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Best Famous Corruption Poems

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

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by Paul Laurence Dunbar | |

Theology

 "No, the serpent did not
Seduce Eve to the apple.
All that's simply Corruption of the facts.
Adam ate the apple.
Eve ate Adam.
The serpent ate Eve.
This is the dark intestine.
The serpent, meanwhile, Sleeps his meal off in Paradise - Smiling to hear God's querulous calling.
"


by Edmund Spenser | |

Amoretti LXXIX: Men Call you Fair

 Men call you fair, and you do credit it,
For that your self ye daily such do see:
But the true fair, that is the gentle wit,
And vertuous mind, is much more prais'd of me.
For all the rest, how ever fair it be, Shall turn to naught and lose that glorious hue: But only that is permanent and free From frail corruption, that doth flesh ensue.
That is true beauty: that doth argue you To be divine, and born of heavenly seed: Deriv'd from that fair Spirit, from whom all true And perfect beauty did at first proceed.
He only fair, and what he fair hath made, All other fair, like flowers untimely fade.


by Edmund Spenser | |

Sonnet LXXIX

 MEn call you fayre, and you doe credit it,
For that your selfe ye dayly such doe see:
but the trew fayre, that is the gentle wit,
and vertuous mind is much more praysd of me.
For all the rest, how euer fayre it be, shall turne to nought and loose that glorious hew: but onely that is permanent and free from frayle corruption, that doth flesh ensew.
That is true beautie: that doth argue you to be diuine and borne of heauenly seed: deriu'd from that fayre Spirit, from whom al true and perfect beauty did at first proceed.
He only fayre, and what he fayre hath made, all other fayre lyke flowres vntymely fade.


More great poems below...

by Christina Rossetti | |

Remember

 Remember me when I am gone away,
 Gone far away into the silent land;
 When you can no more hold me by the hand,
Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.
Remember me when no more day by day You tell me of our future that you plann'd: Only remember me; you understand It will be late to counsel then or pray.
Yet if you should forget me for a while And afterwards remember, do not grieve: For if the darkness and corruption leave A vestige of the thoughts that once I had, Better by far you should forget and smile Than that you should remember and be sad.


by William Strode | |

On Gray Eyes

 Looke how the russet morne exceeds the night,
How sleekest Jett yields to the di'monds light,
So farr the glory of the gray-bright eye
Out-vyes the black in lovely majesty.
A morning mantl'd with a fleece of gray Laughs from her brow and shewes a spotlesse day: This di'mond-like doth not his lustre owe To borrowed helpe, as black thinges cast a show, It needs noe day besides itselfe, and can Make a Cimmeria seeme meridian: Light sees, tis seen, tis that whereby wee see When darknesse in the opticke facultie Is but a single element: then tell Is not that eye the best wherein doth dwell More plenteous light? that organ is divine, And more than eye that is all chrystalline, All rich of sight: oh that perspicuous glasse That lets in light, and lets a light forth passe Tis Lustre's thoroughfare where rayes doe thronge, A burning glasse that fires the lookers-on.
Black eies sett off coarse beauties which they grace But as a beard smutch'd on a swarthy face.
Why should the seat of life be dull'd with shade, Or that be darke for which the day was made? The learned Pallas, who had witt to choose, And power to take, did other eyes refuse, And wore the gray: each country painter blotts His goddesse eyeballs with two smutty spotts.
Corruption layes on blacke; give me the eye Whose lustre dazles paynt and poetrie, That's day unto itselfe; which like the sun Seemes all one flame.
They that his beames will shun Here dye like flyes: when eyes of every kind Faint at the sun, at these the sun growes blind, And skipps behind a cloud, that all may say The Eye of all the world loves to be gray.


