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Best Famous Adventure Poems

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

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See also: Best Member Poems

by Adelaide Crapsey | |

Adventure

Sun and wind and beat of sea,
Great lands stretching endlessly…
Where be bonds to bind the free?
All the world was made for me! 


by Stephen Vincent Benet | |

Music

 My friend went to the piano; spun the stool 
A little higher; left his pipe to cool; 
Picked up a fat green volume from the chest; 
And propped it open.
Whitely without rest, His fingers swept the keys that flashed like swords, .
.
.
And to the brute drums of barbarian hordes, Roaring and thunderous and weapon-bare, An army stormed the bastions of the air! Dreadful with banners, fire to slay and parch, Marching together as the lightnings march, And swift as storm-clouds.
Brazen helms and cars Clanged to a fierce resurgence of old wars Above the screaming horns.
In state they passed, Trampling and splendid on and sought the vast -- Rending the darkness like a leaping knife, The flame, the noble pageant of our life! The burning seal that stamps man's high indenture To vain attempt and most forlorn adventure; Romance, and purple seas, and toppling towns, And the wind's valiance crying o'er the downs; That nerves the silly hand, the feeble brain, From the loose net of words to deeds again And to all courage! Perilous and sharp The last chord shook me as wind shakes a harp! .
.
.
And my friend swung round on his stool, and from gods we were men, "How pretty!" we said; and went on with our talk again.


by Petrarch | |

SONNET CXCVII.

SONNET CXCVII.

Qual ventura mi fu, quando dall' uno.

HE REJOICES AT PARTICIPATING IN HER SUFFERINGS.

Strange, passing strange adventure! when from one
Of the two brightest eyes which ever were,
Beholding it with pain dis urb'd and dim,
Moved influence which my own made dull and weak.
I had return'd, to break the weary fast
Of seeing her, my sole care in this world,
Kinder to me were Heaven and Love than e'en
If all their other gifts together join'd,
When from the right eye—rather the right sun—
Of my dear Lady to my right eye came
The ill which less my pain than pleasure makes;
As if it intellect possess'd and wings
It pass'd, as stars that shoot along the sky:
Nature and pity then pursued their course.
Anon.


More great poems below...

by Belinda Subraman | |

My Indian In-laws

 I remember India:
palm trees, monkey families,
fresh lime juice in the streets,
the sensual inundation
of sights and smells
and excess in everything.
I was exotic and believable there.
I was walking through dirt in my sari, to temples of the deities following the lead of my Indian in-laws.
I was scooping up fire with my hands, glancing at idols that held no meaning for me, being marked by the ash.
They smiled at the Western woman, acting religious, knowing it was my way of showing respect.
It was an adventure for me but an arm around their culture for them.
To me it was living a dream I knew I could wake up from.
To them it was the willingness to be Indian that pleased.
We were holding hands across a cultural cosmos, knowing there were no differences hearts could not soothe.
They accepted me as I accepted them, baffled but in love with our wedded mystery.


by Robert William Service | |

My Future

 "Let's make him a sailor," said Father,
"And he will adventure the sea.
" "A soldier," said Mother, "is rather What I would prefer him to be.
" "A lawyer," said Father, "would please me, For then he could draw up my will.
" "A doctor," said Mother, "would ease me; Maybe he could give me a pill.
" Said Father: "Lt's make him a curate, A Bishop in gaiters to be.
" Said Mother: "I couldn't endure it To have Willie preaching to me.
" Said Father: ""Let him be a poet; So often he's gathering wool.
" Said Mother with temper: "Oh stow it! You know it, a poet's a fool.
" Said Farther: "Your son is a duffer, A stupid and mischievous elf.
" Said Mother, who's rather a huffer: "That's right - he takes after yourself.
" Controlling parental emotion They turned to me, seeking a cue, And sudden conceived the bright notion To ask what I wanted to do.
Said I: "my ambition is modest: A clown in a circus I'd be, And turn somersaults in the sawdust With audience laughing at me.
" .
.
.
Poor parents! they're dead and decaying, But I am a clown as you see; And though in no circus I'm playing, How people are laughing at me!


