Easter is a part of the Holy week and it is one of the most important days that Christians celebrate. Easter is the last day of the Holy week where Christians celebrate the victory of Christ from death and his raising up from the dead. He defeated the sins of the world and has returned to the right hand of God the Father. Easter is celebrated with joyous feasts and other traditions such as Easter egg hunts and the Easter bunny. This signifies the prosperity and new life that is found on the victory of Christ after suffering death for 3 days.<\/p>\n
Celebrate Easter with Easter poems here at 1Love Poems.<\/p>\n
Easter, 1916 – Poem by William Butler Yeats<\/strong><\/p>\n I have met them at close of day Easter Communion – Poem by Gerard Manley Hopkins<\/strong><\/p>\n Pure fasted faces draw unto this feast: Easter – Poem by Edmund Spenser<\/strong><\/p>\n MOST glorious Lord of Lyfe! that, on this day, Easter Wings – Poem by George Herbert<\/strong><\/p>\n Lord, Who createdst man in wealth and store, Easter – Poem by George Herbert<\/strong><\/p>\n Rise, heart, thy lord is risen. Sing his praise Easter Day – Poem by Oscar Wilde<\/strong><\/p>\n THE silver trumpets rang across the Dome: Source: Poemhunter Easter is a part of the Holy week and it is one of the most important days that Christians celebrate. Easter is the last day of the Holy week where Christians celebrate the victory of Christ from death and his raising up from the dead. He defeated the sins of the world and has returned […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":13843,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1345],"tags":[37],"class_list":["post-8829","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-poems","tag-featured"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/1lovepoems.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/8829","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/1lovepoems.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/1lovepoems.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/1lovepoems.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/3"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/1lovepoems.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=8829"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/1lovepoems.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/8829\/revisions"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/1lovepoems.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/13843"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/1lovepoems.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=8829"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/1lovepoems.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=8829"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/1lovepoems.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=8829"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\nComing with vivid faces
\nFrom counter or desk among grey
\nEighteenth-century houses.
\nI have passed with a nod of the head
\nOr polite meaningless words,
\nOr have lingered awhile and said
\nPolite meaningless words,
\nAnd thought before I had done
\nOf a mocking tale or a gibe
\nTo please a companion
\nAround the fire at the club,
\nBeing certain that they and I
\nBut lived where motley is worn:
\nAll changed, changed utterly:
\nA terrible beauty is born.
\nThat woman’s days were spent
\nIn ignorant good-will,
\nHer nights in argument
\nUntil her voice grew shrill.
\nWhat voice more sweet than hers
\nWhen, young and beautiful,
\nShe rode to harriers?
\nThis man had kept a school
\nAnd rode our winged horse;
\nThis other his helper and friend
\nWas coming into his force;
\nHe might have won fame in the end,
\nSo sensitive his nature seemed,
\nSo daring and sweet his thought.
\nThis other man I had dreamed
\nA drunken, vainglorious lout.
\nHe had done most bitter wrong
\nTo some who are near my heart,
\nYet I number him in the song;
\nHe, too, has resigned his part
\nIn the casual comedy;
\nHe, too, has been changed in his turn,
\nTransformed utterly:
\nA terrible beauty is born.
\nHearts with one purpose alone
\nThrough summer and winter seem
\nEnchanted to a stone
\nTo trouble the living stream.
\nThe horse that comes from the road.
\nThe rider, the birds that range
\nFrom cloud to tumbling cloud,
\nMinute by minute they change;
\nA shadow of cloud on the stream
\nChanges minute by minute;
\nA horse-hoof slides on the brim,
\nAnd a horse plashes within it;
\nThe long-legged moor-hens dive,
\nAnd hens to moor-cocks call;
\nMinute by minute they live:
\nThe stone’s in the midst of all.
\nToo long a sacrifice
\nCan make a stone of the heart.
\nO when may it suffice?
\nThat is Heaven’s part, our part
\nTo murmur name upon name,
\nAs a mother names her child
\nWhen sleep at last has come
\nOn limbs that had run wild.
