Jones Very was an American essayist, poet, clergymen, and mystic associated with the American Transcendentalism movement. He was known as a scholar of William Shakespeare and many of his poems were Shakespearean sonnets. He was well-known and respected amongst the Transcendentalists, though he had a mental breakdown early in his career.
Born in Salem, Massachusetts to two unwed first cousins, Jones Very became associated with Harvard University, first as an undergraduate, then as a student in the Harvard Divinity School and as a tutor of Greek. He heavily studied epic poetry and was invited to lecture on the topic in his home town, which drew the attention of Ralph Waldo Emerson. ... more »
Click here to add this poet to your My Favorite Poets.
Jones Very Poems
IT is not life upon Thy gifts to live, But, to grow fixed with deeper roots in Thee; And when the sun and shower their bounties give, To send out thick-leaved limbs; a fruitful tree,
Thy Better Self
I AM thy other self, what thou wilt be, When thou art I, the one seest now; In finding thy true self thou wilt find me, The springing blade, where now thou dost but plough.
The bubbling brook doth leap when I come by, Because my feet find measure with its call; The birds know when the friend they love is nigh, For I am known to them, both great and small.
I looked to find a man who walked with God, Like the translated patriarch of old;-- Though gladdened millions on His footstool trod, Yet none with him did such sweet converse hold;
How many of the body's health complain, When they some deeper malady conceal; Some unrest of the soul, some secret pain,
I see them crowd on crowd they walk the earth Dry, leafless trees no Autumn wind laid bare, And in their nakedness find cause for mirth, And all unclad would winter's rudeness dare;
There is no faith; the mountain stands within Still unrebuked, its summit reaches heaven; And every action adds its load of sin,
HOW many of the body's health complain,
HOW many of the body's health complain, When they some deeper malady conceal; Some unrest of the souled, some secret pain, Which thus its presence doth to them reveal.
The New Birth
a new life;--thoughts move not as they did With slow uncertain steps across my mind, In thronging haste fast pressing on they bid The portals open to the viewless wind
I Was Sick And In Prison
Thou hast not left the rough-barked tree to grow Without a mate upon the river's bank; Nor dost Thou on one flower the rain bestow,
Soon the waves so lightly bounding All forget the tempest blast; Soon the pines so sadly sounding Cease to mourn the storm that's past.
The bush that has most briers and bitter fruit Waits till the frost has turned its green leaves red, Its sweetened berries will thy palate suit,
I asked of Time to tell me where was Love; He pointed to her foot-steps on the snow, Where first the angel lighted from above,
He Was Acquainted With Grief
I cannot tell the sorrows that I feel By the night's darkness, by the prison's gloom; There is no sight that can the death reveal
Comments about Jones Very
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
IT is not life upon Thy gifts to live,
But, to grow fixed with deeper roots in Thee;
And when the sun and shower their bounties give,
To send out thick-leaved limbs; a fruitful tree,
Whose green head meets the eye for many a mile,
Whose moss-grown arms their rigid branches rear,
And full-faced fruits their blushing welcome smile
As to its goodly shade our feet draw near;
Who tastes its gifts shall never hunger more,
For 'tis the Father spreads the pure repast,
Who, while we eat, renews the ready store,
Which at his bounteous board must ever last; ...