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Best Famous Archibald Macleish Poems

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

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by Archibald MacLeish | |

The Too-Late Born

 We too, we too, descending once again
The hills of our own land, we too have heard
Far off --- Ah, que ce cor a longue haleine ---
The horn of Roland in the passages of Spain,
The first, the second blast, the failing third,
And with the third turned back and climbed once more
The steep road southward, and heard faint the sound
Of swords, of horses, the disastrous war,
And crossed the dark defile at last, and found
At Roncevaux upon the darkening plain
The dead against the dead and on the silent ground
The silent slain---


by Archibald MacLeish | |

The Snowflake Which Is Now And Hence Forever

 Will it last? he says.
Is it a masterpiece? Will generation after generation Turn with reverence to the page? Birdseye scholar of the frozen fish, What would he make of the sole, clean, clear Leap of the salmon that has disappeared? To be, yes!--whether they like it or not! But not to last when leap and water are forgotten, A plank of standard pinkness in the dish.
They also live Who swerve and vanish in the river.


by Archibald MacLeish | |

Ars Poetica

 A poem should be palpable and mute
As a globed fruit,

Dumb
As old medallions to the thumb,

Silent as the sleeve-worn stone
Of casement ledges where the moss has grown-- 

A poem should be wordless
As the flight of birds.
* A poem should be motionless in time As the moon climbs, Leaving, as the moon releases Twig by twig the night-entangled trees, Leaving, as the moon behind the winter leaves, Memory by memory the mind-- A poem should be motionless in time As the moon climbs.
* A poem should be equal to: Not true.
For all the history of grief An empty doorway and a maple leaf.
For love The leaning grasses and two lights above the sea-- A poem should not mean But be.


by Archibald MacLeish | |

Dr. Sigmund Freud Discovers the Sea Shell

 Science, that simple saint, cannot be bothered
Figuring what anything is for:
Enough for her devotions that things are
And can be contemplated soon as gathered.
She knows how every living thing was fathered, She calculates the climate of each star, She counts the fish at sea, but cannot care Why any one of them exists, fish, fire or feathered.
Why should she? Her religion is to tell By rote her rosary of perfect answers.
Metaphysics she can leave to man: She never wakes at night in heaven or hell Staring at darkness.
In her holy cell There is no darkness ever: the pure candle Burns, the beads drop briskly from her hand.
Who dares to offer Her the curled sea shell! She will not touch it!--knows the world she sees Is all the world there is! Her faith is perfect! And still he offers the sea shell .
.
.
What surf Of what far sea upon what unknown ground Troubles forever with that asking sound? What surge is this whose question never ceases?


by Archibald MacLeish | |

An Eternity

 There is no dusk to be, 
There is no dawn that was, 
Only there's now, and now, 
And the wind in the grass.
Days I remember of Now in my heart, are now; Days that I dream will bloom White the peach bough.
Dying shall never be Now in the windy grass; Now under shooken leaves Death never was.


by Archibald MacLeish | |

Poem in Prose

 This poem is for my wife.
I have made it plainly and honestly: The mark is on it Like the burl on the knife.
I have not made it for praise.
She has no more need for praise Than summer has Or the bright days.
In all that becomes a woman Her words and her ways are beautiful: Love's lovely duty, the well-swept room.
Wherever she is there is sun And time and a sweet air: Peace is there, Work done.
There are always curtains and flowers And candles and baked bread And a cloth spread And a clean house.
Her voice when she sings is a voice At dawn by a freshening spring Where the wave leaps in the wind And rejoices.
Wherever she is it is now.
It is here where the apples are: Here in the stars, In the quick hour.
The greatest and richest good, My own life to live in, This she has given me -- If giver could.


by Archibald MacLeish | |

Baccalaureate

 A year or two, and grey Euripides, 
And Horace and a Lydia or so, 
And Euclid and the brush of Angelo, 
Darwin on man, Vergilius on bees, 
The nose and Dialogues of Socrates, 
Don Quixote, Hudibras and Trinculo, 
How worlds are spawned and where the dead gods go,-- 
All shall be shard of broken memories.
And there shall linger other, magic things,-- The fog that creeps in wanly from the sea, The rotton harbor smell, the mystery Of moonlit elms, the flash of pigeon wings, The sunny Green, the old-world peace that clings About the college yard, where endlessly The dead go up and down.
These things shall be Enchantment of our heart's rememberings.
And these are more than memories of youth Which earth's four winds of pain shall blow away; These are earth's symbols of eternal truth, Symbols of dream and imagery and flame, Symbols of those same verities that play Bright through the crumbling gold of a great name.