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Best Famous Flying Poems

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

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See also: Best Member Poems

by Alfred Lord Tennyson | |

Blow Bugle blow

THE splendour falls on castle walls 
And snowy summits old in story: 
The long light shakes across the lakes  
And the wild cataract leaps in glory.
Blow bugle blow set the wild echoes flying 5 Blow bugle; answer echoes dying dying dying.
O hark O hear! how thin and clear And thinner clearer farther going! O sweet and far from cliff and scar The horns of Elfland faintly blowing! 10 Blow let us hear the purple glens replying: Blow bugle; answer echoes dying dying dying.
O love they die in yon rich sky They faint on hill or field or river: Our echoes roll from soul to soul 15 And grow for ever and for ever.
Blow bugle blow set the wild echoes flying And answer echoes answer dying dying dying.


by Galway Kinnell | |

from Flying Home

3 
As this plane dragged 
its track of used ozone half the world long 
thrusts some four hundred of us 
toward places where actual known people 
live and may wait, 
we diminish down in our seats, 
disappeared into novels of lives clearer than ours, 
and yet we do not forget for a moment 
the life down there, the doorway each will soon enter: 
where I will meet her again 
and know her again, 
dark radiance with, and then mostly without, the stars.
Very likely she has always understood what I have slowly learned, and which only now, after being away, almost as far away as one can get on this globe, almost as far as thoughts can carry - yet still in her presence, still surrounded not so much by reminders of her as by things she had already reminded me of, shadows of her cast forward and waiting - can I try to express: that love is hard, that while many good things are easy, true love is not, because love is first of all a power, its own power, which continually must make its way forward, from night into day, from transcending union always forward into difficult day.
And as the plane descends, it comes to me in the space where tears stream down across the stars, tears fallen on the actual earth where their shining is what we call spirit, that once the lover recognizes the other, knows for the first time what is most to be valued in another, from then on, love is very much like courage, perhaps it is courage, and even perhaps only courage.
Squashed out of old selves, smearing the darkness of expectation across experience, all of us little thinkers it brings home having similar thoughts of landing to the imponderable world, the transoceanic airliner, resting its huge weight down, comes in almost lightly, to where with sudden, tiny, white puffs and long, black, rubberish smears all its tires know the home ground.


by Wallace Stevens | |

Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird

I 
Among twenty snowy mountains, 
The only moving thing 
Was the eye of the blackbird.
II I was of three minds, Like a tree In which there are three blackbirds.
III The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds.
It was a small part of the pantomime.
IV A man and a woman Are one.
A man and a woman and a blackbird Are one.
V I do not know which to prefer, The beauty of inflections Or the beauty of innuendoes, The blackbird whistling Or just after.
VI Icicles filled the long window With barbaric glass.
The shadow of the blackbird Crossed it, to and fro.
The mood Traced in the shadow An indecipherable cause.
VII O thin men of Haddam, Why do you imagine golden birds? Do you not see how the blackbird Walks around the feet Of the women about you? VIII I know noble accents And lucid, inescapable rhythms; But I know, too, That the blackbird is involved In what I know.
IX When the blackbird flew out of sight, It marked the edge Of one of many circles.
X At the sight of blackbirds Flying in a green light, Even the bawds of euphony Would cry out sharply.
XI He rode over Connecticut In a glass coach.
Once, a fear pierced him, In that he mistook The shadow of his equipage For blackbirds.
XII The river is moving.
The blackbird must be flying.
XIII It was evening all afternoon.
It was snowing And it was going to snow.
The blackbird sat In the cedar-limbs.


More great poems below...

by Wang Wei | |

A SONG OF A GIRL FROM LOYANG

There's a girl from Loyang in the door across the street, 
She looks fifteen, she may be a little older.
.
.
.
While her master rides his rapid horse with jade bit an bridle, Her handmaid brings her cod-fish in a golden plate.
On her painted pavilions, facing red towers, Cornices are pink and green with peach-bloom and with willow, Canopies of silk awn her seven-scented chair, And rare fans shade her, home to her nine-flowered curtains.
Her lord, with rank and wealth and in the bud of life, Exceeds in munificence the richest men of old.
He favours this girl of lowly birth, he has her taught to dance; And he gives away his coral-trees to almost anyone.
The wind of dawn just stirs when his nine soft lights go out, Those nine soft lights like petals in a flying chain of flowers.
Between dances she has barely time for singing over the songs; No sooner is she dressed again than incense burns before her.
Those she knows in town are only the rich and the lavish, And day and night she is visiting the hosts of the gayest mansions.
.
.
.
Who notices the girl from Yue with a face of white jade, Humble, poor, alone, by the river, washing silk?