by Robert William Service | |

Sinister Sooth

 Because my eyes were none to bright
 Strong spectacles I bought,
And lo! there sprang into my sight
 A life beyond my thought:
A world of wonder and delight
 My magic lenses brought.
Aye, sudden leaping in my sight The far became the near; Life unbelievably was bright, And vividly was clear.
My heart was lifted with delight, Then--then I shrank in fear.
For faces I had thought were gay I saw were lined with care, While strange corruption and decay Surprised me everywhere: Dismayed I put my specs away,-- Such truth I could not bear.
And now I do not want to see With clarity of view; For while there's heaven hell may be More tragically true: Though dim may be Reality, Sheer love shines through.


by Robert William Service | |

Visibility

 Because my eyes were none to bright
 Strong spectacles I bought,
And lo! there sprang into my sight
 A life beyond my thought:
A world of wonder and delight
 My magic lenses brought.
Aye, sudden leaping in my sight The far became the near; Life unbelievably was bright, And vividly was clear.
My heart was lifted with delight, Then--then I shrank in fear.
For faces I had thought were gay I saw were lined with care, While strange corruption and decay Surprised me everywhere: Dismayed I put my specs away,-- Such truth I could not bear.
And now I do not want to see With clarity of view; For while there's heaven hell may be More tragically true: Though dim may be Reality, Sheer love shines through.


by Isaac Watts | |

Hymn 122

 Believers buried with Christ in baptism.
Rom.
6:3,4,etc.
Do we not know that solemn word, That we are buried with the Lord, Baptized into his death, and then Put off the body of our sin? Our souls receive diviner breath, Raised from corruption, guilt, and death; So from the grave did Christ arise, And lives to God above the skies.
No more let sin or Satan reign Over our mortal flesh again; The various lusts we served before Shall have dominion now no more.


by Isaac Watts | |

Hymn 57

 Original sin.
Rom.
5:12, etc.
; Psa.
51:5; Job 14:4.
Backward with humble shame we look On our original; How is our nature dashed and broke In our first father's fall! To all that's good averse and blind, But prone to all that's ill What dreadful darkness veils our mind! How obstinate our will! [Conceived in sin, O wretched state! Before we draw our breath The first young pulse begins to beat Iniquity and death.
How strong in our degen'rate blood The old corruption reigns, And, mingling with the crooked flood, Wanders through all our veins.
] [Wild and unwholesome as the root Will all the branches be; How can we hope for living fruit From such a deadly tree? What mortal power from things unclean Can pure productions bring? Who can command a vital stream From an infected spring?] Yet, mighty God! thy wondrous love Can make our nature clean, While Christ and grace prevail above The tempter, death, and sin.
The second Adam shall restore The ruins of the first; Hosannah to that sovereign power That new-creates our dust!


by Gerard Manley Hopkins | |

On the Portrait of Two Beautiful Young People

 A Brother and Sister


O I admire and sorrow! The heart’s eye grieves 
Discovering you, dark tramplers, tyrant years.
A juice rides rich through bluebells, in vine leaves, And beauty’s dearest veriest vein is tears.
Happy the father, mother of these! Too fast: Not that, but thus far, all with frailty, blest In one fair fall; but, for time’s aftercast, Creatures all heft, hope, hazard, interest.
And are they thus? The fine, the fingering beams Their young delightful hour do feature down That fleeted else like day-dissolv?d dreams Or ringlet-race on burling Barrow brown.
She leans on him with such contentment fond As well the sister sits, would well the wife; His looks, the soul’s own letters, see beyond, Gaze on, and fall directly forth on life.
But ah, bright forelock, cluster that you are Of favoured make and mind and health and youth, Where lies your landmark, seamark, or soul’s star? There’s none but truth can stead you.
Christ is truth.
There ’s none but good can b? good, both for you And what sways with you, maybe this sweet maid; None good but God—a warning wav?d to One once that was found wanting when Good weighed.
Man lives that list, that leaning in the will No wisdom can forecast by gauge or guess, The selfless self of self, most strange, most still, Fast furled and all foredrawn to No or Yes.
Your feast of; that most in you earnest eye May but call on your banes to more carouse.
Worst will the best.
What worm was here, we cry, To have havoc-pocked so, see, the hung-heavenward boughs? Enough: corruption was the world’s first woe.
What need I strain my heart beyond my ken? O but I bear my burning witness though Against the wild and wanton work of men.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.


