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Best Famous Allah Poems

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

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Written by Kahlil Gibran |

The Playground of Life XIX

 One hour devoted to the pursuit of Beauty 
And Love is worth a full century of glory 
Given by the frightened weak to the strong.
From that hour comes man's Truth; and During that century Truth sleeps between The restless arms of disturbing dreams.
In that hour the soul sees for herself The Natural Law, and for that century she Imprisons herself behind the law of man; And she is shackled with irons of oppression.
That hour was the inspiration of the Songs Of Solomon, an that century was the blind Power which destroyed the temple of Baalbek.
That hour was the birth of the Sermon on the Mount, and that century wrecked the castles of Palmyra and the Tower of Babylon.
That hour was the Hegira of Mohammed and that Century forgot Allah, Golgotha, and Sinai.
One hour devoted to mourning and lamenting the Stolen equality of the weak is nobler than a Century filled with greed and usurpation.
It is at that hour when the heart is Purified by flaming sorrow and Illuminated by the torch of Love.
And in that century, desires for Truth Are buried in the bosom of the earth.
That hour is the root which must flourish.
That hour of meditation, the hour of Prayer, and the hour of a new era of good.
And that century is a life of Nero spent On self-investment taken solely from Earthly substance.
This is life.
Portrayed on the stage for ages; Recorded earthly for centuries; Lived in strangeness for years; Sung as a hymn for days; Exalted but for an hour, but the Hour is treasured by Eternity as a jewel.

Written by Rudyard Kipling |

The Light That Failed

 So we settled it all when the storm was done
As comfy as comfy could be;
And I was to wait in the barn, my dears,
Because I was only three.
And Teddy would run to the rainbow's foot Because he was five and a man-- And that's how it all began, my dears, And that's how it all began! Then we brought the lances down--then the trumpets blew-- When we went to Kandahar, ridin' two an' two.
Ridin'--ridin'--ridin' two an' two! Ta-ra-ra-ra-ra-ra-a! All the way to Kandahar, Ridin' two an' two.
The wolf-cub at even lay hid in the corn, When the smoke of the cooking hung grey.
He knew where the doe made a couch for her fawn, And he looked to his strength for his prey.
But the moon swept the smoke-wreaths away; And he turned from his meal in the villager's close, And he bayed to the moon as she rose.
"I have a thousand men," said he, "To wait upon my will; And towers nine upon the Tyne, And three upon the Till.
" "And what care I for your men? " said she, "Or towers from Tyne to Till? Sith you must go with me," said she, "To wait upon my will.
And you may lead a thousand men Nor ever draw the rein, But before you lead the Fairy Queen 'Twill burst your heart in twain.
" He has slipped his foot from the stirrup-bar, The bridle from his hand, And he is bound by hand and foot To the Queen of Fairy Land.
"If I have taken the common clay And wrought it cunningly In the shape of a God that was digged a clod, The greater honour to me.
" "If thou hast taken the common clay, And thy hands be not free From the taint of the soil, thou hast made thy spoil The greater shame to thee.
" The lark will make her hymn to God, The partridge call her brood, While I forget the heath I trod, The fields wherein I stood.
'Tis dule to know not night from morn, But greater dule to know I can but hear the hunter's horn That once I used to blow.
There were three friends that buried the fourth, The mould in his mouth and the dust in his eyes, And they .
went south and east and north-- The strong man fights but the sick man dies.
There were three friends that spoke of the dead-- The strong man fights but the sick man dies-- "And would he were here with us now," they said, "The Sun in our face and the wind in our eyes.
" Yet at the last ere our spearmen had found him, Yet at the last, ere a sword-thrust could save, Yet at the last, with his masters around him, He spoke of the Faith as a master to slave.
Yet at the last though the Kafirs had maimed him, Broken by bondage and wrecked by the reiver, Yet at the last, tho' the darkness had claimed him, He colled on Allah and died a Believer!

