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Best Famous Daughter Poems

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

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by Christina Rossetti | |

A Daughter of Eve

A fool I was to sleep at noon,
  And wake when night is chilly
Beneath the comfortless cold moon;
A fool to pluck my rose too soon,
  A fool to snap my lily.
My garden-plot I have not kept; Faded and all-forsaken, I weep as I have never wept: Oh it was summer when I slept, It's winter now I waken.
Talk what you please of future spring And sun-warm'd sweet to-morrow:— Stripp'd bare of hope and everything, No more to laugh, no more to sing, I sit alone with sorrow.


by Edgar Allan Poe | |

Sonnet -- To Science

Science! true daughter of Old Time thou art!
Who alterest all things with thy peering eyes.
Why preyest thou thus upon the poet's heart Vulture whose wings are dull realities? How should he love thee? or how deem thee wise Who wouldst not leave him in his wandering To seek for treasure in the jewelled skies Albeit he soared with an undaunted wing? Hast thou not dragged Diana from her car? And driven the Hamadryad from the wood To seek a shelter in some happier star? Hast thou not torn the Naiad from her flood The Elfin from the green grass and from me The summer dream beneath the tamarind tree?


by Anna Akhmatova | |

The Grey-Eyed King

Hail! Hail to thee, o, immovable pain!
The young grey-eyed king had been yesterday slain.
This autumnal evening was stuffy and red.
My husband, returning, had quietly said, "He'd left for his hunting; they carried him home; They'd found him under the old oak's dome.
I pity the queen.
He, so young, past away!.
.
.
During one night her black hair turned to grey.
" He found his pipe on a warm fire-place, And quietly left for his usual race.
Now my daughter will wake up and rise -- Mother will look in her dear grey eyes.
.
.
And poplars by windows rustle as sing, "Never again will you see your young king.
.
.
"


by Elizabeth Barrett Browning | |

Consolation

ALL are not taken; there are left behind 
Living Belov¨¨ds tender looks to bring 
And make the daylight still a happy thing  
And tender voices to make soft the wind: 
But if it were not so¡ªif I could find 5 
No love in all this world for comforting  
Nor any path but hollowly did ring 
Where 'dust to dust' the love from life disjoin'd; 
And if before those sepulchres unmoving 
I stood alone (as some forsaken lamb 10 
Goes bleating up the moors in weary dearth) 
Crying 'Where are ye O my loved and loving?'¡ª 
I know a voice would sound 'Daughter I AM.
Can I suffice for Heaven and not for earth?'


by Edward Estlin (E E) Cummings | |

proud of his scientific attitude

proud of his scientific attitude

and liked the prince of wales wife wants to die
but the doctors won't let her comman considers fr
ood
whom he pronounces young mistaken and
cradles in rubbery one somewhat hand
the paper destinies of nations sic
item a bounceless period unshy
the empty house is full O Yes of guk
rooms daughter item son a woopsing queer
colon hobby photography never has plumbed
the heights of prowst but respects artists if
they are sincere proud of his scientif
ic attitude and liked the king of)hear

ye!the godless are the dull and the dull are the
damned


by Alfred Lord Tennyson | |

The Millers Daughter

IT is the miller's daughter, 
And she is grown so dear, so dear, 
That I would be the jewel 
That trembles in her ear: 
For hid in ringlets day and night, 5 
I'd touch her neck so warm and white.
And I would be the girdle About her dainty dainty waist, And her heart would beat against me, In sorrow and in rest: 10 And I should know if it beat right, I'd clasp it round so close and tight.
And I would be the necklace, And all day long to fall and rise Upon her balmy bosom, 15 With her laughter or her sighs: And I would lie so light, so light, I scarce should be unclasp'd at night.


by Philip Larkin | |

Love Songs In Age

 She kept her songs, they kept so little space, 
 The covers pleased her: 
One bleached from lying in a sunny place, 
One marked in circles by a vase of water, 
One mended, when a tidy fit had seized her, 
 And coloured, by her daughter - 
So they had waited, till, in widowhood 
She found them, looking for something else, and stood 