by Kahlil Gibran | |

The House of Fortune III

 My wearied heart bade me farewell and left for the House of Fortune.
As he reached that holy city which the soul had blessed and worshipped, he commenced wondering, for he could not find what he had always imagined would be there.
The city was empty of power, money, and authority.
And my heart spoke to the daughter of Love saying, "Oh Love, where can I find Contentment? I heard that she had come here to join you.
" And the daughter of Love responded, "Contentment has already gone to preach her gospel in the city, where greed and corruption are paramount; we are not in need of her.
" Fortune craves not Contentment, for it is an earthly hope, and its desires are embraced by union with objects, while Contentment is naught but heartfelt.
The eternal soul is never contented; it ever seeks exaltation.
Then my heart looked upon Life of Beauty and said: "Thou art all knowledge; enlighten me as to the mystery of Woman.
" And he answered, "Oh human heart, woman is your own reflection, and whatever you are, she is; wherever you live, she lives; she is like religion if not interpreted by the ignorant, and like a moon, if not veiled with clouds, and like a breeze, if not poisoned with impurities.
" And my heart walked toward Knowledge, the daughter of Love and Beauty, and said, "Bestow upon me wisdom, that I might share it with the people.
" And she responded, "Say not wisdom, but rather fortune, for real fortune comes not from outside, but begins in the Holy of Holies of life.
Share of thyself with the people.
"


by Robinson Jeffers | |

Shine Perishing Republic

 While this America settles in the mould of its vulgarity, heavily thickening 
 to empire
And protest, only a bubble in the molten mass, pops and sighs out, and the
 mass hardens,
I sadly smiling remember that the flower fades to make fruit, the fruit rots 
 to make earth.
Out of the mother; and through the spring exultances, ripeness and deca- dence; and home to the mother.
You making haste haste on decay: not blameworthy; life is good, be it stub- bornly long or suddenly A mortal splendor: meteors are not needed less than mountains: shine, perishing republic.
But for my children, I would have them keep their distance from the thick- ening center; corruption Never has been compulsory, when the cities lie at the monster's feet there are left the mountains.
And boys, be in nothing so moderate as in love of man, a clever servant, insufferable master.
There is the trap that catches noblest spirits, that caught--they say-- God, when he walked on earth.


by Robinson Jeffers | |

Be Angry At The Sun

 That public men publish falsehoods
Is nothing new.
That America must accept Like the historical republics corruption and empire Has been known for years.
Be angry at the sun for setting If these things anger you.
Watch the wheel slope and turn, They are all bound on the wheel, these people, those warriors.
This republic, Europe, Asia.
Observe them gesticulating, Observe them going down.
The gang serves lies, the passionate Man plays his part; the cold passion for truth Hunts in no pack.
You are not Catullus, you know, To lampoon these crude sketches of Caesar.
You are far From Dante's feet, but even farther from his dirty Political hatreds.
Let boys want pleasure, and men Struggle for power, and women perhaps for fame, And the servile to serve a Leader and the dupes to be duped.
Yours is not theirs.


by Emily Bronte | |

I am the only being whose doom...

 I am the only being whose doom
No tongue would ask no eye would mourn
I never caused a thought of gloom
A smile of joy since I was born 

In secret pleasure - secret tears
This changeful life has slipped away
As friendless after eighteen years
As lone as on my natal day 

There have been times I cannot hide
There have been times when this was drear
When my sad soul forgot its pride
And longed for one to love me here 

But those were in the early glow
Of feelings since subdued by care
And they have died so long ago
I hardly now believe they were 

First melted off the hope of youth
Then Fancy's rainbow fast withdrew
And then experience told me truth
In mortal bosoms never grew 

