21 Fierce Poems About Wrath

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Here are my favorite poems about wrath categorized:

  • Short poems about wrath
  • Famous poems about wrath

So if you want the best poems about wrath, then you’re in the right place.

Let’s get started!

21 Best Poems About Wrath (Handpicked)

Fierce Poems About Wrath

Uncover the mesmerizing allure of wrath as you immerse yourself in a collection of exquisite poems, meticulously gathered in one convenient destination.

From verses that ignite the flames of passion to profound compositions that explore the intricate facets of this powerful emotion, prepare to embark on a poetic journey like no other.

Whether you seek catharsis, reflection, or a profound connection with the depths of human emotion, these handpicked poems about wrath will leave an indelible impression, evoking a sense of awe and revelation.

Let’s jump right in!

My #1 Favorite Poem About Wrath

Beautiful woman retro portrait

“Righteous Wrath” by Henry Van Dyke

There are many kinds of hatred, as many kinds of fire;
And some are fierce and fatal with murderous desire;
And some are mean and craven, revengeful, sullen, slow,
They hurt the man that holds them more than they hurt his foe.

And yet there is a hatred that purifies the heart:
The anger of the better against the baser part,
Against the false and wicked, against the tyrant’s sword,
Against the enemies of love, and all that hate the Lord.

O cleansing indignation, O flame of righteous wrath,
Give me a soul to feel thee and follow in thy path!
Save me from selfish virtue, arm me for fearless fight,
And give me strength to carry on, a soldier of the Right!

Short Poems About Wrath

Woman near foggy sea

“Anger and Wrath My Bosom Rends” by William Blake

Anger and wrath my bosom rends:
I thought them the errors of friends.
But all my limbs with warmth glow:
I find them the errors of the foe.

“God’s Anger.” by Robert Herrick

God can’t be wrathful: but we may conclude
Wrathful He may be by similitude:
God’s wrathful said to be, when He doth do
That without wrath which wrath doth force us to.

“Los in His Wrath” by William Blake

Los rear’d his mighty stature: on Earth stood his feet; above
The Moon his furious forehead, circled with black bursting thunders;
His naked limbs glitt’ring upon the dark blue sky, his knees
Bathèd in bloody clouds; his loins in fires of War, where spears
And swords rage, where the Eagles cry and Vultures laugh, saying:
‘Now comes the night of carnage, now the flesh of Kings and Princes
Pamper’d in palaces for our food, the blood of Captains nurtur’d
With lust and murder for our drink. The drunken Raven shall wander
All night among the slain, and mock the wounded that groan in the field.’

Art Fashion Spring Model Girl Portrait in Night Forest

From “Tam O’ Shanter” by Robert Burns

Where sits our sulky sullen dame,
Gathering her brows like gathering storm,
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.

“Stop Me!” by Amos Russel Wells

Stop me, good people! Don’t you see
My temper is running away with me?
Help, Master Commonsense! Are you afraid?
Good Mistress Prudence, come to my aid!
Stop me, Conscience! Stop me, I pray!
My temper, my temper is running away!
Dear Brother Kindness, snatch after the reins!
Help, or my temper will dash out my brains!
Help, or I’ll get a terrible fall!
Help, Shame, Caution, Love, Wisdom, and all!

“The Danube in Wrath.” by Victor-Marie Hugo

Ye daughters mine! will naught abate
Your fierce interminable hate?
Still am I doomed to rue the fate
That such unfriendly neighbors made?
The while ye might, in peaceful cheer,
Mirror upon your waters clear,
Semlin! thy Gothic steeples dear,
And thy bright minarets, Belgrade!

Young girl is posing wearing black dress in a dark forest

“God’s Anger Without Affection” by Robert Herrick

God when He’s angry here with anyone,
His wrath is free from perturbation;
And when we think His looks are sour and grim,
The alteration is in us, not Him.

Famous Poems About Wrath

fantasy gothic woman dark witch. Red-haired evil Girl demon in black dress cape hood. Long hair flutters fly in wind. Dark dense deep autumn forest orange colors trees. Medieval dress, silk clothes

“The Day of Wrath” by Ambrose Bierce

Day of Satan’s painful duty!
Earth shall vanish, hot and sooty;
So says Virtue, so says Beauty.