by Robert William Service | |

Adventure

 Out of the wood my White Knight came:
His eyes were bright with a bitter flame,
As I clung to his stirrup leather;
For I was only a dreaming lad,
Yet oh, what a wonderful faith I had!
And the song in my heart was never so glad,
As we took to the trail together.
"Friends and lovers, good-bye," I said; Never once did I turn my head, Though wickedly wild the weather min were the rover's rags and scars, And the rover's bed beneath the stars, But never the shadow of prison bars, As we ranged the world together.
Dreary and darkling was the trail, But my Knight was clad in a gleaming mail, And he plucked from his plume a feather.
And oh how foolishly proud was I! "I'll wear it," I told him, "till I die; Freemen we'll be of sea and sky, To the ends of the earth together.
" Yet now I know by my failing breath I'm ripe for the last adventure, Death, And I've reached the end of my tether: But my Knight of the shining mail is there, And his eyes are bright and he bids me dare: So into the Dark let's boldly fare, Into the Dark .
.
.
together.


by Robert William Service | |

Death Of A Cockroach

 I opened wide the bath-room door,
And all at once switched on the light,
When moving swift across the floor
I saw a streak of ebon bright:
Then quick, with slipper in my hand,
Before it could escape,--I slammed.
I missed it once, I missed it twice, But got it ere it gained its lair.
I fear my words were far from nice, Though d----s with me are rather rare: Then lo! I thought that dying roach Regarded me with some reproach.
Said I: "Don't think I grudge you breath; I hate to spill your greenish gore, But why did you invite your death By straying on my bath-room floor?" "It is because," said he (or she), "Adventure is my destiny.
"By evolution I was planned, And marvellously made as you; And I am led to understand The selfsame God conceived us two: Sire, though the coup de grâce you give, Even a roach has right to live.
" Said I: "Of course you have a right,-- But not to blot my bath-room floor.
Yet though with slipper I may smite, Your doom I morally deplore .
.
.
From cellar gloom to stellar space Let bards and beetles have their place.


by Robert William Service | |

Oh It Is Good

 Oh, it is good to drink and sup,
And then beside the kindly fire
To smoke and heap the faggots up,
And rest and dream to heart's desire.
Oh, it is good to ride and run, To roam the greenwood wild and free; To hunt, to idle in the sun, To leap into the laughing sea.
Oh, it is good with hand and brain To gladly till the chosen soil, And after honest sweat and strain To see the harvest of one's toil.
Oh, it is good afar to roam, And seek adventure in strange lands; Yet oh, so good the coming home, The velvet love of little hands.
So much is good.
.
.
.
We thank Thee, God, For all the tokens Thou hast given, That here on earth our feet have trod Thy little shining trails of Heaven.


by Robert William Service | |

Work

 When twenty-one I loved to dream,
 And was to loafing well inclined;
Somehow I couldn't get up steam
 To welcome work of any kind.
While students burned the midnight lamp, With dour ambition as their goad, I longed to be a gayful tramp And greet adventure on the road.
But now that sixty years have sped, Behold! I toil from morn to night.
The thoughts that teem into my head I pray: God give me time to write.
With eager and unflagging pen No drudgery of desk I shirk, And preach to all retiring men The gospel of unceasing work.
And yet I do not sadly grieve Such squandering of golden days; For from my dreaming I believe Have stemmed my least unworthy lays.
Aye, toil is best when all is said, As age has made me understand .
.
.
So fitly fold, when I am dead, A pencil in my hand.


