Fathers Poems - Poems For Fathers

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Anecdote For Fathers - Poem by William Wordsworth

I HAVE a boy of five years old;
His face is fair and fresh to see;
His limbs are cast in beautyÕs mold
And dearly he loves me.

One morn we strolled on our dry walk,
Or quiet home all full in view,
And held such intermitted talk
As we are wont to do.

My thoughts on former pleasures ran;
I thought of Kilve's delightful shore,
Our pleasant home when spring began,
A long, long year before.

A day it was when I could bear
Some fond regrets to entertain;
With so much happiness to spare,
I could not feel a pain.

The green earth echoed to the feet
Of lambs that bounded through the glade,
From shade to sunshine, and as fleet
From sunshine back to shade.

Birds warbled round me---and each trace
Of inward sadness had its charm;
Kilve, thought I, was a favoured place,
And so is Liswyn farm.

My boy beside me tripped, so slim
And graceful in his rustic dress!
And, as we talked, I questioned him,
In very idleness.

'Now tell me, had you rather be,'
I said. and took him by the arm,
'On Kilve's smooth shore, by the green sea,
Or here at Liswyn farm?'

In careless mood he looked at me,
While still I held him by the arm,
And said, 'At Kilve I'd rather be
Than here at Liswyn farm.'

'Now, little Edward, say why so:
My little Edward, tell me why.'---
'I cannot tell, I do not know.'---
'Why, this is strange,' said I;

'For, here are woods, hills smooth and warm:
There surely must one reason be
Why you would change sweet Liswyn farm
For Kilve by the green sea.'

At this, my boy hung down his head,
He blushed with shame, nor made reply;
And three times to the child I said,
'Why, :Edward, tell me why?'

His head he raised---there was in sight,
It caught his eye, he saw it plain---
Upon the house-top, glittering bright,
A broad and gilded vane.

Then did the boy his tongue unlock,
And eased his mind with this reply:
'At Kilve there was no weather-cock;
And that's the reaon why.'

O dearest, dearest boy! my heart
For better lore would seldom yearn,
Could I but teach the hundredth part
Of what from thee I learn.

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Fathers Poems
  1. 1. Anecdote For Fathers
    William Wordsworth
  2. 2. The Fathers
    Edwin Muir
  3. 3. Our Fathers Of Old
    Rudyard Kipling
  4. 4. The Landing Of The Pilgrim Fathers In Ne..
    Felicia Dorothea Hemans
  5. 5. The Fathers
    Siegfried Sassoon
  6. 6. My Fathers, The Baltic
    Philip Levine
  7. 7. The Landing Of The Pilgrim Fathers
    Elizabeth Barrett Browning
  8. 8. Fathers And Daughters
    Harry J. Couchon Jr
  9. 9. The Fathers
    Rose Marie Juan Austin
  10. 10. Our Fathers Also
    Rudyard Kipling
  11. 11. An Indian At The Burial-Place Of His Fat..
    William Cullen Bryant
  12. 12. The Sins Of The Fathers
    Stephen Crane
  13. 13. (((...And A Happy Fathers Day To Yo..
    Theodora (Theo) Onken
  14. 14. Fathers Are Wonderful People
    Helen Steiner Rice
  15. 15. Heavenly Fathers' Day Forever
    Michael Shepherd
  16. 16. Fathers Cry, Too
    Jez JCB
  17. 17. Fathers Day (A Reckless Slaughter)
    Silent Speaker
  18. 18. The Pilgrim Fathers
    Felicia Dorothea Hemans
  19. 19. Your Fathers (1985)
    Max Reif
  20. 20. Father Poetry: A Fathers Tribute
    Loyd C. Taylor, Sr.
  21. 21. 0016 Fathers, Sons, And Families
    Michael Shepherd
  22. 22. Fathers Don'T Grow Old
    Jemarie Ragudo
  23. 23. The Fathers
    Elizabeth Holmes
  24. 24. Fathers Are The Men From Sky
    Ellias Anderson C.A ( Known ..
  25. 25. A Fathers Love Is Forever
    Peter Beauregard
  26. 26. Fathers Anger You
    Kirsty Lucas
  27. 27. My Fathers Eyes
    Karin Elizabeth Martin
  28. 28. The Graves Of Our Fathers
    Charles Mackay
  29. 29. Anecdote For Fathers
    Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch
  30. 30. The Pilgrim's Fathers
    John Boyle O'Reilly
  31. 31. Fathers Dilemma (Daughters Stages)
    louis rams
  32. 32. A Fathers Promise ' For A Daughter '
    Roger Horsch
  33. 33. A Fathers Love
    dani fries
  34. 34. Echos Of My Fathers Mind, To Mine...
    Rebecca Navarre
  35. 35. Fathers Day
    kevin glenn
  36. 36. Faith Of Our Fathers Living Still
    Barney Rooney
  37. 37. Brothers, Fathers, Sisters, Mothers
    Egal Bohen
  38. 38. Happy Fathers Day 'Dad'
    Poison 9901
  39. 39. To Whom It May Concern... Fathers, Mothe..
    David Beckham
  40. 40. Father Poetry: Fathers Are
    Loyd C. Taylor, Sr.
  41. 41. What Are Fathers Made Of?
    Diane Wright
  42. 42. Dear Fathers
    Otteri Selvakumar
  43. 43. A Fathers Daughter
    louis rams
  44. 44. Day Of The Fathers
    Bernard F. Asuncion
  45. 45. Not All Fathers Are Dads
    Francie Lynch
  46. 46. Fathers Against Sons
    nader baheri
  47. 47. Not All Fathers Will Get A Chance To Cel..
    Elena Plotkin
  48. 48. To Fathers
    Marilyn Lott
  49. 49. A Fathers Reminiscence...
    Jonathan Maldonado
  50. 50. A Fathers Words To His Child.
    R. K. Hart