Ah! what terror shall be shaping
When the Judge the truth’s undraping,
Cats from every bag escaping!

Now the trumpet’s invocation
Calls the dead to condemnation;
All receive an invitation.

Death and Nature now are quaking,
And the late lamented, waking,
In their breezy shrouds are shaking.

Lo! the Ledger’s leaves are stirring,
And the Clerk, to them referring,
Makes it awkward for the erring.

When the Judge appears in session,
We shall all attend confession,
Loudly preaching non-suppression.

How shall I then make romances
Mitigating circumstances?
Even the just must take their chances.

King whose majesty amazes,
Save thou him who sings thy praises;
Fountain, quench my private blazes.

Pray remember, sacred Saviour,
Mine the playful hand that gave your
Death-blow. Pardon such behavior.

Seeking me, fatigue assailed thee,
Calvary’s outlook naught availed thee;
Now ’twere cruel if I failed thee.

Righteous judge and learn’d brother,
Pray thy prejudices smother
Ere we meet to try each other.

Sighs of guilt my conscience gushes,
And my face vermilion flushes;
Spare me for my pretty blushes.

Thief and harlot, when repenting,
Thou forgavest, complimenting
Me with sign of like relenting.

If too bold is my petition
I’ll receive with due submission
My dismissal, from perdition.

When thy sheep thou hast selected
From the goats, may I, respected,
Stand amongst them undetected.

When offenders are indited,
And with trial-flames ignited,
Elsewhere I’ll attend if cited.

Ashen-hearted, prone and prayerful,
When of death I see the air full,
Lest I perish too be careful.

On that day of lamentation,
When, to enjoy the conflagration,
Men come forth, O be not cruel:
Spare me, Lord, make them thy fuel.

From “Jerusalem” by William Blake

The breath divine went forth over the morning hills. Albion rose
In anger, the wrath of God, breaking bright, flaming on all sides around
His awful limbs: into the Heavens he walkèd, clothèd in flames,
Loud thund’ring, with broad flashes of flaming lightning and pillars
Of fire, speaking the Words of Eternity in Human Forms, in direful
Revolutions of Action and Passion, thro’ the Four Elements on all sides
Surrounding his awful Members. Thou seest the Sun in heavy clouds
Struggling to rise above the Mountains; in his burning hand
He takes his Bow, then chooses out his arrows of flaming gold;
Murmuring, the Bowstring breathes with ardour; clouds roll round the
Horns of the wide Bow; loud sounding winds sport on the mountain brows,
Compelling Urizen to his Furrow, and Tharmas to his Sheepfold,
And Luvah to his Loom.

“Let Not the Sun Go Down Upon Your Wrath” by Eliza Cook

“Father, forgive us,” is our daily prayer,
When the worn spirit feels its helpless dearth;
Yet in our lowly greatness do we dare
To seek from Heaven what we refuse on earth.
Too often will the bosom, sternly proud,
Bear shafts of vengeance on its graveward path;
Deaf to the teaching that has cried aloud,
“Let not the sun go down upon your Wrath.”

We ask for mercy from the God above,
In morning worship and in vesper song;
And let us kindly shed the balm of love,
To heal and soothe a brother’s deed of wrong.
If ye would crush the bitter thorns of strife,
And strew the bloom of peace around your path—
If ye would drink the sweetest streams of life,
“Let not the Sun go down upon your Wrath.”

Were this remembered many a human lot
Would find more blessings in our home below;
The chequered world would lose its darkest blot,
And mortal record tell much less of woe.
The sacred counsels of the Wise impart
No holier words in all that language hath;
For light divine is kindled where the heart
Lets not the Sun go down upon its Wrath.

The girl elf in a chic dress lies on the floor among the flowers

“Hymn for the Dead” by Sir Walter Scott

That day of wrath that dreadful day,
When heaven and earth shall pass away!
What power shall be the sinner’s stay?
How shall he meet that dreadful day?

When shrivelling like a parched scroll,
The flaming heavens together roll;
When louder yet and yet more dread,
Swells the high trump that wakes the dead!

Oh on that day that wrathful day,
When man to judgment wakes from clay,
Be THOU the trembling sinner’s stay,
Though heaven and earth shall pass away!

