Submit Your Poems
Get Your Premium Membership



Best Famous Brother Poems

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

Search for the best famous Brother poems, articles about Brother poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Brother poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

See also: Best Member Poems

by Percy Bysshe Shelley | |

Loves Philosophy

THE fountains mingle with the river 
And the rivers with the ocean  
The winds of heaven mix for ever 
With a sweet emotion; 
Nothing in the world is single 5 
All things by a law divine 
In one another's being mingle¡ª 
Why not I with thine? 

See the mountains kiss high heaven  
And the waves clasp one another; 10 
No sister-flower would be forgiven 
If it disdain'd its brother; 
And the sunlight clasps the earth  
And the moonbeams kiss the sea¡ª 
What are all these kissings worth 15 
If thou kiss not me?


by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow | |

A Psalm of Life

What the Heart of the Young Man Said to the Psalmist


TELL me not in mournful numbers  
Life is but an empty dream!¡ª 
For the soul is dead that slumbers  
And things are not what they seem.
Life is real! Life is earnest! 5 And the grave is not its goal; Dust thou art to dust returnest Was not spoken of the soul.
Not enjoyment and not sorrow Is our destined end or way; 10 But to act that each to-morrow Find us farther than to-day.
Art is long and Time is fleeting And our hearts though stout and brave Still like muffled drums are beating 15 Funeral marches to the grave.
In the world's broad field of battle In the bivouac of Life Be not like dumb driven cattle! Be a hero in the strife! 20 Trust no Future howe'er pleasant! Let the dead Past bury its dead! Act ¡ªact in the living Present! Heart within and God o'erhead! Lives of great men all remind us 25 We can make our lives sublime And departing leave behind us Footprints on the sands of time; Footprints that perhaps another Sailing o'er life's solemn main 30 A forlorn and shipwrecked brother Seeing shall take heart again.
Let us then be up and doing With a heart for any fate; Still achieving still pursuing 35 Learn to labor and to wait.


by Percy Bysshe Shelley | |

To the Night

SWIFTLY walk over the western wave  
Spirit of Night! 
Out of the misty eastern cave 
Where all the long and lone daylight  
Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear 5 
Which make thee terrible and dear ¡ª 
Swift be thy flight! 

Wrap thy form in a mantle gray  
Star-inwrought; 
Blind with thine hair the eyes of Day 10 
Kiss her until she be wearied out: 
Then wander o'er city and sea and land  
Touching all with thine opiate wand¡ª 
Come long-sought! 

When I arose and saw the dawn 15 
I sigh'd for thee; 
When light rode high and the dew was gone  
And noon lay heavy on flower and tree  
And the weary Day turn'd to his rest 
Lingering like an unloved guest 20 
I sigh'd for thee.
Thy brother Death came and cried Wouldst thou me? Thy sweet child Sleep the filmy-eyed Murmur'd like a noontide bee 25 Shall I nestle near thy side? Wouldst thou me? ¡ªAnd I replied No, not thee! Death will come when thou art dead Soon too soon; 30 Sleep will come when thou art fled: Of neither would I ask the boon I ask of thee belov¨¨d Night¡ª Swift be thine approaching flight Come soon soon! 35


More great poems below...

by | by . You can read it on PoetrySoup.com' st_url='http://www.poetrysoup.com/famous/poem/22457/ILl_Tell_You_A_Story' st_title='I'Ll Tell You A Story'>|

I'Ll Tell You A Story


  I'll tell you a story
  About Jack-a-Nory:
And now my story's begun.
  I'll tell you another
  About his brother:
And now my story is done.



