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Best Famous Farm Poems

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

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Written by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow | |

The Fire of Drift-Wood

We sat within the farm-house old,
  Whose windows, looking o'er the bay,
Gave to the sea-breeze damp and cold,
  An easy entrance, night and day.
Not far away we saw the port, The strange, old-fashioned, silent town, The lighthouse, the dismantled fort, The wooden houses, quaint and brown.
We sat and talked until the night, Descending, filled the little room; Our faces faded from the sight, Our voices only broke the gloom.
We spake of many a vanished scene, Of what we once had thought and said, Of what had been, and might have been, And who was changed, and who was dead; And all that fills the hearts of friends, When first they feel, with secret pain, Their lives thenceforth have separate ends, And never can be one again; The first slight swerving of the heart, That words are powerless to express, And leave it still unsaid in part, Or say it in too great excess.
The very tones in which we spake Had something strange, I could but mark; The leaves of memory seemed to make A mournful rustling in the dark.
Oft died the words upon our lips, As suddenly, from out the fire Built of the wreck of stranded ships, The flames would leap and then expire.
And, as their splendor flashed and failed, We thought of wrecks upon the main, Of ships dismasted, that were hailed And sent no answer back again.
The windows, rattling in their frames, The ocean, roaring up the beach, The gusty blast, the bickering flames, All mingled vaguely in our speech; Until they made themselves a part Of fancies floating through the brain, The long-lost ventures of the heart, That send no answers back again.
O flames that glowed! O hearts that yearned! They were indeed too much akin, The drift-wood fire without that burned, The thoughts that burned and glowed within.


Written by Elizabeth Barrett Browning | |

Meeting at Night

        I.
The grey sea and the long black land; And the yellow half-moon large and low; And the startled little waves that leap In fiery ringlets from their sleep, As I gain the cove with pushing prow, And quench its speed i' the slushy sand.
II.
Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach; Three fields to cross till a farm appears; A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch And blue spurt of a lighted match, And a voice less loud, thro' its joys and fears, Than the two hearts beating each to each!


Written by Wang Wei | |

A FARM-HOUSE ON THE WEI RIVER

In the slant of the sun on the country-side, 
Cattle and sheep trail home along the lane; 
And a rugged old man in a thatch door 
Leans on a staff and thinks of his son, the herdboy.
There are whirring pheasants? full wheat-ears, Silk-worms asleep, pared mulberry-leaves.
And the farmers, returning with hoes on their shoulders, Hail one another familiarly.
.
.
.
No wonder I long for the simple life And am sighing the old song, Oh, to go Back Again!


More great poems below...

Written by Siegfried Sassoon | |

Goblin Revel

IN gold and grey with fleering looks of sin 
I watch them come; by two by three by four 
Advancing slow with loutings they begin
Their woven measure widening from the door;
While music-men behind are straddling in 5
With flutes to brisk their feet across the floor ¡ª
And jangled dulcimers and fiddles thin
That taunt the twirling antic through once more.
They pause and hushed to whispers steal away.
With cunning glances; silent go their shoon 10 On creakless stairs; but far away the dogs Bark at some lonely farm: and haply they Have clambered back into the dusky moon That sinks beyond the marshes loud with frogs.