“The Wrath to Come” by John Henry Newman

When first God stirr d me and the Church’s word
Came as a theme of reverent search and fear,
It little cost to own the lustre clear
O’er rule she taught and rite and doctrine pour’d;
For conscience craved and reason did accord.
Yet one there was that wore a mien austere
And I did doubt and troubled ask d to hear
Whose mouth had force to edge so sharp a sword.
My mother oped her trust the holy Book;
And heal d my pang She pointed and I found
Christ on Himself considerate Master took
The utterance of that doctrine’s fearful sound .
The Fount of Love His servants sends to tell
Love’s deeds; Himself reveals the sinner’s hell.

“Hymn Before Action” by Rudyard Kipling

The earth is full of anger,
The seas are dark with wrath,
The Nations in their harness
Go up against our path:
Ere yet we draw the blade,
Jehovah of the Thunders,
Lord God of Battles, aid!

High lust and froward bearing,
Proud heart, rebellious brow
Deaf ear and soul uncaring,
We seek My mercy now!
The sinner that forswore Thee,
The fool that passed Thee by,
Our times are known before Thee
Lord, grant us strength to die!

For those who kneel beside us
At altars not Thine own,
Who lack the lights that guide us,
Lord, let their faith atone!
If wrong we did to call them,
By honour bound they came;
Let not Thy Wrath befall them,
But deal to us the blame.

beautiful oriental woman holding in hand blossom branch enjoy aroma sakura pink flowers. Girl red makeup, long black hair. Chinese Japanese national costume trendy kimono. blooming spring garden tree

“A Poison Tree” by William Blake

I was angry with my friend;
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe:
I told it not, my wrath did grow.

And I watered it in fears,
Night & morning with my tears:
And I sunned it with smiles,
And with soft deceitful wiles.

And it grew both day and night.
Till it bore an apple bright.
And my foe beheld it shine,
And he knew that it was mine.

And into my garden stole,
When the night had veiled the pole;
In the morning glad I see;
My foe outstretched beneath the tree.

“Guard Thy Lips” by Lillian E. Curtis

Oh, when harsh and hasty words arises
And clouds of vexation dim the eyes,
And anger begins to settle down.
And the face puts on a sullen frown;
When wrathful thoughts rush quickly up,
Oh, dash aside the poisoned cup.
And guard thy lips!

Guard them, lest, in an unguarded hour,
They should utter, beyond thy power,
Words to wound some loving heart,
Perhaps, a lasting scar impart;
Inevitable words when once they’re spoken.
Nothing can heal the heart they’ve broken.
Then, guard thy lips!

“Female Revenge” by James McIntyre

I heard Bill say to-day, Mary,
That you are a charming fairy,
And that to town he’d give you drive,
But just as sure as you’re alive,
He does intend to have the bliss,
Of stealing from your lips a kiss.

I’ll let him drive me now, Jane,
His efforts they will all be vain,
I hate him, and I him defy,
And anger flashed from her eye,
The monster’s wiles I will defeat,
Peck of strong onions I will eat.

face cropped, red lips close-up. Fantasy medieval woman warrior queen holding dagger, knife in hands. velvet vintage blue dress. Girl princess vampire, brunette short hair. Nature forest dusk night

“Hatred and Vengeance, My Eternal Portion” by William Cowper

Hatred and vengeance, my eternal portion,
Scarce can endure delay of execution,
Wait, with impatient readiness, to seize my
Soul in a moment.

Damned below Judas: more abhorred than he was,
Who for a few pence sold his holy Master.
Twice betrayed Jesus me, this last delinquent,
Deems the profanest.

Man disavows, and Deity disowns me:
Hell might afford my miseries a shelter;
Therefore hell keeps her ever hungry mouths all
Bolted against me.

Hard lot! encompassed with a thousand dangers;
Weary, faint, trembling with a thousand terrors;
I’m called, if vanquished, to receive a sentence
Worse than Abiram’s.

Him the vindictive rod of angry justice
Sent quick and howling to the center headlong;
I, fed with judgment, in a fleshly tomb, am
Buried above ground.