Written by Allama Iqbal |


One day a Spider was telling a Fly
'Everyday on this route you are passing by'

But not for once did my fortune trigger
That, towards my home you never got nearer

It matters not if from strangers you abstain
But away from friends you shouldn't remain

My home if you come
That shall be my honor!
That ladder in the front
Will reach you to your friend

When heard the fly the talk of the Spider-friend
(It said) O Sire! Play this game on the ignorant

This fly is not among the foolish ones
Who goes up your ladder and never returns

Hearing this the Spider said,

"Ah! You think a traitor I am?
A fool like you will nowhere be found.
Lord knows from where you came flying? If you remain at my home what is wrong? Many are the things for you to see Although a small hut it is when from outside you see On the doors are hanging curtains very fine On the walls are mirrors that is full of shine Said the fly: Fine! What you say is true but, Your home I will come not.
O Lord! Save me from such subtle discourse Once laid on them, then I will never arise! When listened the Spider the talk of the Fly It thought of a plan to bring the little one nigh A hundred things with flattery is got done Everyone in this world is a slave when put this crown These things did the Spider think And said, 'Lord has given u a high rank.
' In love I am with your face That began when I saw you at once Your eyes are shining like diamond Your head with a crest has Allah adorned This beauty, this attire, this splendor, this honor And a resurrection it is your flight in the air Pity arose in the fly when heard this flattery It said 'I wish not to cause you any agony' The habit of refusing I believe is bad To break one's heart is in fact bad! Saying this, it flew from its place When it came near, the Spider jumped to lay the seize Hungry was the Spider for many days But now sitting at home, The fly was flown to its place!

More great poems below...

Written by Allama Iqbal |


On the bough of a tree was seated
A nightingale that was saddened

Saying that-
Over me the night is past
And in pecking day is lost!

Towards their nest
How will they (birds) reach
When the shadow of dark
Has fastened its glitch

When heard this yell and wail
Of the nightingale
Said the glowworm
In a voice so calm

With my heart and soul
To you I am of avail
So what if I am
An insect so little?

The night is dark
Why worry then?
All through your route
I will enlighten!

A torch has Allah given me
A radiant lamp has He made me

Noble are those ones indeed
Whom others find while in need!

Written by Rudyard Kipling |

The Rupaiyat of Omar Kalvin

 Now the New Year, reviving last Year's Debt,
The Thoughtful Fisher casteth wide his Net;
 So I with begging Dish and ready Tongue
Assail all Men for all that I can get.
Imports indeed are gone with all their Dues -- Lo! Salt a Lever that I dare not use, Nor may I ask the Tillers in Bengal -- Surely my Kith and Kin will not refuse! Pay -- and I promise by the Dust of Spring, Retrenchment.
If my promises can bring Comfort, Ye have Them now a thousandfold -- By Allah! I will promise Anything! Indeed, indeed, Retrenchment oft before I sore -- but did I mean it when I swore? And then, and then, We wandered to the Hills, And so the Little Less became Much More.
Whether a Boileaugunge or Babylon, I know not how the wretched Thing is done, The Items of Receipt grow surely small; The Items of Expense mount one by one.
I cannot help it.
What have I to do With One and Five, or Four, or Three, or Two? Let Scribes spit Blood and Sulphur as they please, Or Statesmen call me foolish -- Heed not you.
Behold, I promise -- Anything You will.
Behold, I greet you with an empty Till -- Ah! Fellow-Sinners, of your Charity Seek not the Reason of the Dearth, but fill.
For if I sinned and fell, where lies the Gain Of Knowledge? Would it ease you of your Pain To know the tangled Threads of Revenue, I ravel deeper in a hopeless Skein? "Who hath not Prudence" -- what was it I said, Of Her who paints her Eyes and tires Her Head, And gibes and mocks and People in the Street, And fawns upon them for Her thriftless Bread? Accursed is She of Eve's daughters -- She Hath cast off Prudence, and Her End shall be Destruction .
Brethren, of your Bounty Some portion of your daily Bread to Me.