'Twas grief enough to think mankind
All hollow servile insincere -
But worse to trust to my own mind
And find the same corruption there


by Willa Cather | |

LONDON ROSES

 "ROWSES, Rowses! Penny a bunch!" they tell you-- 
Slattern girls in Trafalgar, eager to sell you.
Roses, roses, red in the Kensington sun, Holland Road, High Street, Bayswater, see you and smell you-- Roses of London town, red till the summer is done.
Roses, roses, locust and lilac, perfuming West End, East End, wondrously budding and blooming Out of the black earth, rubbed in a million hands, Foot-trod, sweat-sour over and under, entombing Highways of darkness, deep gutted with iron bands.
"Rowses, rowses! Penny a bunch!" they tell you, Ruddy blooms of corruption, see you and smell you, Born of stale earth, fallowed with squalor and tears-- North shire, south shire, none are like these, I tell you, Roses of London perfumed with a thousand years.


by Laurence Binyon | |

The Burning of the Leaves

 Now is the time for the burning of the leaves, 
They go to the fire; the nostrils prick with smoke 
Wandering slowly into the weeping mist.
Brittle and blotched, ragged and rotten sheaves! A flame seizes the smouldering ruin, and bites On stubborn stalks that crackle as they resist.
The last hollyhock’s fallen tower is dust: All the spices of June are a bitter reek, All the extravagant riches spent and mean.
All burns! the reddest rose is a ghost.
Spark whirl up, to expire in the mist: the wild Fingers of fire are making corruption clean.
Now is the time for stripping the spirit bare, Time for the burning of days ended and done, Idle solace of things that have gone before, Rootless hope and fruitless desire are there: Let them go to the fire with never a look behind.
That world that was ours is a world that is ours no more.
They will come again, the leaf and the flower, to arise From squalor of rottenness into the old splendour, And magical scents to a wondering memory bring; The same glory, to shine upon different eyes.
Earth cares for her own ruins, naught for ours.
Nothing is certain, only the certain spring.


by John Donne | |

Holy Sonnet XII: Why Are We By All Creatures Waited On?

 Why are we by all creatures waited on?
Why do the prodigal elements supply
Life and food to me, being more pure than I,
Simple, and further from corruption?
Why brook'st thou, ignorant horse, subjection?
Why dost thou, bull, and bore so seelily,
Dissemble weakness, and by one man's stroke die,
Whose whole kind you might swallow and feed upon?
Weaker I am, woe is me, and worse than you,
You have not sinned, nor need be timorous.
But wonder at a greater wonder, for to us Created nature doth these things subdue, But their Creator, whom sin nor nature tied, For us, His creatures, and His foes, hath died.


by John Donne | |

A Fever

 Oh do not die, for I shall hate
 All women so, when thou art gone,
That thee I shall not celebrate,
 When I remember, thou wast one.
But yet thou canst not die, I know, To leave this world behind, is death, But when thou from this world wilt go, The whole world vapors with thy breath.
Or if, when thou, the world's soul, goest, It stay, 'tis but thy carcass then, The fairest woman, but thy ghost, But corrupt worms, the worthiest men.
O wrangling schools, that search what fire Shall burn this world, had none the wit Unto this knowledge to aspire, That this her fever might be it? And yet she cannot waste by this, Nor long bear this torturing wrong, For much corruption needful is To fuel such a fever long.
These burning fits but meteors be, Whose matter in thee is soon spent.
Thy beauty, and all parts, which are thee, Are unchangeable firmament.
Yet 'twas of my mind, seizing thee, Though it in thee cannot persever.
For I had rather owner be, Of thee one hour, than all else ever.