\nWhat is it but nightfall?
\nNo, no, not night but death;
\nWas it needless death after all?
\nFor England may keep faith
\nFor all that is done and said.
\nWe know their dream; enough
\nTo know they dreamed and are dead;
\nAnd what if excess of love
\nBewildered them till they died?
\nI write it out in a verse –
\nMacDonagh and MacBride
\nAnd Connolly and pearse
\nNow and in time to be,
\nWherever green is worn,
\nAre changed, changed utterly:
\nA terrible beauty is born.<\/p>\n
\nGod comes all sweetness to your Lenten lips.
\nYou striped in secret with breath-taking whips,
\nThose crooked rough-scored chequers may be pieced
\nTo crosses meant for Jesu’s; you whom the East
\nWith draught of thin and pursuant cold so nips
\nBreathe Easter now; you serged fellowships,
\nYou vigil-keepers with low flames decreased,
\nGod shall o’er-brim the measures you have spent
\nWith oil of gladness, for sackcloth and frieze
\nAnd the ever-fretting shirt of punishment
\nGive myrrhy-threaded golden folds of ease.
\nYour scarce-sheathed bones are weary of being bent:
\nLo, God shall strengthen all the feeble knees.<\/p>\n
\nDidst make Thy triumph over death and sin;
\nAnd, having harrowd hell, didst bring away
\nCaptivity thence captive, us to win:
\nThis joyous day, deare Lord, with joy begin;
\nAnd grant that we, for whom thou diddest dye,
\nBeing with Thy deare blood clene washt from sin,
\nMay live for ever in felicity!
\nAnd that Thy love we weighing worthily,
\nMay likewise love Thee for the same againe;
\nAnd for Thy sake, that all lyke deare didst buy,
\nWith love may one another entertayne!
\nSo let us love, deare Love, lyke as we ought,
\n–Love is the lesson which the Lord us taught.<\/p>\n
\nThough foolishly he lost the same,
\nDecaying more and more,
\nTill he became
\nMost poore:
\nWith Thee
\nO let me rise,
\nAs larks, harmoniously,
\nAnd sing this day Thy victories:
\nThen shall the fall further the flight in me.
\nMy tender age in sorrow did beginne;
\nAnd still with sicknesses and shame
\nThou didst so punish sinne,
\nThat I became
\nMost thinne.
\nWith Thee
\nLet me combine,
\nAnd feel this day Thy victorie;
\nFor, if I imp my wing on Thine,
\nAffliction shall advance the flight in me.<\/p>\n
\nWithout delays,
\nWho takes thee by the hand, that thou likewise
\nWith him may’st rise:
\nThat, as his death calcin\u00e8d thee to dust,
\nHis life may make thee gold, and, much more, just.
\nAwake, my lute, and struggle for thy part
\nWith all thy art,
\nThe cross taught all wood to resound his name
\nWho bore the same.
\nHis stretch\u00e8d sinews taught all strings what key
\nIs best to celebrate this most high day.
\nConsort, both heart and lute, and twist a song
\nPleasant and long;
\nOr, since all music is but three parts vied
\nAnd multiplied
\nOh let thy bless\u00e8d Spirit bear a part,
\nAnd make up our defects with his sweet art.<\/p>\n
\nThe people knelt upon the ground with awe:
\nAnd borne upon the necks of men I saw,
\nLike some great God, the Holy Lord of Rome.
\nPriest-like, he wore a robe more white than foam,
\nAnd, king-like, swathed himself in royal red,
\nThree crowns of gold rose high upon his head:
\nIn splendour and in light the Pope passed home.
\nMy heart stole back across wide wastes of years
\nTo One who wandered by a lonely sea,
\nAnd sought in vain for any place of rest:
\n‘Foxes have holes, and every bird its nest,
\nI, only I, must wander wearily,
\nAnd bruise my feet, and drink wine salt with tears.’<\/p>\n
\nhttps:\/\/www.poemhunter.com\/<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"