Relearning how each frank submissive chord 
 Had ushered in 
Word after sprawling hyphenated word, 
And the unfailing sense of being young 
Spread out like a spring-woken tree, wherein 
 That hidden freshness sung, 
That certainty of time laid up in store 
As when she played them first.
But, even more, The glare of that much-mentionned brilliance, love, Broke out, to show Its bright incipience sailing above, Still promising to solve, and satisfy, And set unchangeably in order.
So To pile them back, to cry, Was hard, without lamely admitting how It had not done so then, and could not now.


by Richard Wilbur | |

Wedding Toast

 St.
John tells how, at Cana's wedding feast, The water-pots poured wine in such amount That by his sober count There were a hundred gallons at the least.
It made no earthly sense, unless to show How whatsoever love elects to bless Brims to a sweet excess That can without depletion overflow.
Which is to say that what love sees is true; That this world's fullness is not made but found.
Life hungers to abound And pour its plenty out for such as you.
Now, if your loves will lend an ear to mine, I toast you both, good son and dear new daughter.
May you not lack for water, And may that water smack of Cana's wine.


by Henry Van Dyke | |

Jeanne dArc Returns

 1914-1916 

What hast thou done, O womanhood of France,
Mother and daughter, sister, sweetheart, wife,
What hast thou done, amid this fateful strife,
To prove the pride of thine inheritance
In this fair land of freedom and romance?
I hear thy voice with tears and courage rife,--
Smiling against the swords that seek thy life,--
Make answer in a noble utterance:
"I give France all I have, and all she asks.
Would it were more! Ah, let her ask and take: My hands to nurse her wounded, do her tasks,-- My feet to run her errands through the dark,-- My heart to bleed in triumph for her sake,-- And all my soul to follow thee, Jeanne d'Arc!"


by Maria Mazziotti Gillan | |

My Daughter at 14 Christmas Dance 1981

 Panic in your face, you write questions
to ask him.
When he arrives, you are serene, your fear unbetrayed.
How unlike me you are.
After the dance, I see your happiness; he holds your hand.
Though you barely speak, your body pulses messages I can read all too well.
He kisses you goodnight, his body moving toward yours, and yours responding.
I am frightened, guard my tongue for fear my mother will pop out of my mouth.
"He is not shy," I say.
You giggle, a little girl again, but you tell me he kissed you on the dance floor.
"Once?" I ask.
"No, a lot.
" We ride through rain-shining 1 a.
m.
streets.
I bite back words which long to be said, knowing I must not shatter your moment, fragile as a spun-glass bird, you, the moment, poised on the edge of flight, and I, on the ground, afraid.
Maria Mazziotti Gillan Copyright © 1995


by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | |

TO THE GRASSHOPPER.

 AFTER ANACREON.
[The strong resemblance of this fine poem to Cowley's Ode bearing the same name, and beginning "Happy insect! what can be," will be at once seen.
] HAPPY art thou, darling insect, Who, upon the trees' tall branches, By a modest draught inspired, Singing, like a monarch livest! Thou possessest as thy portion All that on the plains thou seest, All that by the hours is brought thee 'Mongst the husbandmen thou livest, As a friend, uninjured by them, Thou whom mortals love to honour, Herald sweet of sweet Spring's advent! Yes, thou'rt loved by all the Muses, Phoebus' self, too, needs must love thee; They their silver voices gave thee, Age can never steal upon thee.
Wise and gentle friend of poets, Born a creature fleshless, bloodless, Though Earth's daughter, free from suff'ring, To the gods e'en almost equal.
1781.


by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | |

PROVERBS.

