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Best Famous Beautiful Poems

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

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by Edward Estlin (E E) Cummings | |

i carry your heart with me

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)  


by Sara Teasdale | |

I Am Not Yours

I am not yours, not lost in you, 
Not lost, although I long to be 
Lost as a candle lit at noon, 
Lost as a snowflake in the sea.
You love me, and I find you still A spirit beautiful and bright, Yet I am I, who long to be Lost as a light is lost in light.
Oh plunge me deep in love - put out My senses, leave me deaf and blind, Swept by the tempest of your love, A taper in a rushing wind.


by Sylvia Plath | |

The Rival

If the moon smiled, she would resemble you.
You leave the same impression Of something beautiful, but annihilating.
Both of you are great light borrowers.
Her O-mouth grieves at the world; yours is unaffected, And your first gift is making stone out of everything.
I wake to a mausoleum; you are here, Ticking your fingers on the marble table, looking for cigarettes, Spiteful as a woman, but not so nervous, And dying to say something unanswerable.
The moon, too, abases her subjects But in the daytime she is ridiculous.
Your dissatisfactions, on the other hand, Arrive through the mailslot with loving regularity, White and blank, expansive as carbon monoxide.
No day is safe from news of you, Walking about in Africa maybe, but thinking of me.


by Wang Wei | |

THE BEAUTIFUL XI SHI

Since beauty is honoured all over the Empire, 
How could Xi Shi remain humbly at home? -- 
Washing clothes at dawn by a southern lake -- 
And that evening a great lady in a palace of the north: 
Lowly one day, no different from the others, 
The next day exalted, everyone praising her.
No more would her own hands powder her face Or arrange on her shoulders a silken robe.
And the more the King loved her, the lovelier she looked, Blinding him away from wisdom.
.
.
.
Girls who had once washed silk beside her Were kept at a distance from her chariot.
And none of the girls in her neighbours' houses By pursing their brows could copy her beauty.


by Philip Larkin | |

Wild Oats

 About twenty years ago
Two girls came in where I worked -
A bosomy English rose
And her friend in specs I could talk to.
Faces in those days sparked The whole shooting-match off, and I doubt If ever one had like hers: But it was the friend I took out, And in seven years after that Wrote over four hundred letters, Gave a ten-guinea ring I got back in the end, and met At numerous cathedral cities Unknown to the clergy.
I believe I met beautiful twice.
She was trying Both times (so I thought) not to laugh.
Parting, after about five Rehearsals, was an agreement That I was too selfish, withdrawn And easily bored to love.
Well, useful to get that learnt, In my wallet are still two snaps, Of bosomy rose with fur gloves on.
Unlucky charms, perhaps.


by Philip Larkin | |

Maiden Name

 Marrying left yor maiden name disused.
Its five light sounds no longer mean your face, Your voice, and all your variants of grace; For since you were so thankfully confused By law with someone else, you cannot be Semantically the same as that young beauty: It was of her that these two words were used.
Now it's a phrase applicable to no one, Lying just where you left it, scattered through Old lists, old programmes, a school prize or two, Packets of letters tied with tartan ribbon - Then is it secentless, weightless, strengthless wholly Untruthful? Try whispering it slowly.
No, it means you.
Or, since your past and gone, It means what we feel now about you then: How beautiful you were, and near, and young, So vivid, you might still be there among Those first few days, unfingermarked again.
So your old name shelters our faithfulness, Instead of losing shape and meaning less With your depreciating luggage laiden.


by Conrad Aiken | |

Music I Heard

 Music I heard with you was more than music, 
And bread I broke with you was more than bread; 
Now that I am without you, all is desolate; 
All that was once so beautiful is dead.
Your hands once touched this table and this silver, And I have seen your fingers hold this glass.
These things do not remember you, beloved, And yet your touch upon them will not pass.
For it was in my heart that you moved among them, And blessed them with your hands and with your eyes; And in my heart they will remember always, —They knew you once, O beautiful and wise.


by Wang Wei | |

A View of the Han River

 With its three southern branches reaching the Chu border, 
And its nine streams touching the gateway of Jing, 
This river runs beyond heaven and earth, 
Where the colour of mountains both is and is not.
The dwellings of men seem floating along On ripples of the distant sky -- These beautiful days here in Xiangyang Make drunken my old mountain heart!


by Richard Wilbur | |

The Beautiful Changes

 One wading a Fall meadow finds on all sides 
The Queen Anne's Lace lying like lilies
On water; it glides
So from the walker, it turns 
Dry grass to a lake, as the slightest shade of
 you
Valleys my mind in fabulous blue Lucernes.
The beautiful changes as a forest is changed By a chameleon's tuning his skin to it; As a mantis, arranged On a green leaf, grows Into it, makes the leaf leafier, and proves Any greenness is deeper than anyone knows.
Your hands hold roses always in a way that says They are not only yours; the beautiful changes In such kind ways, Wishing ever to sunder Things and things' selves for a second finding, to lose For a moment all that it touches back to wonder.


by Richard Wilbur | |

A Fire-Truck

 Right down the shocked street with a
 siren-blast
That sends all else skittering to the
 curb,
Redness, brass, ladders and hats hurl
 past,
 Blurring to sheer verb,

Shift at the corner into uproarious gear
And make it around the turn in a squall
 of traction,
The headlong bell maintaining sure and
 clear,
 Thought is degraded action!