by | |

Robin And Richard

 
Robin and Richard were two pretty men,
They lay in bed till the clock struck ten;
Then up starts Robin and looks at the sky,
"Oh, brother Richard, the sun's very high!
You go before, with the bottle and bag,
And I will come after on little Jack Nag.
"


by | |

The Soldier

I climbed the barren mountain,
 And my gaze swept far and wide
For the red-lit eaves of my father's home,
 And I fancied that he sighed:
    My son has gone for a soldier,
     For a soldier night and day;
    But my son is wise, and may yet return,
     When the drums have died away.
I climbed the grass-clad mountain, And my gaze swept far and wide For the rosy lights of a little room, Where I thought my mother sighed: My boy has gone for a soldier, He sleeps not day and night; But my boy is wise, and may yet return, Though the dead lie far from sight.
I climbed the topmost summit, And my gaze swept far and wide For the garden roof where my brother stood, And I fancied that he sighed: My brother serves as a soldier With his comrades night and day; But my brother is wise, and may yet return, Though the dead lie far away.


by Margaret Atwood | |

Morning in the Burned House

 In the burned house I am eating breakfast.
You understand: there is no house, there is no breakfast, yet here I am.
The spoon which was melted scrapes against the bowl which was melted also.
No one else is around.
Where have they gone to, brother and sister, mother and father? Off along the shore, perhaps.
Their clothes are still on the hangers, their dishes piled beside the sink, which is beside the woodstove with its grate and sooty kettle, every detail clear, tin cup and rippled mirror.
The day is bright and songless, the lake is blue, the forest watchful.
In the east a bank of cloud rises up silently like dark bread.
I can see the swirls in the oilcloth, I can see the flaws in the glass, those flares where the sun hits them.
I can't see my own arms and legs or know if this is a trap or blessing, finding myself back here, where everything in this house has long been over, kettle and mirror, spoon and bowl, including my own body, including the body I had then, including the body I have now as I sit at this morning table, alone and happy, bare child's feet on the scorched floorboards (I can almost see) in my burning clothes, the thin green shorts and grubby yellow T-shirt holding my cindery, non-existent, radiant flesh.
Incandescent.


by Ben Jonson | |

On Margaret Ratcliffe


XL.
 ? ON MARGARET RATCLIFFE.
  
M arble, weep, for thou dost cover
A dead beauty underneath thee,
R ich as nature could bequeath thee :
G rant then, no rude hand remove her.

A ll the gazers on the skies
R ead not in fair heaven's story,
E xpresser truth, or truer glory,
T han they might in her bright eyes.

R are as wonder was her wit ;
A nd, like nectar, ever flowing :
T ill time, strong by her bestowing,
C onquer'd hath both life and it ;
L ife, whose grief was out of fashion
I n these times.
  Few so have rued
F ate in a brother.
  To conclude,
F or wit, feature, and true passion,
E arth, thou hast not such another.

[ AJ Note:
   Margaret Ratcliffe was one of Queen Elizabeth's
   ladies-in-waiting.
 She wasted away from grief in
   November 1599, after long mourning the deaths
   of four of her brothers.
]


by William Cullen Bryant | |

The West Wind

 IT'S a warm wind, the west wind, full of birds' cries; 
I never hear the west wind but tears are in my eyes.
For it comes from the west lands, the old brown hills.
And April's in the west wind, and daffodils.
It's a fine land, the west land, for hearts as tired as mine, Apple orchards blossom there, and the air's like wine.
There is cool green grass there, where men may lie at rest, And the thrushes are in song there, fluting from the nest.
"Will ye not come home brother? ye have been long away, It's April, and blossom time, and white is the may; And bright is the sun brother, and warm is the rain,-- Will ye not come home, brother, home to us again? "The young corn is green, brother, where the rabbits run.
It's blue sky, and white clouds, and warm rain and sun.
It's song to a man's soul, brother, fire to a man's brain, To hear the wild bees and see the merry spring again.
"Larks are singing in the west, brother, above the green wheat, So will ye not come home, brother, and rest your tired feet? I've a balm for bruised hearts, brother, sleep for aching eyes," Says the warm wind, the west wind, full of birds' cries.
It's the white road westwards is the road I must tread To the green grass, the cool grass, and rest for heart and head, To the violets, and the warm hearts, and the thrushes' song, In the fine land, the west land, the land where I belong.