Written by John Greenleaf Whittier | |

Telling the Bees

 Here is the place; right over the hill 
Runs the path I took; 
You can see the gap in the old wall still, 
And the stepping-stones in the shallow brook.
There is the house, with the gate red-barred, And the poplars tall; And the barn's brown length, and the cattle-yard, And the white horns tossing above the wall.
There are the beehives ranged in the sun; And down by the brink Of the brook are her poor flowers, weed-o'errun, Pansy and daffodil, rose and pink.
A year has gone, as the tortoise goes, Heavy and slow; And the same rose blows, and the same sun glows, And the same brook sings of a year ago.
There 's the same sweet clover-smell in the breeze; And the June sun warm Tangles his wings of fire in the trees, Setting, as then, over Fernside farm.
I mind me how with a lover's care From my Sunday coat I brushed off the burrs, and smoothed my hair, And cooled at the brookside my brow and throat.
Since we parted, a month had passed, -- To love, a year; Down through the beeches I looked at last On the little red gate and the well-sweep near.
I can see it all now, -- the slantwise rain Of light through the leaves, The sundown's blaze on her window-pane, The bloom of her roses under the eaves.
Just the same as a month before, -- The house and the trees, The barn's brown gable, the vine by the door, -- Nothing changed but the hives of bees.
Before them, under the garden wall, Forward and back, Went drearily singing the chore-girl small, Draping each hive with a shred of black.
Trembling, I listened: the summer sun Had the chill of snow; For I knew she was telling the bees of one Gone on the journey we all must go! Then I said to myself, "My Mary weeps For the dead to-day: Haply her blind old grandsire sleeps The fret and the pain of his age away.
" But her dog whined low; on the doorway sill, With his cane to his chin, The old man sat; and the chore-girl still Sung to the bees stealing out and in.
And the song she was singing ever since In my ear sounds on: -- "Stay at home, pretty bees, fly not hence! Mistress Mary is dead and gone!"


Written by Robert Seymour Bridges | |

Winter Nightfall

 The day begins to droop,-- 
Its course is done: 
But nothing tells the place 
Of the setting sun.
The hazy darkness deepens, And up the lane You may hear, but cannot see, The homing wain.
An engine pants and hums In the farm hard by: Its lowering smoke is lost In the lowering sky.
The soaking branches drip, And all night through The dropping will not cease In the avenue.
A tall man there in the house Must keep his chair: He knows he will never again Breathe the spring air: His heart is worn with work; He is giddy and sick If he rise to go as far As the nearest rick: He thinks of his morn of life, His hale, strong years; And braves as he may the night Of darkness and tears.


Written by W S Merwin | |

Green Fields

 By this part of the century few are left who believe
 in the animals for they are not there in the carved parts
of them served on plates and the pleas from the slatted trucks
 are sounds of shadows that possess no future
there is still game for the pleasure of killing
 and there are pets for the children but the lives that followed
courses of their own other than ours and older
 have been migrating before us some are already
far on the way and yet Peter with his gaunt cheeks
 and point of white beard the face of an aged Lawrence
Peter who had lived on from another time and country
 and who had seen so many things set out and vanish
still believed in heaven and said he had never once
 doubted it since his childhood on the farm in the days
of the horses he had not doubted it in the worst
 times of the Great War and afterward and he had come
to what he took to be a kind of earthly
 model of it as he wandered south in his sixties
by that time speaking the language well enough
 for them to make him out he took the smallest roads
into a world he thought was a thing of the past
 with wildflowers he scarcely remembered and neighbors
working together scything the morning meadows
 turning the hay before the noon meal bringing it in
by milking time husbandry and abundance
 all the virtues he admired and their reward bounteous
in the eyes of a foreigner and there he remained
 for the rest of his days seeing what he wanted to see
until the winter when he could no longer fork
 the earth in his garden and then he gave away
his house land everything and committed himself
 to a home to die in an old chateau where he lingered
for some time surrounded by those who had lost
 the use of body or mind and as he lay there he told me
that the wall by his bed opened almost every day
 and he saw what was really there and it was eternal life
as he recognized at once when he saw the gardens
 he had made and the green fields where he had been
a child and his mother was standing there then the wall would close
 and around him again were the last days of the world


Written by R S Thomas | |

Ninetieth Birthday

 You go up the long track
That will take a car, but is best walked
On slow foot, noting the lichen
That writes history on the page
Of the grey rock.
Trees are about you At first, but yield to the green bracken, The nightjars house: you can hear it spin On warm evenings; it is still now In the noonday heat, only the lesser Voices sound, blue-fly and gnat And the stream's whisper.
As the road climbs, You will pause for breath and the far sea's Signal will flash, till you turn again To the steep track, buttressed with cloud.
And there at the top that old woman, Born almost a century back In that stone farm, awaits your coming; Waits for the news of the lost village She thinks she knows, a place that exists In her memory only.
You bring her greeting And praise for having lasted so long With time's knife shaving the bone.
Yet no bridge joins her own World with yours, all you can do Is lean kindly across the abyss To hear words that were once wise.