Beautiful, heavy, unweary, loud,
 obvious thing!
I stand here purged of nuance, my
 mind a blank.
All I was brooding upon has taken wing, And I have you to thank.
As you howl beyond hearing I carry you into my mind, Ladders and brass and all, there to admire Your phoenix-red simplicity, enshrined In that not extinguished fire.


by Richard Wilbur | |

Transit

 A woman I have never seen before
Steps from the darkness of her town-house door
At just that crux of time when she is made
So beautiful that she or time must fade.
What use to claim that as she tugs her gloves A phantom heraldry of all the loves Blares from the lintel? That the staggered sun Forgets, in his confusion, how to run? Still, nothing changes as her perfect feet Click down the walk that issues in the street, Leaving the stations of her body there Like whips that map the countries of the air.


by Constantine P Cavafy | |

Poseidonians

 The Poseidonians forgot the Greek language
after so many centuries of mingling
with Tyrrhenians, Latins, and other foreigners.
The only thing surviving from their ancestors was a Greek festival, with beautiful rites, with lyres and flutes, contests and wreaths.
And it was their habit toward the festival's end to tell each other about their ancient customs and once again to speak Greek names that only few of them still recognized.
And so their festival always had a melancholy ending because they remebered that they too were Greeks, they too once upon a time were citizens of Magna Graecia; and how low they'd fallen now, what they'd become, living and speaking like barbarians, cut off so disastrously from the Greek way of life.


by Constantine P Cavafy | |

Desires

 Like beautiful bodies of the dead who had not grown old
and they shut them, with tears, in a magnificent mausoleum,
with roses at the head and jasmine at the feet --
this is what desires resemble that have passed
without fulfillment; with none of them having achieved
a night of sensual delight, or a bright morning.


by Constantine P Cavafy | |

Of The Shop

 He wrapped them carefully, neatly
in costly green silk.
Roses of ruby, lilies of pearl, violets of amethyst.
As he himself judged, as he wanted them, they look beautiful to him; not as he saw or studied them in nature.
He will leave them in the safe, a sample of his daring and skillful craft.
When a buyer enters the shop he takes from the cases other wares and sells -- superb jewels -- bracelets, chains, necklaces, and rings.


by Constantine P Cavafy | |

Very Seldom

 He's an old man.
Used up and bent, crippled by time and indulgence, he slowly walks along the narrow street.
But when he goes inside his house to hide the shambles of his old age, his mind turns to the share in youth that still belongs to him.
His verse is now recited by young men.
His visions come before their lively eyes.
Their healthy sensual minds, their shapely taut bodies stir to his perception of the beautiful.
Trans.
by Edmund Keeley and Philip Sherrard


by Constantine P Cavafy | |

So Much I Gazed

 So much I gazed on beauty,
that my vision is replete with it.
Contours of the body.
Red lips.
Voluptuous limbs.
Hair as if taken from greek statues; always beautiful, even when uncombed, and it falls, slightly, over white foreheads.
Faces of love, as my poetry wanted them.
.
.
.
in the nights of my youth, in my nights, secretly, met.
.
.
.


by Constantine P Cavafy | |

Picture Of A 23-Year-Old Youth Painted By His Friend Of The Same Age An Amature

 He finished the painting yesterday noon.
Now he studies it in detail.
He has painted him in a gray unbuttoned coat, a deep gray; without any vest or any tie.
With a rose-colored shirt; open at the collar, so something might be seen also of the beauty of his chest, of his neck.
The right temple is almost entirely covered by his hair, his beautiful hair (parted in the manner he perfers it this year).
There is the completely voluptuous tone he wanted to put into it when he was doing the eyes, when he was doing the lips.
.
.
.
His mouth, the lips that are made for consummation, for choice love-making.


by Constantine P Cavafy | |

Envoys From Alexandria

 They had not seen, for ages, such beautiful gifts in Delphi
as these that had been sent by the two brothers,
the rival Ptolemaic kings.
After they had received them however, the priests were uneasy about the oracle.
They will need all their experience to compose it with astuteness, which of the two, which of such two will be displeased.
And they hold secret councils at night and discuss the family affairs of the Lagidae.
But see, the envoys have returned.
They are bidding farewell.
They are returning to Alexandria, they say.
And they do not ask for any oracle.
And the priests hear this with joy (of course they will keep the marvellous gifts), but they also are utterly perplexed, not understanding what this sudden indifference means.
For they are unaware that yesterday the envoys received grave news.
The oracle was given in Rome; the division took place there.


by Constantine P Cavafy | |

Anna Dalassené

 In the golden bull that Alexios Comnenos issued
to prominently honor his mother,
the very sagacious Lady Anna Dalassené—
distinguished in her works, in her ways—
there are many words of praise:
here let us convey of them
a beautiful, noble phrase
"Those cold words 'mine' or 'yours' were never spoken.
"


by G K Chesterton | |

The Last Hero

 WE laid him to rest with tenderness;
Homeward we turned in the twilight’s gold;
We thought in ourselves with dumb distress—
All the story of earth is told.
A beautiful word at the last was said: A great deep heart like the hearts of old Went forth; and the speaker had lost the thread, Or all the story of earth was told.
The dust hung over the pale dry ways Dizzily fired with the twilight’s gold, And a bitter remembrance blew in each face How all the story of earth was told.