by Robert William Service | |

Bindle Stiff

 When I was brash and gallant-gay
Just fifty years ago,
I hit the ties and beat my way
From Maine to Mexico;
For though to Glasgow gutter bred
A hobo heart had I,
And followed where adventure led,
Beneath a brazen sky.
And as I tramped the railway track I owned a single shirt; Like canny Scot I bought it black So's not to show the dirt; A handkerchief held all my gear, My razor and my comb; I was a freckless lad, I fear, With all the world for home.
Yet oh I thought the life was grand And loved my liberty! Romance was my bed-fellow and The stars my company.
And I would think, each diamond dawn, "How I have forged my fate! Where are the Gorbals and the Tron, And where the Gallowgate?" Oh daft was I to wander wild, And seek the Trouble Trail, As weakly as a wayward child, And darkly doomed to fail .
.
.
Aye, bindle-stiff I hit the track Just fifty years ago .
.
.
Yet now .
.
.
I drive my Cadillac From Maine to Mexico.


by Robert William Service | |

Maids In May

 Three maids there were in meadow bright,
The eldest less then seven;
Their eyes were dancing with delight,
And innocent as Heaven.
Wild flowers they wound with tender glee, Their cheeks with rapture rosy; All radiant they smiled at me, When I besought a posy.
She gave me a columbine, And one a poppy brought me; The tiniest, with eyes ashine, A simple daisy sought me.
And as I went my sober way, I heard their careless laughter; Their hearts too happy with to-day To care for what comes after.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
That's long ago; they're gone, all three, To walk amid the shadows; Forgotten is their lyric glee In still and sunny meadows.
For Columbine loved life too well, And went adventure fairing; And sank into the pit of hell, And passed but little caring.
While Poppy was a poor man's wife, And children had a-plenty; And went, worn out with toil and strife When she was five-and-twenty.
And Daisy died while yet a child, As fragile blossoms perish, When Winter winds are harsh and wild, With none to shield and cherish.
Ah me! How fate is dark and dour To little Children of the Poor.


by Robert William Service | |

Romance

 In Paris on a morn of May
I sent a radio transalantic
To catch a steamer on the way,
But oh the postal fuss was frantic;
They sent me here, they sent me there,
They were so courteous yet so canny;
Then as I wilted in despair
A Frenchman flipped me on the fanny.
'Twas only juts a gentle pat, Yet oh what sympathy behind it! I don't let anyone do that, But somehow then I didn't mind it.
He seemed my worry to divine, With kindly smile, that foreign mannie, And as we stood in waiting line With tender touch he tapped my fanny.
It brought a ripple of romance Into that postal bureau dreary; He gave me such a smiling glance That somehow I felt gay and cheery.
For information on my case The postal folk searched nook and cranny; He gently tapped, with smiling face, His reassurance on my fanny.
So I'll go back to Tennessee, And they will ask: "How have you spent your Brief holiday in gay Paree?" But I'll not speak of my adventure.
Oh say I'm spectacled and grey, Oh say I'm sixty and a grannie - But say that morn of May A Frenchman flipped me on the fanny!


by Robert William Service | |

Trees Against The Sky

 Pines against the sky,
Pluming the purple hill;
Pines .
.
.
and I wonder why, Heart, you quicken and thrill? Wistful heart of a boy, Fill with a strange sweet joy, Lifting to Heaven nigh - Pines against the sky.
Palms against the sky, Failing the hot, hard blue; Stark on the beach I lie, Dreaming horizons new; Heart of my youth elate, Scorning a humdrum fate, Keyed to adventure high - Palms against the sky.
Oaks against the sky, Ramparts of leaves high-hurled, Staunch to stand and defy All the winds of the world; Stalwart and proud and free, Firing the man in me To try and again to try - Oaks against the sky.
Olives against the sky Of evening, limpidly bright; Tranquil and soft and shy, Dreaming in amber light; Breathing the peace of life, Ease after toil and strife .
.
.
Hark to their silver sigh! Olives against the sky.
Cypresses glooming the sky, Stark at the end of the road; Failing and faint am I, Lief to be eased of my load; There where the stones peer white in the last of the silvery light, Quiet and cold I'll lie - Cypresses etching the sky.
Trees, trees against the sky - O I have loved them well! There are pleasures you cannot buy, Treasurers you cannot sell, And not the smallest of these Is the gift and glory of trees.
.
.
.
So I gaze and I know now why It is good to live - and to die.
.
.
.
Trees and the Infinite Sky.


