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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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Written by Paul Laurence Dunbar | |


 "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.

Written 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.

Written by Isaac Watts | |

Hymn 122

 Believers buried with Christ in baptism.
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.

More great poems below...

Written by Isaac Watts | |

Hymn 57

 Original sin.
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!

Written by Christina Rossetti | |


 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.

Written 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.

Written by William Strode | |

On The Yong Baronett Portman Dying Of An Impostume Ins Head

 Is Death so cunning now that all her blowe
Aymes at the heade? Doth now her wary Bowe
Make surer worke than heertofore? The steele
Slew warlike heroes onely in the heele.
New found out slights, when men themselves begin To be theyr proper Fates by new found sinne.
Tis cowardize to make a wound so sure; No Art in killing where no Art can cure.
Was it for hate of learning that she smote This upper shoppe where all the Muses wrought? Learning shall crosse her drift, and duly trie All wayes and meanes of immortalitie.
Because her heade was crusht, doth shee desire Our equall shame? In vayne she doth aspire.
No: noe: Wee know where ere shee make a breach Her poysened Sting onely the Heele can reach.
Looke on the Soule of man, the very Heart; The Head itselfe is but a lower parte: Yet hath shee straynde her utmost tyranny, And done her worst in that she came so high.
Had she reservde this stroke for haughty men, For politique Contrivers; justly then The Punishment were matcht with the offence: But when Humility and Innocence So indiscreetly in the Heade are hitt, Death hath done Murther, and shall die for itt: Thinke it no Favour showne because the Braine Is voyde of sence, and therefore free from payne.
Thinke it noe kindness when so stealingly He rather seemde to jest away than die, And like that Innocent, the Widdows childe Cryde out, My head, my head: and so it dyde.
Thinke it was rather double cruelty, Slaughter intended on his Name, that Hee Whose thoughts were nothing taynted, nothing vayne, Might seeme to hide Corruption in his brayne.
How easy might this Blott bee wipte away If any Pen his worth could open lay? For which those Harlott-prayses, which wee reare In common dust, as much too slender are As great for others.
Boasting Elegies Must here bee dumbe.
Desert that overweighs All our Reward stoppes all our Prayse: lest wee Might seeme to give alike to Them and Thee: Wherfore an humble Verse, and such a strayne As mine will hide the truth while others fayne.

Written 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.

Written 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.

Written 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.

Written by Robert William Service | |


 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.

Written by Robert William Service | |

The Three Tommies

 That Barret, the painter of pictures, what feeling for color he had!
And Fanning, the maker of music, such melodies mirthful and mad!
And Harley, the writer of stories, so whimsical, tender and glad!

To hark to their talk in the trenches, high heart unfolding to heart,
Of the day when the war would be over, and each would be true to his part,
Upbuilding a Palace of Beauty to the wonder and glory of Art .
Yon's Barret, the painter of pictures, yon carcass that rots on the wire; His hand with its sensitive cunning is crisped to a cinder with fire; His eyes with their magical vision are bubbles of glutinous mire.
Poor Fanning! He sought to discover the symphonic note of a shell; There are bits of him broken and bloody, to show you the place where he fell; I've reason to fear on his exquisite ear the rats have been banqueting well.
And speaking of Harley, the writer, I fancy I looked on him last, Sprawling and staring and writhing in the roar of the battle blast; Then a mad gun-team crashed over, and scattered his brains as it passed.
Oh, Harley and Fanning and Barret, they were bloody good mates o' mine; Their bodies are empty bottles; Death has guzzled the wine; What's left of them's filth and corruption.
Where is the Fire Divine? I'll tell you.
At night in the trenches, as I watch and I do my part, Three radiant spirits I'm seeing, high heart revealing to heart, And they're building a peerless palace to the splendor and triumph of Art.
Yet, alas! for the fame of Barret, the glory he might have trailed! And alas! for the name of Fanning, a star that beaconed and paled, Poor Harley, obscure and forgotten.
Well, who shall say that they failed! No, each did a Something Grander than ever he dreamed to do; And as for the work unfinished, all will be paid their due; The broken ends will be fitted, the balance struck will be true.
So painters, and players, and penmen, I tell you: Do as you please; Let your fame outleap on the trumpets, you'll never rise up to these -- To three grim and gory Tommies, down, down on your bended knees!

Written 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.

Written 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.

Written 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.