Poems with rhymes of lifts

But he forgot the Lord who lifts
The beggar to the throne;
Nor knew that all Elijah's gifts

Through shadowy rifts
Of woodland lifts

But he forgot the Lord who lifts
The beggar to the throne;
Nor knew that all Elijah's gifts

Up to the fruit-shaped, perfect chin it lifts!
I know, Correggio loves to mass, in rifts

Where the mitred negro lifts
To his black cherub in the cloud
Abominable gifts,

Where ashes are heaped in drifts
Over vineyard and field and town,
Whenever he starts and lifts

With summer's voice come bearing summer's gifts.
Beguiled, the pale down-trodden aster lifts

And here, at last, is sleep, the gift of gifts,
The tender nurse, who lifts

Changeless as heaven, where never fog-cloud drifts
Over its windless wood, nor mirage lifts

A fog about the coppice drifts,
Or slowly thickens up and lifts

The indignity of taking gifts
Exhilarates her loving breast;
A rapture of submission lifts

O poor enviers! God's own gifts
Have a devil for the weak.
Yea, the very force that lifts

Within the House of Mammon the golden altar lifts
Where dragon-lamps are shrouded as costly incense drifts—

The fog forms and shifts;
All the world comes out again
When the fog lifts.

Yet, on life's current, he who drifts
Is one with him who rows or sails
And he who wanders widest lifts

While nations joining gifts
Their fanes of Art adorn,
Hear, Lord, the lowly voice that lifts

A corner of that frost-film pall she lifts.
Now Earth, great-hearted lover,
Smiles upward through the dew-bespangled rifts.

The trail dips--dwindles--broadens then, and lifts
Itself astride a cross-road dubiously,
And, from the fennel marge beyond it, drifts

A lyric there the redbird lifts,
While, twittering, the swallow drifts

But midst these bearers of propitious gifts,
Behold where two, a youth and maiden, stand:
She bears no boon; his arm no burden lifts,