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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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See also: Best Member Poems

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.


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!


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...

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.


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.


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.


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.


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.


by Philip Larkin | |

I Remember I Remember

 Coming up England by a different line
For once, early in the cold new year,
We stopped, and, watching men with number plates
Sprint down the platform to familiar gates,
'Why, Coventry!' I exclaimed.
'I was born here.
' I leant far out, and squinnied for a sign That this was still the town that had been 'mine' So long, but found I wasn't even clear Which side was which.
From where those cycle-crates Were standing, had we annually departed For all those family hols? .
.
.
A whistle went: Things moved.
I sat back, staring at my boots.
'Was that,' my friend smiled, 'where you "have your roots"?' No, only where my childhood was unspent, I wanted to retort, just where I started: By now I've got the whole place clearly charted.
Our garden, first: where I did not invent Blinding theologies of flowers and fruits, And wasn't spoken to by an old hat.
And here we have that splendid family I never ran to when I got depressed, The boys all biceps and the girls all chest, Their comic Ford, their farm where I could be 'Really myself'.
I'll show you, come to that, The bracken where I never trembling sat, Determined to go through with it; where she Lay back, and 'all became a burning mist'.
And, in those offices, my doggerel Was not set up in blunt ten-point, nor read By a distinguished cousin of the mayor, Who didn't call and tell my father There Before us, had we the gift to see ahead - 'You look as though you wished the place in Hell,' My friend said, 'judging from your face.
' 'Oh well, I suppose it's not the place's fault,' I said.
'Nothing, like something, happens anywhere.
'


by Wallace Stevens | |

Continual Conversation With A Silent Man

 The old brown hen and the old blue sky,
Between the two we live and die--
The broken cartwheel on the hill.
As if, in the presence of the sea, We dried our nets and mended sail And talked of never-ending things, Of the never-ending storm of will, One will and many wills, and the wind, Of many meanings in the leaves, Brought down to one below the eaves, Link, of that tempest, to the farm, The chain of the turquoise hen and sky And the wheel that broke as the cart went by.
It is not a voice that is under the eaves.
It is not speech, the sound we hear In this conversation, but the sound Of things and their motion: the other man, A turquoise monster moving round.


by Oscar Wilde | |

ENDYMION (For music)

 The apple trees are hung with gold,
And birds are loud in Arcady,
The sheep lie bleating in the fold,
The wild goat runs across the wold,
But yesterday his love he told,
I know he will come back to me.
O rising moon! O Lady moon! Be you my lover's sentinel, You cannot choose but know him well, For he is shod with purple shoon, You cannot choose but know my love, For he a shepherd's crook doth bear, And he is soft as any dove, And brown and curly is his hair.
The turtle now has ceased to call Upon her crimson-footed groom, The grey wolf prowls about the stall, The lily's singing seneschal Sleeps in the lily-bell, and all The violet hills are lost in gloom.
O risen moon! O holy moon! Stand on the top of Helice, And if my own true love you see, Ah! if you see the purple shoon, The hazel crook, the lad's brown hair, The goat-skin wrapped about his arm, Tell him that I am waiting where The rushlight glimmers in the Farm.
The falling dew is cold and chill, And no bird sings in Arcady, The little fauns have left the hill, Even the tired daffodil Has closed its gilded doors, and still My lover comes not back to me.
False moon! False moon! O waning moon! Where is my own true lover gone, Where are the lips vermilion, The shepherd's crook, the purple shoon? Why spread that silver pavilion, Why wear that veil of drifting mist? Ah! thou hast young Endymion Thou hast the lips that should be kissed!


by James Wright | |

Lying In A Hammock At William Duffys Farm In Pine Island Minnesota

 Over my head, I see the bronze butterfly,
Asleep on the black trunk,
blowing like a leaf in green shadow.
Down the ravine behind the empty house, The cowbells follow one another Into the distances of the afternoon.
To my right, In a field of sunlight between two pines, The droppings of last year's horses Blaze up into golden stones.
I lean back, as the evening darkens and comes on.
A chicken hawk floats over, looking for home.
I have wasted my life.


by Robert William Service | |

Security

 Young man, gather gold and gear,
they will wear you well;
You can thumb your nose at fear,
Wish the horde in hell.
With the haughty you can be Insolent and bold: Young man, if you would be free Gather gear and gold.
Mellow man o middle age, Buy a little farm; Then let revolution rage, you will take no ham.
Cold and hunger, hand in hand May red ruin spread; With your little bit of land You'll be warm and fed.
Old Ma, seek the smiling sun, Wall yourself away; Dream aloof from everyone IN a garden gay.
Let no grieving mar your mood, Have no truck with tears; Greet each day with gratitude - Glean a hundred years.