Written by Rudyard Kipling |

The Two-Sided Man

 Much I owe to the Lands that grew--
More to the Lives that fed--
But most to Allah Who gave me two
Separate sides to my head.
Much I reflect on the Good and the True In the Faiths beneath the sun, But most to Allah Who gave me two Sides to my head, not one.
Wesley's following, Calvin's flock, White or yellow or bronze, Shaman, Ju-ju or Angekok, Minister, Mukamuk, Bonze-- Here is a health, my brothers, to you, However your prayers are said, And praised be Allah Who gave me two Separate sides to my head! I would go without shirt or shoe, Friend, tobacco or bread, Sooner than lose for a minute the two Separate sides of my head!

Written by Anne Sexton |

The Moss Of His Skin

 "Young girls in old Arabia were often buried alive next
to their fathers, apparently as sacrifice to the goddesses
of the tribes.
" --Harold Feldman, "Children of the Desert" Psychoanalysis and Psychoanalytic Review, Fall 1958 It was only important to smile and hold still, to lie down beside him and to rest awhile, to be folded up together as if we were silk, to sink from the eyes of mother and not to talk.
The black room took us like a cave or a mouth or an indoor belly.
I held my breath and daddy was there, his thumbs, his fat skull, his teeth, his hair growing like a field or a shawl.
I lay by the moss of his skin until it grew strange.
My sisters will never know that I fall out of myself and pretend that Allah will not see how I hold my daddy like an old stone tree.

Written by Aleister Crowley |

The Atheist

 Nor thou, Habib, nor I are glad,
when rosy limbs and sweat entwine;
But rapture drowns the sense and self,
the wine the drawer of the wine,

And Him that planted first the grape-
o podex, in thy vault there dwells
A charm to make the member mad,
And shake the marrow of the spine.
O member, in thy stubborn strenght a power avails on podex-sense To boil the blood in breast and brain; shudder the nreves incarnadine! From me thou drawest pearly drink - and in its pourings both are drunk.
The Iman drives forth the drunken man from out the marble prayer-shrine.
Blue Mushtari strove with red Mirrikh which should be master of the night- But where is Mushtari, where Mirrikh when in the sky the sun doth shine? Now El Qahar to Hazif gives the worship unto poets due : - But songs are nought and Music all; what poet music may define? Allah's the atheist! he owns no Allah.
Sneer, thou dullard churl! The Sufi worships not, but drinks, being himself the all-divine.
Come, my Habib, the roses blush, the waters gleam, the bulbul sings - To pierce thy podex El Quahar's urgent and and imminent design!

Written by Rudyard Kipling |

The Captive

 Not with an outcry to Allah nor any complaining
He answered his name at the muster and stood to the chaining.
When the twin anklets were nipped on the leg-bars that held them, He brotherly greeted the armourers stooping to weld them.
Ere the sad dust of the marshalled feet of the chain-gang swallowed him, Observing him nobly at ease, I alighted and followed him, Thus we had speech by the way, but not touching his sorrow-- Rather his red Yesterday and his regal To-morrow, Wherein he statelily moved to the clink of his chains unregarded, Nowise abashed but contented to drink of the potion awarded Saluting aloofly his Fate, he made haste with his story, And the words of his mouth were as slaves spreading carpets of glory Embroidered with names of the Djinns--a miraculous weaving-- But the cool and perspicuous eye overbore unbelieving.
So I submitted myself to the limits of rapture-- Bound by this man we had bound, amid captives his capture-- Till he returned me to earth and the visions departed.
But on him be the Peace and the Blessing; for he was greathearted!

Written by Tanwir Phool |


Tiri Qudrat ko yaa Rab ! zarray zarray sey a'yaaN dekhaa
Qamar maiN ,shams maiN ,anjum maiN Tujh ko zaufishaaN dekhaa

Who sheereeN Naam hai ALLAH kaa jo RaaHat-e-dil hai
Fanaa jo ho geya Us par, usay hi jaawidaaN dekhaa

Pukaaraa markaz-e-dil sey to paayaa paas hi Us ko
Usay hi BaKhshnay waalaa ,Usay hi MehrbaaN dekhaa

Sahaaraa be-basoN kaa hai , Who mazloomoN kaa Waali hai
Usi kay aastaanay ko panaah-e-be-kasaaN dekhaa

Samajh saktaa naheeN Israar Haq kay aa'dam-e-Khaaki
Na aiesaa falsafi dekhaa , na aiesaa nukta daaN dekhaa

Gulistaan-e-jahaaN maiN Phool ki faryaad Sun yaa Rab !
Tiraa hi Naam lay kar us ko maSroof-e-fuGhaaN dekhaa

(Poet : Tanwir Phool)

You can read more poetry of Tanwir Phool at these links :

com/ur/category/tanwir-phool/ http://www.