“Check and Counter-Check” by Madison Julius Cawein

Vent all your coward’s wrath
Upon me so! –
Yes, I have crossed your path
And will not go!

Storm at me hate, and name
Me all that’s vile,
“Lust,” “filth,” “disease,” and “shame,”
I only smile.

Me brute rage can not hurt,
It only flings
In your own eyes blind dirt
That bites and stings.

Rave at your like such whine,
Your fellow-men,
This wrath! – great God! and mine! –
What is it then?

No words! no oaths! such hate
As devils smile
When raw success cries “wait!”
And “afterwhile!”

A woman I and ill,
A courtesan
You wearied of, would kill,
And you – a man!

You, you – unnamable!
A thing there’s not,
Too base to burn in Hell,
Too vile to rot.

“The Wrathful” by Nizar Qabbani

O pupils of Gaza…
Teach us…
A little of what you have
For we have forgotten…
Teach us…
To be men
For we have men…
dough they become…
Teach us…
How the rocks become
in the children’s hands,
precious diamond…
How it becomes
The child’s bicycle, a mine
And the silk ribbon…
An ambush…
How the feeding bottle nipple…
If detained not
Turns into a knife….
O pupils of Gaza
Care not…
about our broadcasts…
And hear us not…
With all your powers
And firmly in your hands take matters
And ask us not…
We the people of arithmetic…
And of addition…
And of subtraction…
Your wars do carry on
And abstain from us…
We’re the deserters
from the service,
Your ropes do bring
And hang us…
We’re mortals…
Who possess not tombs
And orphans…
who possess not masters
We kept already to our rooms…
And we asked you
To fight the dragon…
We’ve diminished, before you
A thousand century…
And you’ve grown
Within a month-Centuries…
O pupils of Gaza…
Return not…
To our writings… And read us not
We’re your fathers…
Do resemble us not…
We’re your idols…
Do worship us not…
We engage in
Political lies…
And repression…
And we build graves…
And jails…
Liberate us…
From the fear problem in us…
And expel
The opium from our heads…
Teach us…
The art of adherence to the Land,
And leave not…
The Messiah saddened…
O our beloved children
May Allah render your day
From the cracks of ruined earth
You emerged forth
And planted in our wound
Musk rose…
This is the revolution of notebooks…
And ink…
Do become on the lips
Shower us…
Heroism, and pride
And from our ugliness wash us
Wash us…
Fear neither Moses…
Nor Moses’ spell…
And ready yourself
To harvest the olives
Verily this Jewish age
is an illusion…
That shall collapse…
Albeit sureness we possess….
O madmen of Gaza…
A thousand welcome….
in madmen,
If they liberate us
Verily the age of political reason
has long bygone….
Do teach us madness….

beautiful queen warrior woman

“The Revenge of Rain-In-The-Face” by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

In that desolate land and lone,
Where the Big Horn and Yellowstone
Roar down their mountain path,
By their fires the Sioux Chiefs
Muttered their woes and griefs
And the menace of their wrath.

“Revenge!” cried Rain-in-the-Face,
“Revenue upon all the race
Of the White Chief with yellow hair!”
And the mountains dark and high
From their crags re-echoed the cry
Of his anger and despair.

In the meadow, spreading wide
By woodland and riverside
The Indian village stood;
All was silent as a dream,
Save the rushing a of the stream
And the blue-jay in the wood.

In his war paint and his beads,
Like a bison among the reeds,
In ambush the Sitting Bull
Lay with three thousand braves
Crouched in the clefts and caves,
Savage, unmerciful!

Into the fatal snare
The White Chief with yellow hair
And his three hundred men
Dashed headlong, sword in hand;
But of that gallant band
Not one returned again.

The sudden darkness of death
Overwhelmed them like the breath
And smoke of a furnace fire:
By the river’s bank, and between
The rocks of the ravine,
They lay in their bloody attire.

But the foemen fled in the night,
And Rain-in-the-Face, in his flight
Uplifted high in air
As a ghastly trophy, bore
The brave heart, that beat no more,
Of the White Chief with yellow hair.

Whose was the right and the wrong?
Sing it, O funeral song,
With a voice that is full of tears,
And say that our broken faith
Wrought all this ruin and scathe,
In the Year of a Hundred Years.