by Elizabeth Bishop | |

The Armadillo

for Robert Lowell


This is the time of year
when almost every night
the frail, illegal fire balloons appear.
Climbing the mountain height, rising toward a saint still honored in these parts, the paper chambers flush and fill with light that comes and goes, like hearts.
Once up against the sky it's hard to tell them from the stars-- planets, that is--the tinted ones: Venus going down, or Mars, or the pale green one.
With a wind, they flare and falter, wobble and toss; but if it's still they steer between the kite sticks of the Southern Cross, receding, dwindling, solemnly and steadily forsaking us, or, in the downdraft from a peak, suddenly turning dangerous.
Last night another big one fell.
It splattered like an egg of fire against the cliff behind the house.
The flame ran down.
We saw the pair of owls who nest there flying up and up, their whirling black-and-white stained bright pink underneath, until they shrieked up out of sight.
The ancient owls' nest must have burned.
Hastily, all alone, a glistening armadillo left the scene, rose-flecked, head down, tail down, and then a baby rabbit jumped out, short-eared, to our surprise.
So soft!--a handful of intangible ash with fixed, ignited eyes.
Too pretty, dreamlike mimicry! O falling fire and piercing cry and panic, and a weak mailed fist clenched ignorant against the sky!


by | |

Hymn to Diana

QUEEN and huntress chaste and fair  
Now the sun is laid to sleep  
Seated in thy silver chair  
State in wonted manner keep: 
Hesperus entreats thy light 5 
Goddess excellently bright.
Earth let not thy envious shade Dare itself to interpose; Cynthia's shining orb was made Heaven to clear when day did close: 10 Bless us then with wish¨¨d sight Goddess excellently bright.
Lay thy bow of pearl apart And thy crystal-shining quiver; Give unto the flying hart 15 Space to breathe how short soever: Thou that mak'st a day of night¡ª Goddess excellently bright.


by Sara Teasdale | |

Come

 Come, when the pale moon like a petal
 Floats in the pearly dusk of spring,
Come with arms outstretched to take me,
 Come with lips pursed up to cling.
Come, for life is a frail moth flying, Caught in the web of the years that pass, And soon we two, so warm and eager, Will be as the gray stones in the grass.


by | |

The Flying Pig


Dickory, dickory, dare,
The pig flew up in the air;
The man in brown soon brought
      him down,
          Dickory,
            dickory,
              dare.



by Anonymous | |

THE SPRING BIRD’S LESSON.

Thou’rt up betimes, my little bird,
And out this morning early,
For still the tender bud is closed,
And still the grass is pearly.
Why rise so soon, thou little bird,
Thy soft, warm nest forsaking?
To brave the dull, cold morning sky,
While day is scarcely breaking?Ah! thou art wise, thou little bird,
For fast the hours are flying;
And this young day, but dawning now,
Will soon, alas! be dying.
I’ll learn of thee, thou little bird,
And slothful habits scorning,
No longer sleep youth’s dawn away,
Nor waste life’s precious morning.
[Pg 018]


by Ruth Stone | |

Always on the Train

Writing poems about writing poems
is like rolling bales of hay in Texas.
Nothing but the horizon to stop you.
But consider the railroad's edge of metal trash; bird perches, miles of telephone wires.
What is so innocent as grazing cattle? If you think about it, it turns into words.
Trash is so cheerful; flying up like grasshoppers in front of the reaper.
The dust devil whirls it aloft; bronze candy wrappers, squares of clear plastic--windows on a house of air.
Below the weedy edge in last year's mat, red and silver beer cans.
In bits blown equally everywhere, the gaiety of flying paper and the black high flung patterns of flocking birds.


by Margaret Atwood | |

Flying Inside Your Own Body

 Your lungs fill & spread themselves,
wings of pink blood, and your bones
empty themselves and become hollow.
When you breathe in you’ll lift like a balloon and your heart is light too & huge, beating with pure joy, pure helium.
The sun’s white winds blow through you, there’s nothing above you, you see the earth now as an oval jewel, radiant & seablue with love.
It’s only in dreams you can do this.
Waking, your heart is a shaken fist, a fine dust clogs the air you breathe in; the sun’s a hot copper weight pressing straight down on the think pink rind of your skull.
It’s always the moment just before gunshot.
You try & try to rise but you cannot.


by Robert Seymour Bridges | |

Awake My Heart

 Awake, my heart, to be loved, awake, awake!