by Stephen Vincent Benet | |

Elegy for an Enemy

 (For G.
H.
) Say, does that stupid earth Where they have laid her, Bind still her sullen mirth, Mirth which betrayed her? Do the lush grasses hold, Greenly and glad, That brittle-perfect gold She alone had? Smugly the common crew, Over their knitting, Mourn her -- as butchers do Sheep-throats they're slitting! She was my enemy, One of the best of them.
Would she come back to me, God damn the rest of them! Damn them, the flabby, fat, Sleek little darlings! We gave them tit for tat, Snarlings for snarlings! Squashy pomposities, Shocked at our violence, Let not one tactful hiss Break her new silence! Maids of antiquity, Look well upon her; Ice was her chastity, Spotless her honor.
Neighbors, with breasts of snow, Dames of much virtue, How she could flame and glow! Lord, how she hurt you! She was a woman, and Tender -- at times! (Delicate was her hand) One of her crimes! Hair that strayed elfinly, Lips red as haws, You, with the ready lie, Was that the cause? Rest you, my enemy, Slain without fault, Life smacks but tastelessly Lacking your salt! Stuck in a bog whence naught May catapult me, Come from the grave, long-sought, Come and insult me! WE knew that sugared stuff Poisoned the other; Rough as the wind is rough, Sister and brother! Breathing the ether clear Others forlorn have found -- Oh, for that peace austere She and her scorn have found!


by Oliver Wendell Holmes | |

A Parody on “A Psalm of Life”

 Life is real, life is earnest, 
And the shell is not its pen –
“Egg thou art, and egg remainest”
Was not spoken of the hen.
Art is long and Time is fleeting, Be our bills then sharpened well, And not like muffled drums be beating On the inside of the shell.
In the world’s broad field of battle, In the great barnyard of life, Be not like those lazy cattle! Be a rooster in the strife! Lives of roosters all remind us, We can make our lives sublime, And when roasted, leave behind us, Hen tracks on the sands of time.
Hen tracks that perhaps another Chicken drooping in the rain, Some forlorn and henpecked brother, When he sees, shall crow again.


by Oliver Wendell Holmes | |

Brother Jonathans Lament

 SHE has gone,-- she has left us in passion and pride,--
Our stormy-browed sister, so long at our side!
She has torn her own star from our firmament's glow,
And turned on her brother the face of a foe!

Oh, Caroline, Caroline, child of the sun,
We can never forget that our hearts have been one,--
Our foreheads both sprinkled in Liberty's name,
From the fountain of blood with the finger of flame!

You were always too ready to fire at a touch;
But we said, "She is hasty,-- she does not mean much.
" We have scowled, when you uttered some turbulent threat; But Friendship still whispered, "Forgive and forget!" Has our love all died out? Have its altars grown cold? Has the curse come at last which the fathers foretold? Then Nature must teach us the strength of the chain That her petulant children would sever in vain.
They may fight till the buzzards are gorged with their spoil, Till the harvest grows black as it rots in the soil, Till the wolves and the catamounts troop from their caves, And the shark tracks the pirate, the lord of the waves: In vain is the strife! When its fury is past, Their fortunes must flow in one channel at last, As the torrents that rush from the mountains of snow Roll mingled in peace through the valleys below.
Our Union is river, lake, ocean, and sky: Man breaks not the medal, when God cuts the die! Though darkened with sulphur, though cloven with steel, The blue arch will brighten, the waters will heal! Oh, Caroline, Caroline, child of the sun, There are battles with Fate that can never be won! The star-flowering banner must never be furled, For its blossoms of light are the hope of the world! Go, then, our rash sister! afar and aloof, Run wild in the sunshine away from our roof; But when your heart aches and your feet have grown sore, Remember the pathway that leads to our door!