by Robert William Service | |

Prelude

 I sing no idle songs of dalliance days,
No dreams Elysian inspire my rhyming;
I have no Celia to enchant my lays,
No pipes of Pan have set my heart to chiming.
I am no wordsmith dripping gems divine Into the golden chalice of a sonnet; If love songs witch you, close this book of mine, Waste no time on it.
Yet bring I to my work an eager joy, A lusty love of life and all things human; Still in me leaps the wonder of the boy, A pride in man, a deathless faith in woman.
Still red blood calls, still rings the valiant fray; Adventure beacons through the summer gloaming: Oh long and long and long will be the day Ere I come homing! This earth is ours to love: lute, brush and pen, They are but tongues to tell of life sincerely; The thaumaturgic Day, the might of men, O God of Scribes, grant us to grave them clearly! Grant heart that homes in heart, then all is well.
Honey is honey-sweet, howe'er the hiving.
Each to his work, his wage at evening bell The strength of striving.


by Dylan Thomas | |

Before I Knocked

 Before I knocked and flesh let enter,
With liquid hands tapped on the womb,
I who was as shapeless as the water
That shaped the Jordan near my home
Was brother to Mnetha's daughter
And sister to the fathering worm.
I who was deaf to spring and summer, Who knew not sun nor moon by name, Felt thud beneath my flesh's armour, As yet was in a molten form The leaden stars, the rainy hammer Swung by my father from his dome.
I knew the message of the winter, The darted hail, the childish snow, And the wind was my sister suitor; Wind in me leaped, the hellborn dew; My veins flowed with the Eastern weather; Ungotten I knew night and day.
As yet ungotten, I did suffer; The rack of dreams my lily bones Did twist into a living cipher, And flesh was snipped to cross the lines Of gallow crosses on the liver And brambles in the wringing brains.
My throat knew thirst before the structure Of skin and vein around the well Where words and water make a mixture Unfailing till the blood runs foul; My heart knew love, my belly hunger; I smelt the maggot in my stool.
And time cast forth my mortal creature To drift or drown upon the seas Acquainted with the salt adventure Of tides that never touch the shores.
I who was rich was made the richer By sipping at the vine of days.
I, born of flesh and ghost, was neither A ghost nor man, but mortal ghost.
And I was struck down by death's feather.
I was a mortal to the last Long breath that carried to my father The message of his dying christ.
You who bow down at cross and altar, Remember me and pity Him Who took my flesh and bone for armour And doublecrossed my mother's womb.


by Paul Verlaine | |

Melancholy

I am the Empire in the last of its decline, 
That sees the tall, fair-haired Barbarians pass,--the while 
Composing indolent acrostics, in a style 
Of gold, with languid sunshine dancing in each line.
The solitary soul is heart-sick with a vile Ennui.
Down yon, they say, War's torches bloody shine.
Alas, to be so faint of will, one must resign The chance of brave adventure in the splendid file,- Of death, perchance! Alas, so lagging in desire! Ah, all is drunk! Bathyllus, has done laughing, pray? Ah, all is drunk,--all eaten! Nothing more to say! Alone, a vapid verse one tosses in the fire; Alone, a somewhat thievish slave neglecting one; Alone, a vague disgust of all beneath the sun!