Written by Aleister Crowley |

On - On - Poet

 I to the open road,
You to the hunchbacked street -
Which of us two
Shall the earlier rue
That day we chanced to meet?

I with a heart that's sound,
You with sick fancies of pain -
Which of us two
Would the earlier rue
If we chanced to meet again?

I jingle homely lore,
While you rhyme is with kiss -
Which of us two
Will the earlier rue
The love of the Hoylake Miss?

Not I the first to go,
Nor I the first to deceive -
Which of us two
Shall the the earliest rue
Our garden of make-believe? 

You were a Chinese god,
I an offering fair,
As we entered the
Garden of Allah,

To sing our holy prayer.
Entered with hearts bowed low, Yet I heard a voice that cried: For he is the god of the Sacrifice, You are the crucified.
It was all make-believe, A foolish game of play, Our garden of Allah A drawing-room, Our Chinese god of clay.
Strings of bruises for pearls, Tears for forget-me-nots, And a deadly pain Of the sickening shame Watching the fading spots.
As quickly they faded, The heart of me faded as well, Until nothing is left Of my garden, But a soul sunk to hell.
Hail! Poet prend ton lute -Je disparaire, No more together we'll enter the Enchanted garden of make-believe, Nor my sad soul listen while thine deceive.
No more you'll be the God of Sacrifice, Nor I the crucified.
Ah, Garden of Allah -how bitter sweet Thy fruit.
Why breakest thou the heart? Why spoilest thou the soul with notes From thy golden lute? Lo! our garden a common room Our Chinese god burnt clay, and The singing of verses a funeral hymn That awakes with awakening day.
'Twas all such a meaningless play, Poet prend ton lute -Je disparaitre.
Hail! Poet, take my hand -we'll walk Still a little way.
I'll not desert thee at the close of day, I, too, must pray.
A beggar asking alms of passers-by, Does not refuse a drink to one who's dry That once by him did lie.
Poet, come close -before I leave for aye Take thou my hand, we'll walk still A little way.
One garment covered both to keep us warm, What harmed the one, was't not the other's harm? Close clasped, one single form.
Was it not meant of aye? Poet, take thou my hand -we'll still Walk a little way.

Written by Robert William Service |


 As home from church we two did plod,
"Grandpa," said Rosy, "What is God?"
Seeking an answer to her mind,
This is the best that I could find.
God is the Iz-ness of our Cosmic Biz; The high, the low, the near, the far, The atom and the evening star; The lark, the shark, the cloud, the clod, The whole darned Universe - that's God.
Some deem that others there be, And to them humbly bend the knee; To Mumbo Jumbo and to Joss, To Bud and Allah - but the Boss Is mine .
While there are suns and seas MY timeless God shall dwell in these.
In every glowing leaf He lives; When roses die His life he gives; God is not outside and apart From Nature, but her very heart; No Architect (as I of verse) He is Himself the Universe.
Said Rosy-kins: "Grandpa, how odd Is your imagining of God.
To me he's always just appeared A huge Grandfather with a beard.

Written by Eugene Field |

Abu midjan

 When Father Time swings round his scythe,
Entomb me 'neath the bounteous vine,
So that its juices, red and blithe,
May cheer these thirsty bones of mine.
"Elsewise with tears and bated breath Should I survey the life to be.
But oh! How should I hail the death That brings that--vinous grace to me!" So sung the dauntless Saracen, Whereat the Prophet-Chief ordains That, curst of Allah, loathed of men, The faithless one shall die in chains.
But one vile Christian slave that lay A prisoner near that prisoner saith: "God willing, I will plant some day A vine where liest thou in death.
" Lo, over Abu Midjan's grave With purpling fruit a vine-tree grows; Where rots the martyred Christian slave Allah, and only Allah, knows!