by Edward Thomas | |

The Manor Farm

 THE rock-like mud unfroze a little, and rills 
Ran and sparkled down each side of the road 
Under the catkins wagging in the hedge.
But earth would have her sleep out, spite of the sun; Nor did I value that thin gliding beam More than a pretty February thing Till I came down to the old manor farm, And church and yew-tree opposite, in age Its equals and in size.
The church and yew And farmhouse slept in a Sunday silentness.
The air raised not a straw.
The steep farm roof, With tiles duskily glowing, entertained The mid-day sun; and up and down the roof White pigeons nestled.
There was no sound but one.
Three cart horses were looking over a gate Drowsily through their forelocks, swishing their tails Against a fly, a solitary fly.
The winter's cheek flushed as if he had drained Spring, summer, and autumn at a draught And smiled quietly.
But 'twas not winter-- Rather a season of bliss unchangeable, Awakened from farm and church where it had lain Safe under tile and latch for ages since This England, Old already, was called Merry.


by Edward Thomas | |

As the Teams Head- Brass

 As the team's head-brass flashed out on the turn
The lovers disappeared into the wood.
I sat among the boughs of the fallen elm That strewed the angle of the fallow, and Watched the plough narrowing a yellow square Of charlock.
Every time the horses turned Instead of treading me down, the ploughman leaned Upon the handles to say or ask a word, About the weather, next about the war.
Scraping the share he faced towards the wood, And screwed along the furrow till the brass flashed Once more.
The blizzard felled the elm whose crest I sat in, by a woodpecker's round hole, The ploughman said.
'When will they take it away? ' 'When the war's over.
' So the talk began – One minute and an interval of ten, A minute more and the same interval.
'Have you been out? ' 'No.
' 'And don't want to, perhaps? ' 'If I could only come back again, I should.
I could spare an arm, I shouldn't want to lose A leg.
If I should lose my head, why, so, I should want nothing more.
.
.
Have many gone From here? ' 'Yes.
' 'Many lost? ' 'Yes, a good few.
Only two teams work on the farm this year.
One of my mates is dead.
The second day In France they killed him.
It was back in March, The very night of the blizzard, too.
Now if He had stayed here we should have moved the tree.
' 'And I should not have sat here.
Everything Would have been different.
For it would have been Another world.
' 'Ay, and a better, though If we could see all all might seem good.
' Then The lovers came out of the wood again: The horses started and for the last time I watched the clods crumble and topple over After the ploughshare and the stumbling team.


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.


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.


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.


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.


by G K Chesterton | |

Wine and Water

 Old Noah he had an ostrich farm and fowls on the largest scale, 
He ate his egg with a ladle in a egg-cup big as a pail, 
And the soup he took was Elephant Soup and fish he took was Whale, 
But they all were small to the cellar he took when he set out to sail, 
And Noah he often said to his wife when he sat down to dine, 
"I don't care where the water goes if it doesn't get into the wine.
" The cataract of the cliff of heaven fell blinding off the brink As if it would wash the stars away as suds go down a sink, The seven heavens came roaring down for the throats of hell to drink, And Noah he cocked his eye and said, "It looks like rain, I think, The water has drowned the Matterhorn as deep as a Mendip mine, But I don't care where the water goes if it doesn't get into the wine.
" But Noah he sinned, and we have sinned; on tipsy feet we trod, Till a great big black teetotaller was sent to us for a rod, And you can't get wine at a P.
S.
A.
, or chapel, or Eisteddfod, For the Curse of Water has come again because of the wrath of God, And water is on the Bishop's board and the Higher Thinker's shrine, But I don't care where the water goes if it doesn't get into the wine.


