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Best Famous Edward Fitzgerald Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Edward Fitzgerald poems. This is a select list of the best famous Edward Fitzgerald poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Edward Fitzgerald poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of Edward Fitzgerald poems.

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by Edward Fitzgerald | |

Old Song

 TIS a dull sight
 To see the year dying,
When winter winds
 Set the yellow wood sighing:
 Sighing, O sighing!

When such a time cometh
 I do retire
Into an old room
 Beside a bright fire:
 O, pile a bright fire!

And there I sit
 Reading old things,
Of knights and lorn damsels,
 While the wind sings--
 O, drearily sings!

I never look out
 Nor attend to the blast;
For all to be seen
 Is the leaves falling fast:
 Falling, falling!

But close at the hearth,
 Like a cricket, sit I,
Reading of summer
 And chivalry--
 Gallant chivalry!

Then with an old friend
 I talk of our youth--
How 'twas gladsome, but often
 Foolish, forsooth:
 But gladsome, gladsome!

Or, to get merry,
 We sing some old rhyme
That made the wood ring again
 In summer time--
 Sweet summer time!

Then go we smoking,
 Silent and snug:
Naught passes between us,
 Save a brown jug--
 Sometimes!

And sometimes a tear
 Will rise in each eye,
Seeing the two old friends
 So merrily--
 So merrily!

And ere to bed
 Go we, go we,
Down on the ashes
 We kneel on the knee,
 Praying together!

Thus, then, live I
 Till, 'mid all the gloom,
By Heaven! the bold sun
 Is with me in the room
 Shining, shining!

Then the clouds part,
 Swallows soaring between;
The spring is alive,
 And the meadows are green!

I jump up like mad,
 Break the old pipe in twain,
And away to the meadows,
 The meadows again!


by Edward Fitzgerald | |

The Dream Called Life

 From the Spanish of Pedro Calderon de la Barca


A dream it was in which I found myself.
And you that hail me now, then hailed me king, In a brave palace that was all my own, Within, and all without it, mine; until, Drunk with excess of majesty and pride, Methought I towered so big and swelled so wide That of myself I burst the glittering bubble Which my ambition had about me blown, And all again was darkness.
Such a dream As this, in which I may be walking now, Dispensing solemn justice to you shadows, Who make believe to listen; but anon Kings, princes, captains, warriors, plume and steel, Aye, even with all your airy theatre, May flit into the air you seem to rend With acclamations, leaving me to wake In the dark tower; or dreaming that I wake From this that waking is; or this and that, Both waking and both dreaming; such a doubt Confounds and clouds our moral life about.
But whether wake or dreaming, this I know, How dreamwise human glories come and go; Whose momentary tenure not to break, Walking as one who knows he soon may wake, So fairly carry the full cup, so well Disordered insolence and passion quell, That there be nothing after to upbraid Dreamer or doer in the part he played; Whether tomorrow's dawn shall break the spell, Or the last trumpet of the Eternal Day, When dreaming, with the night, shall pass away.


by Edward Fitzgerald | |

The Meadows In Spring

 'Tis a dull sight
To see the year dying,
When winter winds
Set the yellow wood sighing:
Sighing, oh! sighing.
When such a time cometh, I do retire Into and old room Beside a bright fire: Oh, pile a bright fire! And there I sit Reading old things, Of knights and lorn damsels, While the wind sings— Oh, drearily sings! I never look out Nor attend to the blast; For all to be seen Is the leaves falling fast: Falling, falling! But close at the hearth, Like a cricket, sit I, Reading of summer And chivalry— Gallant chivalry! Then with an old friend I talk of our youth! How 'twas gladsome, but often Foolish, forsooth: But gladsome, gladsome! Or to get merry We sing some old rhyme, That made the wood ring again In summertime— Sweet summertime! Then go we to smoking, Silent and snug: Nought passes between us, Save a brown jug— Sometimes! And sometimes a tear Will rise in each eye, Seeing the two old friends So merrily— So merrily! And ere to bed Go we, go we, Down on the ashes We kneel on the knee, Praying together! Thus, then, live I, Till, 'mid all the gloom, By heaven! the bold sun Is with me in the room Shining, shining! Then the clouds part, Swallow soaring between; The spring is alive, And the meadows are green! I jump up, like mad, Break the old pipe in twain, And away to the meadows, The meadows again!


More great poems below...

by William Butler Yeats | |

September 1913

 What need you, being come to sense,
But fumble in a greasy till
And add the halfpence to the pence
And prayer to shivering prayer, until
You have dried the marrow from the bone?
For men were born to pray and save:
Romantic Ireland's dead and gone,
It's with O'Leary in the grave.
Yet they were of a different kind, The names that stilled your childish play, They have gone about the world like wind, But little time had they to pray For whom the hangman's rope was spun, And what, God help us, could they save? Romantic Ireland's dead and gone, It's with O'Leary in the grave.
Was it for this the wild geese spread The grey wing upon every tide; For this that all that blood was shed, For this Edward Fitzgerald died, And Robert Emmet and Wolfe Tone, All that delirium of the brave? Romantic Ireland's dead and gone, It's with O'Leary in the grave.
Yet could we turn the years again, And call those exiles as they were In all their loneliness and pain, You'd cry, 'Some woman's yellow hair Has maddened every mother's son': They weighed so lightly what they gave.
But let them be, they're dead and gone, They're with O'Leary in the grave.


by Robert Browning | |

To Edward Fitzgerald

 I chanced upon a new book yesterday;
I opened it, and, where my finger lay
'Twixt page and uncut page, these words I read -
Some six or seven at most - and learned thereby
That you, Fitzgerald, whom by ear and eye
She never knew, "thanked God my wife was dead.
" Aye, dead! and were yourself alive, good Fitz, How to return you thanks would task my wits.
Kicking you seems the common lot of curs - While more appropriate greeting lends you grace, Surely to spit there glorifies your face - Spitting from lips once sanctified by hers.