Poems on life: examples of philosophical poetry

POEMS ON LIFE:
EXAMPLES OF PHILOSOPHICAL POETRY

Much poetry glosses over life and its joys, fate, destiny, our place in the Universe, illusion, pain without reason and the cruel element of life.

The specific themes vary, but to sing, to cry or to speculate - in a philosophical form - about the meaning of life is part of the repertoire of dozens of great writers.

Poetry – either in its most common form, or in prose – often comprises an existentialist or philosophical content or trace.

See:
Life, Emile Bronte
Hamlet monologue on life and suicide, Shakespeare
Hymn to Brother Sun, Saint Francis of Assisi

LIFE
Emile Bronte

Emile Bronte Life represents a juvenile and optimistic perspective of life.

LIFE, believe, is not a dream
So dark as sages say;
Oft a little morning rain
Foretells a pleasant day.
Sometimes there are clouds of gloom,
But these are transient all;
If the shower will make the roses bloom,
O why lament its fall?

Rapidly, merrily,
Life's sunny hours flit by,
Gratefully, cheerily,
Enjoy them as they fly!

What though Death at times steps in
And calls our Best away?
What though sorrow seems to win,
O'er hope, a heavy sway?
Yet hope again elastic springs,
Unconquered, though she fell;
Still buoyant are her golden wings,
Still strong to bear us well.
Manfully, fearlessly,
The day of trial bear,
For gloriously, victoriously,
Can courage quell despair!
Emile Bronte, 1818-48, English writer, Life

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St Francis of Assisi
Hymn to Brother Sun
Life poems

Most high, omnipotent good Lord!
All yours is praise, glory, honour
And all blessing
To you, alone, Most High, do they belong.
No human lips are worthy
To pronounce Your name.
Be praised, my Lord
Through all your creatures
Especially through my lord Brother Sun
Who brings the day
And the light that warms us
He that is beautiful and radiant
In all his splendour!
Of you, Most High, he bears the likeness.

Be praised, my Lord
Through Sister Moon and the Stars;
In the heavens you have made them
Precious and beautiful.
Be praised, my Lord
Through Brothers Wind
And air, and clouds and storms,
And all the weather,
Through which you give your creatures sustenance.
Be praised, my Lord
Through Sister Water;
So very useful, and humble
And precious, and pure.
Be praised, my Lord
Through Brother Fire,
Through whom you brighten the night.
He who is beautiful and cheerful
And powerful and strong.

Be praised, my Lord
Through our sister Mother Earth
Who feeds and rules us,
And produces various fruits
And coloured flowers and plants
Be praised, my Lord
Through those who forgive for love of you;
And endure sickness and trial.
Happy those who endure in peace
For by you, Most High, they will be crowned.
Be praised, my Lord
Through our Sister Bodily Death,
From whose embrace no living person can escape.
Woe to those who die in mortal sin!
Happy those she finds
Doing your most holy will.
The second death can do no harm to them!
Praise and bless my Lord
And give thanks
And serve him with great humility.
St Francis of Assisi, 1181-1226, Hymn to Brother Sun

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Shakespeare
Hamlet monologue about life and the suicide

To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovered country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pitch and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.
Shakespeare, 1564-1616, English writer, Hamlet

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