by G K Chesterton | |

The Wife of Flanders

 Low and brown barns, thatched and repatched and tattered, 
Where I had seven sons until to-day, 
A little hill of hay your spur has scattered.
.
.
.
This is not Paris.
You have lost your way.
You, staring at your sword to find it brittle, Surprised at the surprise that was your plan, Who, shaking and breaking barriers not a little, Find never more the death-door of Sedan -- Must I for more than carnage call you claimant, Paying you a penny for each son you slay? Man, the whole globe in gold were no repayment For what you have lost.
And how shall I repay? What is the price of that red spark that caught me From a kind farm that never had a name? What is the price of that dead man they brought me? For other dead men do not look the same.
How should I pay for one poor graven steeple Whereon you shattered what you shall not know? How should I pay you, miserable people? How should I pay you everything you owe? Unhappy, can I give you back your honour? Though I forgave, would any man forget? While all the great green land has trampled on her The treason and terror of the night we met.
Not any more in vengeance or in pardon An old wife bargains for a bean that's hers.
You have no word to break: no heart to harden.
Ride on and prosper.
You have lost your spurs.


by William Henry Davies | |

The Moon

 Beautiful Moon, with thy silvery light,
Thou seemest most charming to my sight;
As I gaze upon thee in the sky so high,
A tear of joy does moisten mine eye.
Beautiful Moon, with thy silvery light, Thou cheerest the Esquimau in the night; For thou lettest him see to harpoon the fish, And with them he makes a dainty dish.
Beautiful Moon, with thy silvery light, Thou cheerest the fox in the night, And lettest him see to steal the grey goose away Out of the farm-yard from a stack of hay.
Beautiful Moon, with thy silvery light, Thou cheerest the farmer in the night, and makes his heart beat high with delight As he views his crops by the light in the night.
Beautiful Moon, with thy silvery light, Thou cheerest the eagle in the night, And lettest him see to devour his prey And carry it to his nest away.
Beautiful Moon, with thy silvery light, Thou cheerest the mariner in the night As he paces the deck alone, Thinking of his dear friends at home.
Beautiful Moon, with thy silvery light, Thou cheerest the weary traveller in the night; For thou lightest up the wayside around To him when he is homeward bound.
Beautiful Moon, with thy silvery light, Thou cheerest the lovers in the night As they walk through the shady groves alone, Making love to each other before they go home.
Beautiful Moon, with thy silvery light, Thou cheerest the poacher in the night; For thou lettest him see to set his snares To catch the rabbit and the hares.


by Edgar Lee Masters | |

Barry Holden

 The very fall my sister Nancy Knapp
Set fire to the house
They were trying Dr.
Duval For the murder of Zora Clemens, And I sat in the court two weeks Listening to every witness.
It was clear he had got her in a family way; And to let the child be born Would not do.
Well, how about me with eight children, And one coming, and the farm Mortgaged to Thomas Rhodes? And when I got home that night, (After listening to the story of the buggy ride, And the finding of Zora in the ditch,) The first thing I saw, right there by the steps, Where the boys had hacked for angle worms, Was the hatchet! And just as I entered there was my wife, Standing before me, big with child.
She started the talk of the mortgaged farm, And I killed her.


by Edgar Lee Masters | |

Elsa Wertman

 I was a peasant girl from Germany,
Blue-eyed, rosy, happy and strong.
And the first place I worked was at Thomas Greene's.
On a summer's day when she was away He stole into the kitchen and took me Right in his arms and kissed me on my throat, I turning my head.
Then neither of us Seemed to know what happened.
And I cried for what would become of me.
And cried and cried as my secret began to show.
One day Mrs.
Greene said she understood, And would make no trouble for me, And, being childless, would adopt it.
(He had given her a farm to be still.
) So she hid in the house and sent out rumors, As if it were going to happen to her.
And all went well and the child was born -- They were so kind to me.
Later I married Gus Wertman, and years passed.
But -- at political rallies when sitters-by thought I was crying At the eloquence of Hamilton Greene -- That was not it.
No! I wanted to say: That's my son! That's my son!


by Edgar Lee Masters | |

Nancy Knapp

 Well, don't you see this was the way of it:
We bought the farm with what he inherited,
And his brothers and sisters accused him of poisoning
His fathers mind against the rest of them.
And we never had any peace with our treasure.
The murrain took the cattle, and the crops failed.
And lightning struck the granary.
So we mortgaged the farm to keep going.
And he grew silent and was worried all the time.
Then some of the neighbors refused to speak to us, And took sides with his brothers and sisters.
And I had no place to turn, as one may say to himself, At an earlier time in life; "No matter, So and so is my friend, or I can shake this off With a little trip to Decatur.
" Then the dreadfulest smells infested the rooms.
So I set fire to the beds and the old witch-house Went up in a roar of flame, As I danced in the yard with waving arms, While he wept like a freezing steer.