by Constantine P Cavafy | |

Ithaka

 As you set out for Ithaka
hope your road is a long one,
full of adventure, full of discovery.
Laistrygonians, Cyclops, angry Poseidon-don't be afraid of them: you'll never find things like that on your way as long as you keep your thoughts raised high, as long as a rare excitement stirs your spirit and your body.
Laistrygonians, Cyclops, wild Poseidon-you won't encounter them unless you bring them along inside your soul, unless your soul sets them up in front of you.
Hope your road is a long one.
May there be many summer mornings when, with what pleasure, what joy, you enter harbors you're seeing for the first time; may you stop at Phoenician trading stations to buy fine things, mother of pearl and coral, amber and ebony, sensual perfume of every kind- as many sensual perfumes as you can; and may you visit many Egyptian cities to learn and go on learning from their scholars.
Keep Ithaka always in your mind.
Arriving there is what you're destined for.
But don't hurry the journey at all.
Better if it lasts for years, so you're old by the time you reach the island, wealthy with all you've gained on the way, not expecting Ithaka to make you rich.
Ithaka gave you the marvelous journey.
Without her you wouldn't have set out.
She has nothing left to give you now.
And if you find her poor, Ithaka won't have fooled you.
Wise as you will have become, so full of experience, you'll have understood by then what these Ithakas mean.


by Robert Louis Stevenson | |

Pirate Story

 Three of us afloat in the meadow by the swing, 
Three of us abroad in the basket on the lea.
Winds are in the air, they are blowing in the spring, And waves are on the meadow like the waves there are at sea.
Where shall we adventure, to-day that we're afloat, Wary of the weather and steering by a star? Shall it be to Africa, a-steering of the boat, To Providence, or Babylon or off to Malabar? Hi! but here's a squadron a-rowing on the sea-- Cattle on the meadow a-charging with a roar! Quick, and we'll escape them, they're as mad as they can be, The wicket is the harbour and the garden is the shore.


by Henry Van Dyke | |

Life

 Let me but live my life from year to year, 
With forward face and unreluctant soul; 
Not hurrying to, nor turning from the goal; 
Not mourning for the things that disappear 
In the dim past, nor holding back in fear 
From what the future veils; but with a whole 
And happy heart, that pays its toll 
To Youth and Age, and travels on with cheer.
So let the way wind up the hill or down, O'er rough or smooth, the journey will be joy: Still seeking what I sought when but a boy, New friendship, high adventure, and a crown, My heart will keep the courage of the quest, And hope the road's last turn will be the best.


by Rainer Maria Rilke | |

Night (O you whose countenance)

 Night.
O you whose countenance, dissolved in deepness, hovers above my face.
You who are the heaviest counterweight to my astounding contemplation.
Night, that trembles as reflected in my eyes, but in itself strong; inexhaustible creation, dominant, enduring beyond the earth's endurance; Night, full of newly created stars that leave trails of fire streaming from their seams as they soar in inaudible adventure through interstellar space: how, overshadowed by your all-embracing vastness, I appear minute!--- Yet, being one with the ever more darkening earth, I dare to be in you.


by Claude McKay | |

One Year After

 I 

Not once in all our days of poignant love, 
Did I a single instant give to thee 
My undivided being wholly free.
Not all thy potent passion could remove The barrier that loomed between to prove The full supreme surrendering of me.
Oh, I was beaten, helpless utterly Against the shadow-fact with which I strove.
For when a cruel power forced me to face The truth which poisoned our illicit wine, That even I was faithless to my race Bleeding beneath the iron hand of thine, Our union seemed a monstrous thing and base! I was an outcast from thy world and mine.
II Adventure-seasoned and storm-buffeted, I shun all signs of anchorage, because The zest of life exceeds the bound of laws.
New gales of tropic fury round my head Break lashing me through hours of soulful dread; But when the terror thins and, spent, withdraws, Leaving me wondering awhile, I pause-- But soon again the risky ways I tread! No rigid road for me, no peace, no rest, While molten elements run through my blood; And beauty-burning bodies manifest Their warm, heart-melting motions to be wooed; And passion boldly rising in my breast, Like rivers of the Spring, lets loose its flood.