by Paul Laurence Dunbar | |

The Paradox

 I am the mother of sorrows, 
I am the ender of grief; 
I am the bud and the blossom, 
I am the late-falling leaf.
I am thy priest and thy poet, I am thy serf and thy king; I cure the tears of the heartsick, When I come near they shall sing.
White are my hands as the snowdrop; Swart are my fingers as clay; Dark is my frown as the midnight, Fair is my brow as the day.
Battle and war are my minions, Doing my will as divine; I am the calmer of passions, Peace is a nursling of mine.
Speak to me gently or curse me, Seek me or fly from my sight; I am thy fool in the morning, Thou art my slave in the night.
Down to the grave I will take thee, Out from the noise of the strife, Then shalt thou see me and know me-- Death, then, no longer, but life.
Then shalt thou sing at my coming, Kiss me with passionate breath, Clasp me and smile to have thought me Aught save the foeman of death.
Come to me, brother, when weary, Come when thy lonely heart swells; I'll guide thy footsteps and lead thee Down where the Dream Woman dwells.


by Edna St Vincent Millay | |

If Still Your Orchards Bear

 Brother, that breathe the August air
Ten thousand years from now,
And smell—if still your orchards bear
Tart apples on the bough—

The early windfall under the tree,
And see the red fruit shine,
I cannot think your thoughts will be
Much different from mine.
Should at that moment the full moon Step forth upon the hill, And memories hard to bear at noon, By moonlight harder still, Form in the shadow of the trees, — Things that you could not spare And live, or so you thought, yet these All gone, and you still there, A man no longer what he was, Nor yet the thing he'd planned, The chilly apple from the grass Warmed by your living hand— I think you will have need of tears; I think they will not flow; Supposing in ten thousand years Men ache, as they do now.


by Edna St Vincent Millay | |

Conscientious Objector

 I shall die, but 
that is all that I shall do for Death.
I hear him leading his horse out of the stall; I hear the clatter on the barn-floor.
He is in haste; he has business in Cuba, business in the Balkans, many calls to make this morning.
But I will not hold the bridle while he clinches the girth.
And he may mount by himself: I will not give him a leg up.
Though he flick my shoulders with his whip, I will not tell him which way the fox ran.
With his hoof on my breast, I will not tell him where the black boy hides in the swamp.
I shall die, but that is all that I shall do for Death; I am not on his pay-roll.
I will not tell him the whereabout of my friends nor of my enemies either.
Though he promise me much, I will not map him the route to any man's door.
Am I a spy in the land of the living, that I should deliver men to Death? Brother, the password and the plans of our city are safe with me; never through me Shall you be overcome.


by Godfrey Mutiso Gorry | |

AN ODE TO MY JAILED FRIEND

 Unmasked –
The spirits' face is a black hole
Swallowing the celestial beauty
Of the stars.
Caged – The sentinel is crouched Subsumed in seething pain Not pain but anger of being guiltless Yet ‘guilty’ for being in jail.
The cell – No crime equals its greasy grey walls Thickly dark with no grills for light Till the eyes, sore, feel pain no more.
The sentinel – Was once a brother Used to sit by my feet But wandered away, Till err passed his way.
Who is to blame When the mind is aflight And discretion is abandoned For valor?


by John Gould Fletcher | |

Care-charming Sleep

 Care-charming Sleep, thou easer of all woes,
Brother to Death, sweetly thyself dispose
On this afflicted prince; fall like a cloud
In gentle showers; give nothing that is loud
Or painful to his slumbers; easy, sweet,
And as a purling stream, thou son of Night,
Pass by his troubled senses; sing his pain,
Like hollow murmuring wind or silver rain;
Into this prince gently, oh gently slide,
And kiss him into slumbers like a bride.


by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | |

TO FATHER* KRONOS.