by Rudyard Kipling | |

The Bees and the Flies

 "The Mother Hive"-- Actions and Reactions

A Farmer of the Augustan Age
Perused in Virgil's golden page
The story of the secret won
From Proteus by Cyrene's son--
How the dank sea-god showed the swain
Means to restore his hives again.
More briefly, how a slaughtered bull Breeds honey by the bellyful.
The egregious rustic put to death A bull by stopping of its breath, Disposed the carcass in a shed With fragrant herbs and branches spread, And, having well performed the charm, Sat down to wait the promised swarm.
Nor waited long.
The God of Day Impartial, quickening with his ray Evil and good alike, beheld The carcass--and the carcass swelled.
Big with new birth the belly heaves Beneath its screen of scented leaves.
Past any doubt, the bull conceives! The farmer bids men bring more hives To house the profit that arrives; Prepares on pan and key and.
kettle, Sweet music that shall make 'em settle; But when to crown the work he goes, Gods! What a stink salutes his nose! Where are the honest toilers.
Where The.
gravid mistress of their care? A busy scene, indeed, he sees, But not a sign or sound of bees.
Worms of the riper grave unhid By any kindly coffin-lid, Obscene and shameless to the light, Seethe in insatiate appetite, Through putrid offal, while--above The hissing blow-fly seeks his love, Whose offspring, supping where they supt, Consume corruption twice corrupt.


by Rudyard Kipling | |

The Floods

 The rain it rains without a stay
 In the hills above us, in the hills;
And presently the floods break way
 Whose strength is in the hills.
The trees they suck from every cloud, The valley brooks they roar aloud-- Bank-high for the lowlands, lowlands, Lowlands under the hills! The first wood down is sere and small, From the hills--the brishings off the hills; And then come by the bats and all We cut last year in the hills; And then the roots we tried to cleave But found too tough and had to leave-- Polting through the lowlands, lowlands, Lowlands under the hills! The eye shall look, the ear shall hark To the hills, the doings in the hills, And rivers mating in the dark With tokens from the hills.
Now what is weak will! surely go, And what is strong must prove it so-- Stand Fast in the lowlands, lowlands, Lowlands under the hills! The floods they shall not be afraid-- Nor the hills above 'em, nor the hills-- Of any fence which man has made Betwixt him and the hills.
The waters shall not reckon twice For any work of man's device, But bid it down to the lowlands, lowlands, Lowlands under the hills! The floods shall sweep corruption clean-- By the hills, the blessing of the hills-- That more the meadows may be green New-mended from the hills.
The crops and cattle shall increase, Nor little children shall not cease.
Go--plough the lowlands, lowlands, Lowlands under the hills!


by Rupert Brooke | |

Dust

 When the white flame in us is gone,
And we that lost the world's delight
Stiffen in darkness, left alone
To crumble in our separate night;

When your swift hair is quiet in death,
And through the lips corruption thrust
Has stilled the labour of my breath --
When we are dust, when we are dust! --

Not dead, not undesirous yet,
Still sentient, still unsatisfied,
We'll ride the air, and shine, and flit,
Around the places where we died,

And dance as dust before the sun,
And light of foot, and unconfined,
Hurry from road to road, and run
About the errands of the wind.
And every mote, on earth or air, Will speed and gleam, down later days, And like a secret pilgrim fare By eager and invisible ways, Nor ever rest, nor ever lie, Till, beyond thinking, out of view, One mote of all the dust that's I Shall meet one atom that was you.
Then in some garden hushed from wind, Warm in a sunset's afterglow, The lovers in the flowers will find A sweet and strange unquiet grow Upon the peace; and, past desiring, So high a beauty in the air, And such a light, and such a quiring, And such a radiant ecstasy there, They'll know not if it's fire, or dew, Or out of earth, or in the height, Singing, or flame, or scent, or hue, Or two that pass, in light, to light, Out of the garden, higher, higher.
.
.
.
But in that instant they shall learn The shattering ecstasy of our fire, And the weak passionless hearts will burn And faint in that amazing glow, Until the darkness close above; And they will know -- poor fools, they'll know! -- One moment, what it is to love.


by Emily Dickinson | |

Sown in dishonor!

 "Sown in dishonor"!
Ah! Indeed!
May this "dishonor" be?
If I were half so fine myself
I'd notice nobody!

"Sown in corruption"!
Not so fast!
Apostle is askew!
Corinthians 1.
15.
narrates A Circumstance or two!