Written by R S Thomas | |

On The Farm

 There was Dai Puw.
He was no good.
They put him in the fields to dock swedes, And took the knife from him, when he came home At late evening with a grin Like the slash of a knife on his face.
There was Llew Puw, and he was no good.
Every evening after the ploughing With the big tractor he would sit in his chair, And stare into the tangled fire garden, Opening his slow lips like a snail.
There was Huw Puw, too.
What shall I say? I have heard him whistling in the hedges On and on, as though winter Would never again leave those fields, And all the trees were deformed.
And lastly there was the girl: Beauty under some spell of the beast.
Her pale face was the lantern By which they read in life's dark book The shrill sentence: God is love.


Written by Erin Belieu | |

Legend of the Albino Farm

 Omaha, Nebraska They do not sleep nights
but stand between

rows of glowing corn and
cabbages grown on acres past

the edge of the city.
Surrendered flags, their nightgowns furl and unfurl around their legs.
Only women could be this white.
Like mules, they are sterile and it appears that their mouths are always open.
Because they are thin as weeds, the albinos look hungry.
If you drive out to the farm, tree branches will point the way.
No map will show where, no phone is listed.
It will seem that the moon, plump above their shoulders, is constant, orange as harvest all year long.
We say, when a mother gives birth to an albino girl, she feigns sleep after labor while an Asian man steals in, spirits the pale baby away.


Written by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | |

THE TRAVELLER AND THE FARM~MAIDEN.

 HE.
CANST thou give, oh fair and matchless maiden, 'Neath the shadow of the lindens yonder,-- Where I'd fain one moment cease to wander,-- Food and drink to one so heavy laden? SHE.
Wouldst thou find refreshment, traveller weary, Bread, ripe fruit and cream to meet thy wishes,-- None but Nature's plain and homely dishes,-- Near the spring may soothe thy wanderings dreary.
HE.
Dreams of old acquaintance now pass through me, Ne'er-forgotten queen of hours of blisses.
Likenesses I've often found, but this is One that quite a marvel seemeth to me! SHE.
Travellers often wonder beyond measure, But their wonder soon see cause to smother; Fair and dark are often like each other, Both inspire the mind with equal pleasure.
HE.
Not now for the first time I surrender To this form, in humble adoration; It was brightest midst the constellation In the hail adorn'd with festal splendour.
SHE.
Be thou joyful that 'tis in my power To complete thy strange and merry story! Silks behind her, full of purple glory, Floated, when thou saw'st her in that hour.
HE.
No, in truth, thou hast not sung it rightly! Spirits may have told thee all about it; Pearls and gems they spoke of, do not doubt it,-- By her gaze eclipsed,--it gleam'd so brightly! SHE.
This one thing I certainly collected: That the fair one--(say nought, I entreat thee!) Fondly hoping once again to meet thee, Many a castle in the air erected.
HE.
By each wind I ceaselessly was driven, Seeking gold and honour, too, to capture! When my wand'rings end, then oh, what rapture, If to find that form again 'tis given! SHE.
'Tis the daughter of the race now banish'd That thou seest, not her likeness only; Helen and her brother, glad though lonely, Till this farm of their estate now vanish'd.
HE.
But the owner surely is not wanting Of these plains, with ev'ry beauty teeming? Verdant fields, broad meads, and pastures gleaming, Gushing springs, all heav'nly and enchanting.
SHE.
Thou must hunt the world through, wouldst thou find him!-- We have wealth enough in our possession, And intend to purchase the succession, When the good man leaves the world behind him.
HE.
I have learnt the owner's own condition, And, fair maiden, thou indeed canst buy it; But the cost is great, I won't deny it,-- Helen is the price,--with thy permission! SHE.
Did then fate and rank keep us asunder, And must Love take this road, and no other? Yonder comes my dear and trusty brother; What will he say to it all, I wonder? 1803.
*