 [written in a post-chaise.
] (* In the original, Schwager, which has the twofold meaning of brother-in-law and postilion.
) HASTEN thee, Kronos! On with clattering trot Downhill goeth thy path; Loathsome dizziness ever, When thou delayest, assails me.
Quick, rattle along, Over stock and stone let thy trot Into life straightway lead Now once more Up the toilsome ascent Hasten, panting for breath! Up, then, nor idle be,-- Striving and hoping, up, up! Wide, high, glorious the view Gazing round upon life, While from mount unto mount Hovers the spirit eterne, Life eternal foreboding.
Sideways a roof's pleasant shade Attracts thee, And a look that promises coolness On the maidenly threshold.
There refresh thee! And, maiden, Give me this foaming draught also, Give me this health-laden look! Down, now! quicker still, down! See where the sun sets Ere he sets, ere old age Seizeth me in the morass, Ere my toothless jaws mumble, And my useless limbs totter; While drunk with his farewell beam Hurl me,--a fiery sea Foaming still in mine eye,-- Hurl me, while dazzled and reeling, Down to the gloomy portal of hell.
Blow, then, gossip, thy horn, Speed on with echoing trot, So that Orcus may know we are coming; So that our host may with joy Wait at the door to receive us.
1774.


by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | |

PLAYING AT PRIESTS.

 WITHIN a town where parity
According to old form we see,--
That is to say, where Catholic
And Protestant no quarrels pick,
And where, as in his father's day,
Each worships God in his own way,
We Luth'ran children used to dwell,
By songs and sermons taught as well.
The Catholic clingclang in truth Sounded more pleasing to our youth, For all that we encounter'd there, To us seem'd varied, joyous, fair.
As children, monkeys, and mankind To ape each other are inclin'd, We soon, the time to while away, A game at priests resolved to play.
Their aprons all our sisters lent For copes, which gave us great content; And handkerchiefs, embroider'd o'er, Instead of stoles we also wore; Gold paper, whereon beasts were traced, The bishop's brow as mitre graced.
Through house and garden thus in state We strutted early, strutted late, Repeating with all proper unction, Incessantly each holy function.
The best was wanting to the game; We knew that a sonorous ring Was here a most important thing; But Fortune to our rescue came, For on the ground a halter lay; We were delighted, and at once Made it a bellrope for the nonce, And kept it moving all the day; In turns each sister and each brother Acted as sexton to another; All help'd to swell the joyous throng; The whole proceeded swimmingly, And since no actual bell had we, We all in chorus sang, Ding dong! * * * * * Our guileless child's-sport long was hush'd In memory's tomb, like some old lay; And yet across my mind it rush'd With pristine force the other day.
The New-Poetic Catholics In ev'ry point its aptness fix! 1815.
*


by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | |

THE FOX AND CRANE.

 ONCE two persons uninvited

Came to join my dinner table;
For the nonce they lived united,

Fox and crane yclept in fable.
Civil greetings pass'd between us Then I pluck'd some pigeons tender For the fox of jackal-genius, Adding grapes in full-grown splendour.
Long-neck'd flasks I put as dishes For the crane, without delaying, Fill'd with gold and silver fishes, In the limpid water playing.
Had ye witness'd Reynard planted At his flat plate, all demurely, Ye with envy must have granted: "Ne'er was such a gourmand, surely!" While the bird with circumspection On one foot, as usual, cradled, From the flasks his fish-refection With his bill and long neck ladled.
One the pigeons praised,--the other, As they went, extoll'd the fishes, Each one scoffing at his brother For preferring vulgar dishes.
* * * If thou wouldst preserve thy credit, When thou askest folks to guzzle At thy hoard, take care to spread it Suited both for bill and muzzle.
1819.


by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | |

WHOLL BUY GODS OF LOVE?