by David Lehman | |

April 24

 Did you know that Evian spelled backwards is naive?
I myself was unaware of this fact until last Tuesday night
when John Ashbery, Marc Cohen, and Eugene Richie
gave a poetry reading and I introduced them
to an audience that already knew them,
and there were bottles of Evian at the table.
As air to the lungs of a drowning man was a glass of this water to my dry lips.
I recommend it to you, a lover of palindromes, who will also be glad to learn that JA read us three "chapters" of his new poem, "Girls on the Run," a twelve- part saga inspired by girls' adventure stories, with characters named Dimples and Tidbit plus Talkative and Hopeful on loan from "Pilgrim's Progress.
" As Frank O'Hara would have said, "it's the nuts.
" The poets' books were on sale and afterwards two of the poets signed theirs happily and the third did so willingly and Joe took photos and I smiled for the camera, shaking hands with people I knew or didn't know and thinking how blessed was the state of naivete my naive belief in the glory of the word


by Siegfried Sassoon | |

South Wind

 Where have you been, South Wind, this May-day morning,— 
With larks aloft, or skimming with the swallow, 
Or with blackbirds in a green, sun-glinted thicket? 

Oh, I heard you like a tyrant in the valley; 
Your ruffian haste shook the young, blossoming orchards;
You clapped rude hands, hallooing round the chimney, 
And white your pennons streamed along the river.
You have robbed the bee, South Wind, in your adventure, Blustering with gentle flowers; but I forgave you When you stole to me shyly with scent of hawthorn.


by Alan Seeger | |

El Extraviado

 Over the radiant ridges borne out on the offshore wind, 
I have sailed as a butterfly sails whose priming wings unfurled 
Leave the familiar gardens and visited fields behind 
To follow a cloud in the east rose-flushed on the rim of the world.
I have strayed from the trodden highway for walking with upturned eyes On the way of the wind in the treetops, and the drift of the tinted rack.
For the will to be losing no wonder of sunny or starlit skies I have chosen the sod for my pillow and a threadbare coat for my back.
Evening of ample horizons, opaline, delicate, pure, Shadow of clouds on green valleys, trailed over meadows and trees, Cities of ardent adventure where the harvests of Joy mature, Forests whose murmuring voices are amorous prophecies, World of romance and profusion, still round my journey spread The glamours, the glints, the enthralments, the nurture of one whose feet From hours unblessed by beauty nor lighted by love have fled As the shade of the tomb on his pathway and the scent of the winding-sheet.
I never could rest from roving nor put from my heart this need To be seeing how lovably Nature in flower and face hath wrought, -- In flower and meadow and mountain and heaven where the white clouds breed And the cunning of silken meshes where the heart's desire lies caught.
Over the azure expanses, on the offshore breezes borne, I have sailed as a butterfly sails, nor recked where the impulse led, Sufficed with the sunshine and freedom, the warmth and the summer morn, The infinite glory surrounding, the infinite blue ahead


by Ogden Nash | |

Pretty Halcyon Days

 How pleasant to sit on the beach,
On the beach, on the sand, in the sun,
With ocean galore within reach,
And nothing at all to be done!
 No letters to answer,
 No bills to be burned,
 No work to be shirked,
 No cash to be earned,
It is pleasant to sit on the beach
With nothing at all to be done!

How pleasant to look at the ocean,
Democratic and damp; indiscriminate;
It fills me with noble emotion
To think I am able to swim in it.
To lave in the wave, Majestic and chilly, Tomorrow I crave; But today it is silly.
It is pleasant to look at the ocean; Tomorrow, perhaps, I shall swim in it.
How pleasant to gaze at the sailors As their sailboats they manfully sail With the vigor of vikings and whalers In the days of the vikings and whale.
They sport on the brink Of the shad and the shark; If it’s windy, they sink; If it isn’t, they park.
It is pleasant to gaze at the sailors, To gaze without having to sail.
How pleasant the salt anesthetic Of the air and the sand and the sun; Leave the earth to the strong and athletic, And the sea to adventure upon.
But the sun and the sand No contractor can copy; We lie in the land Of the lotus and poppy; We vegetate, calm and aesthetic, On the beach, on the sand, in the sun.