 'TIS easier far a wreath to bind,
Than a good owner fort to find.
I KILL'D a thousand flies overnight, Yet was waken'd by one, as soon as twas light.
To the mother I give; For the daughter I live.
A BREACH is every day, By many a mortal storm'd; Let them fall in the gaps as they may, Yet a heap of dead is ne'er form'd.
WHAT harm has thy poor mirror done, alas? Look not so ugly, prythee, in the glass! 1815.
*


by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | |

GROWTH.

 O'ER field and plain, in childhood's artless days,

Thou sprang'st with me, on many a spring-morn fair.
"For such a daughter, with what pleasing care, Would I, as father, happy dwellings raise!" And when thou on the world didst cast thy gaze, Thy joy was then in household toils to share.
"Why did I trust her, why she trust me e'er? For such a sister, how I Heaven should praise!" Nothing can now the beauteous growth retard; Love's glowing flame within my breast is fann'd.
Shall I embrace her form, my grief to end? Thee as a queen must I, alas, regard: So high above me placed thou seem'st to stand; Before a passing look I meekly bend.
1807?8.


by Ellis Parker Butler | |

The Daughter Of The Year

 Nature, when she made thee, dear,
Begged the treasures of the year.
For thy cheeks, all pink and white, Spring gave apple blossoms light; Summer, for thy matchless eyes, Gave the azure of her skies; Autumn spun her gold and red In a mass of silken thread— Gold and red and sunlight rare For the wonder of thy hair! Surly Winter would impart But his coldness, for thy heart.
Dearest, let the love I bring Turn thy Winter into Spring.
What are Summer, Spring and Fall, If thy Winter chills them all?


by Mary Elizabeth Coleridge | |

Our Lady

 MOTHER of God! no lady thou:
Common woman of common earth
Our Lady ladies call thee now,
But Christ was never of gentle birth;
A common man of the common earth.
For God’s ways are not as our ways: The noblest lady in the land Would have given up half her days, Would have cut off her right hand, To bear the child that was God of the land.
Never a lady did He choose, Only a maid of low degree, So humble she might not refuse The carpenter of Galilee: A daughter of the people, she.
Out she sang the song of her heart.
Never a lady so had sung.
She knew no letters, had no art; To all mankind, in woman’s tongue, Hath Israelitish Mary sung.
And still for men to come she sings, Nor shall her singing pass away.
‘He hath fillàd the hungry with good things’— O listen, lords and ladies gay!— ‘And the rich He hath sent empty away.


by | |

A Difficult Rhyme


What is the rhyme for porringer?
The king he had a daughter fair,
And gave the Prince of Orange her.


by | |

A Melancholy Song


Trip upon trenchers,
And dance upon dishes,
My mother sent me for some barm, some barm;
She bid me go lightly,
And come again quickly,
For fear the young men should do me some harm.
Yet didn't you see, yet didn't you see,
What naughty tricks they put upon me?
They broke my pitcher
And spilt the water,
And huffed my mother,
And chid her daughter,
And kissed my sister instead of me.


by | |

Little Polly Flinders


Little Polly Flinders
Sat among the cinders
    Warming her pretty little toes;
Her mother came and caught her,
Whipped her little daughter
    For spoiling her nice new clothes.


by | |

The Farmer And The Raven

 

A farmer went trotting upon his gray mare,
    Bumpety, bumpety, bump!
With his daughter behind him so rosy and fair,
    Lumpety, lumpety, lump!
A raven cried croak! and they all tumbled down,
    Bumpety, bumpety, bump!
The mare broke her knees, and the farmer his crown,
    Lumpety, lumpety, lump!
The mischievous raven flew laughing away,
    Bumpety, bumpety, bump!
And vowed he would serve them the same the next day,
    Lumpety, lumpety lump!


by | |

Whistle

 

"Whistle, daughter, whistle;
    Whistle, daughter dear.
"
"I cannot whistle, mammy,
    I cannot whistle clear.
"
"Whistle, daughter, whistle;
    Whistle for a pound.
"
"I cannot whistle, mammy,
    I cannot make a sound.
"