 OF all the beauteous wares
Exposed for sale at fairs,
None will give more delight
Than those that to your sight
From distant lands we bring.
Oh, hark to what we sing! These beauteous birds behold, They're brought here to be sold.
And first the big one see, So full of roguish glee! With light and merry bound He leaps upon the ground; Then springs up on the bougd, We will not praise him now.
The merry bird behold,-- He's brought here to be sold.
And now the small one see! A modest look has he, And yet he's such apother As his big roguish brother.
'Tis chiefly when all's still He loves to show his will.
The bird so small and bold,-- He's brought here to be sold.
Observe this little love, This darling turtle dove! All maidens are so neat, So civil, so discreet Let them their charms set loose, And turn your love to use; The gentle bird behold,-- She's brought here to be sold.
Their praises we won't tell; They'll stand inspection well.
They're fond of what is new,-- And yet, to show they're true, Nor seal nor letter's wanted; To all have wings been granted.
The pretty birds behold,-- Such beauties ne'er were sold! 1795.


by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | |

ANNIVERSARY SONG.

 [This little song describes the different members 
of the party just spoken of.
] WHY pacest thou, my neighbour fair, The garden all alone? If house and land thou seek'st to guard, I'd thee as mistress own.
My brother sought the cellar-maid, And suffered her no rest; She gave him a refreshing draught, A kiss, too, she impress'd.
My cousin is a prudent wight, The cook's by him ador'd; He turns the spit round ceaselessly, To gain love's sweet reward.
We six together then began A banquet to consume, When lo! a fourth pair singing came, And danced into the room.
Welcome were they,--and welcome too Was a fifth jovial pair.
Brimful of news, and stored with tales And jests both new and rare.
For riddles, spirit, raillery, And wit, a place remain'd; A sixth pair then our circle join'd, And so that prize was gain'd.
And yet to make us truly blest, One miss'd we, and full sore; A true and tender couple came,-- We needed them no more.
The social banquet now goes on, Unchequer'd by alloy; The sacred double-numbers then Let us at once enjoy! 1802.


by A S J Tessimond | |

Black Morning Lovesong

 In love's dances, in love's dances
One retreats and one advances,
One grows warmer and one colder,
One more hesitant, one bolder.
One gives what the other needed Once, or will need, now unheeded.
One is clenched, compact, ingrowing While the other's melting, flowing.
One is smiling and concealing While the other's asking kneeling.
One is arguing or sleeping While the other's weeping, weeping.
And the question finds no answer And the tune misleads the dancer And the lost look finds no other And the lost hand finds no brother And the word is left unspoken Till the theme and thread are broken.
When shall these divisions alter? Echo's answer seems to falter: 'Oh the unperplexed, unvexed time Next time.
.
.
one day.
.
.
one day.
.
.
next time!'


by Sir Walter Raleigh | |

Song of Myself

 I was a Poet! 
But I did not know it,
Neither did my Mother,
Nor my Sister nor my Brother.
The Rich were not aware of it; The Poor took no care of it.
The Reverend Mr.
Drewitt Never knew it.
The High did not suspect it; The Low could not detect it.
Aunt Sue Said it was obviously untrue.
Uncle Ned Said I was off my head: (This from a Colonial Was really a good testimonial.
) Still everybody seemed to think That genius owes a good deal to drink.
So that is how I am not a poet now, And why My inspiration has run dry.
It is no sort of use To cultivate the Muse If vulgar people Can't tell a village pump from a church steeple.
I am merely apologizing For the lack of the surprising In what I write To-night.
I am quite well-meaning, But a lot of things are always intervening Between What I mean And what it is said I had in my head.
It is all very puzzling.
Uncle Ned Says Poets need muzzling.
He might Be right.
Good-night!


by Arthur Hugh Clough | |

Ah! Yet Consider it Again!

 "Old things need not be therefore true,"
O brother men, nor yet the new;
Ah! still awhile the old thought retain,
And yet consider it again!

The souls of now two thousand years
Have laid up here their toils and tears,
And all the earnings of their pain,--
Ah, yet consider it again!

We! what do we see? each a space
Of some few yards before his face;
Does that the whole wide plan explain?
Ah, yet consider it again!

Alas! the great world goes its way,
And takes its truth from each new day;
They do not quit, nor can retain,
Far less consider it again.