purple pansies shine.

I turn my patchwork over—
A book with pictured leaves—
And I feel the lilac fragrance,
And the snow-fall on the eaves.
Of all my heart's possessions,
I think it least could spare
The quilt we children pieced at home
When mother dear was there.

Treasure-Things

by Annette Wynne

Bits of tin and colored glass,
Nails and knives and strings,
Keep them in a treasure-box,
For these are treasure-things;
Wrap them up most neatly,
Keep them hidden so,
For what are really treasure-things
Parents never know.

Table of Contents

The Dying Lamp

A Thought On The Sea-Shore

The Water Mill

Ode on a Grecian Urn

The Vanity of Earthly Objects

The Old Canoe

The Old Frying Pan

Boxes

The Patchwork Quilt

Treasure-Things

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