Written by A E Housman | |

March

 The Sun at noon to higher air, 
Unharnessing the silver Pair 
That late before his chariot swam, 
Rides on the gold wool of the Ram.
So braver notes the storm-cock sings To start the rusted wheel of things, And brutes in field and brutes in pen Leap that the world goes round again.
The boys are up the woods with day To fetch the daffodils away, And home at noonday from the hills They bring no dearth of daffodils.
Afield for palms the girls repair, And sure enough the palms are there, And each will find by hedge or pond Her waving silver-tufted wand.
In farm and field through all the shire The eye beholds the heart's desire; Ah, let not only mine be vain, For lovers should be loved again.


Written by A E Housman | |

As Through the Wild Green Hills of Wyre

 As through the wild green hills of Wyre 
The train ran, changing sky and shire, 
And far behind, a fading crest, 
Low in the forsaken west 
Sank the high-reared head of Clee, 
My hand lay empty on my knee.
Aching on my knee it lay: That morning half a shire away So many an honest fellow's fist Had well-nigh wrung it from the wrist.
Hand, said I, since now we part From fields and men we know by heart, For strangers' faces, strangers' lands,-- Hand, you have held true fellows' hands.
Be clean then; rot before you do A thing they'll not believe of you.
You and I must keep from shame In London streets the Shropshire name; On banks of Thames they must not say Severn breeds worse men than they; And friends abroad must bear in mind Friends at home they leave behind.
Oh, I shall be stiff and cold When I forget you, hearts of gold; The land where I shall mind you not Is the land where all's forgot.
And if my foot returns no more To Teme nor Corve nor Severn shore, Luck, my lads, be with you still By falling stream and standing hill, By chiming tower and whispering tree, Men that made a man of me.
About your work in town and farm Still you'll keep my head from harm, Still you'll help me, hands that gave A grasp to friend me to the grave.


Written by A E Housman | |

The Recruit

 Leave your home behind, lad, 
And reach your friends your hand, 
And go, and luck go with you 
While Ludlow tower shall stand.
Oh, come you home of Sunday When Ludlow streets are still And Ludlow bells are calling To farm and lane and mill, Or come you home of Monday When Ludlow market hums And Ludlow chimes are playing "The conquering hero comes," Come you home a hero, Or come not home at all, The lads you leave will mind you Till Ludlow tower shall fall.
And you will list the bugle That blows in lands of morn, And make the foes of England Be sorry you were born.
And you till trump of doomsday On lands of morn may lie, And make the hearts of comrades Be heavy where you die.
Leave your home behind you, Your friends by field and town: Oh, town and field will mind you Till Ludlow tower is down.


Written by A E Housman | |

1887

 From Clee to heaven the beacon burns, 
The shires have seen it plain, 
From north and south the sign returns 
And beacons burn again.
Look left, look right, the hills are bright, The dales are light between, Because 'tis fifty years to-night That God has saved the Queen.
Now, when the flame they watch not towers About the soil they trod, Lads, we'll remember friends of ours Who shared the work with God.
To skies that knit their heartstrings right, To fields that bred them brave, The saviours come not home to-night: Themselves they could not save.
It dawns in Asia, tombstones show And Shropshire names are read; And the Nile spills his overflow Beside the Severn's dead.
We pledge in peace by farm and town The Queen they served in war, And fire the beacons up and down The land they perished for.
"God save the Queen" we living sing, From height to height 'tis heard; And with the rest your voices ring, Lads of the Fifty-third.
Oh, God will save her, fear you not: Be you the men you've been, Get you the sons your fathers got, And God will save the Queen.