New Fathers Poems

  1. Probable Fathers, Gideon Idudje
  2. Fathers, Kenneth Maswabi
  3. Happy Father's Day, Naila Rais
  4. Of What Use Are Blacks?, Umar Faruq
  5. I Know My Fathers, king adams
  6. Oh Just World Of Funding Fathers (Experi.., Julio 2 Amarante
  7. Lo, There Do I See My Father, Brian D Griffin
  8. In real life I am here, Risto Oikarinen
  9. Beede Odun (If The Home Is In Crisis) !, Bakare Oluwagbenga Michael
  10. A Country In Distress, Loke Kok yee

Fathers Poems

  1. Our Fathers Of Old

    Excellent herbs had our fathers of old-- Excellent herbs to ease their pain-- Alexanders and Marigold, Eyebright, Orris, and Elecampane-- Basil, Rocket, Valerian, Rue, ( Almost singing themselves they run) Vervain, Dittany, Call-me-to-you-- Cowslip, Melilot, Rose of the Sun. Anything green that grew out of the mould Was an excellent herb to our fathers of old. Wonderful tales had our fathers of old, Wonderful tales of the herbs and the stars- The Sun was Lord of the Marigold, Basil and Rocket belonged to Mars. Pat as a sum in division it goes-- (Every herb had a planet bespoke)-- Who but Venus should govern the Rose? Who but Jupiter own the Oak? Simply and gravely the facts are told In the wonderful books of our fathers of old. Wonderful little, when all is said, Wonderful little our fathers knew. Half their remedies cured you dead-- Most of their teaching was quite untrue-- "Look at the stars when a patient is ill. (Dirt has nothing to do with disease), Bleed and blister as much as you will, Bister and bleed him as oft as you please." Whence enormous and manifold Errors were made by our fathers of old. Yet when the sickness was sore in the land, And neither planets nor herbs assuaged, They took their lives in their lancet-hand And, oh, what a wonderful war they waged! Yes, when the crosses were chalked on the door- (Yes, when the terrible dead-cart rolled! ) Excellent courage our fathers bore-- None too learned, but nobly bold Into the fight went our fathers of old. If it be certain, as Galen says-- And sage Hippocrates holds as much-- "That those afflicted by doubts and dismays Are mightily helped by a dead man's touch," Then, be good to us, stars above! Then, be good to us, herbs below! We are afflicted by what we can prove, We are distracted by what we know. So-ah, so! Down from your heaven or up from your mould Send us the hearts of our Fathers of old!

  2. The Fathers

    Our fathers all were poor, Poorer our fathers' fathers; Beyond, we dare not look. We, the sons, keep store Of tarnished gold that gathers Around us from the night, Record it in this book That, when the line is drawn, Credit and creditor gone, Column and figure flown, Will open into light. Archaic fevers shake Our healthy flesh and blood Plumped in the passing day And fed with pleasant food. The fathers' anger and ache Will not, will not away And leave the living alone, But on our careless brows Faintly their furrows engrave Like veinings in a stone, Breathe in the sunny house Nightmare of blackened bone, Cellar and choking cave. Panics and furies fly Through our unhurried veins, Heavenly lights and rains Purify heart and eye, Past agonies purify And lay the sullen dust. The angers will not away. We hold our fathers' trust, Wrong, riches, sorrow and all Until they topple and fall, And fallen let in the day.

  3. The Fathers

    Snug at the club two fathers sat, Gross, goggle-eyed, and full of chat. One of them said: ‘My eldest lad Writes cheery letters from Bagdad. But Arthur’s getting all the fun At Arras with his nine-inch gun.’ ‘Yes,’ wheezed the other, ‘that’s the luck! My boy’s quite broken-hearted, stuck In England training all this year. Still, if there’s truth in what we hear, The Huns intend to ask for more Before they bolt across the Rhine.’ I watched them toddle through the door— These impotent old friends of mine.

  4. The Landing Of The Pilgrim Fathers In New England

    "Look now abroad--another race has fill'd Those populous borders--wide the wood recedes, And town shoots up, and fertile realms are till'd; The land is full of harvests and green meads."--BRYANT The breaking waves dash'd high On a stern and rock-bound coast, And the woods against a stormy sky Their giant branches toss'd; And the heavy night hung dark, The hills and waters o'er, When a band of exiles moor'd their bark On the wild New England shore. Not as the conqueror comes, They, the true-hearted, came; Not with the roll of the stirring drums, And the trumpet that sings of fame; Not as the flying come, In silence and in fear;-- They shook the depths of the desert gloom With their hymns of lofty cheer. Amidst the storm they sang, And the stars heard and the sea: And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang To the anthem of the free! The ocean eagle soar'd From his nest by the white wave's foam And the rocking pines of the forest roar'd-- This was their welcome home! There were men with hoary hair Amidst that pilgrim band:-- Why had they come to wither there, Away from their childhood's land? There was woman's fearless eye, Lit by her deep love's truth; There was manhood's brow serenely high, And the fiery heart of youth. What sought they thus afar? Bright jewels of the mine? The wealth of seas, the spoils of war?-- They sought a faith's pure shrine! Ay, call it holy ground, The soil where first they trode. They have left unstained, what there they found-- Freedom to worship God.