The darkness silvers away, the morn doth break,
It leaps in the sky: unrisen lustres slake
The o'ertaken moon.
Awake, O heart, awake! She too that loveth awaketh and hopes for thee: Her eyes already have sped the shades that flee, Already they watch the path thy feet shall take: Awake, O heart, to be loved, awake, awake! And if thou tarry from her, - if this could be, - She cometh herself, O heart, to be loved, to thee; For thee would unashamed herself forsake: Awake, to be loved, my heart, awake, awake! Awake! The land is scattered with light, and see, Uncanopied sleep is flying from field and tree; And blossoming boughs of April in laughter shake: Awake, O heart, to be loved, awake, awake! Lo, all things wake and tarry and look for thee: She looketh and saith, "O sun, now bring him to me.
Come, more adored, O adored, for his coming's sake, And awake, my heart, to be loved, awake, awake!"


by John Greenleaf Whittier | |

What the Birds Said

 The birds against the April wind 
Flew northward, singing as they flew; 
They sang, "The land we leave behind 
Has swords for corn-blades, blood for dew.
" "O wild-birds, flying from the South, What saw and heard ye, gazing down?" "We saw the mortar's upturned mouth, The sickened camp, the blazing town! "Beneath the bivouac's starry lamps, We saw your march-worn children die; In shrouds of moss, in cypress swamps, We saw your dead uncoffined lie.
"We heard the starving prisoner's sighs And saw, from line and trench, your sons Follow our flight with home-sick eyes Beyond the battery's smoking guns.
" "And heard and saw ye only wrong And pain," I cried, "O wing-worn flocks?" "We heard," they sang, "the freedman's song, The crash of Slavery's broken locks! "We saw from new, uprising States The treason-nursing mischief spurned, As, crowding Freedom's ample gates, The long-estranged and lost returned.
"O'er dusky faces, seamed and old, And hands horn-hard with unpaid toil, With hope in every rustling fold, We saw your star-dropt flag uncoil.
"And struggling up through sounds accursed, A grateful murmur clomb the air; A whisper scarcely heard at first, It filled the listening heavens with prayer.
"And sweet and far, as from a star, Replied a voice which shall not cease, Till, drowning all the noise of war, It sings the blessed song of peace!" So to me, in a doubtful day Of chill and slowly greening spring, Low stooping from the cloudy gray, The wild-birds sang or seemed to sing.
They vanished in the misty air, The song went with them in their flight; But lo! they left the sunset fair, And in the evening there was light.


by Oliver Wendell Holmes | |

The September Gale

 I'M not a chicken; I have seen 
Full many a chill September, 
And though I was a youngster then, 
That gale I well remember; 
The day before, my kite-string snapped, 
And I, my kite pursuing, 
The wind whisked off my palm-leaf hat; 
For me two storms were brewing!

It came as quarrels sometimes do, 
When married folks get clashing;
There was a heavy sigh or two, 
Before the fire was flashing, 
A little stir among the clouds,
Before they rent asunder,--
A little rocking of the trees, 
And then came on the thunder.
Lord! how the ponds and rivers boiled! They seemed like bursting craters! And oaks lay scattered on the ground As if they were p'taters And all above was in a howl, And all below a clatter, The earth was like a frying-pan, Or some such hissing matter.
It chanced to be our washing-day, And all our things were drying; The storm came roaring through the lines, And set them all a flying; I saw the shirts and petticoats Go riding off like witches; I lost, ah! bitterly I wept,-- I lost my Sunday breeches! I saw them straddling through the air, Alas! too late to win them; I saw them chase the clouds, as if The devil had been in them; They were my darlings and my pride, My boyhood's only riches,-- "Farewell, farewell," I faintly cried,-- "My breeches! O my breeches!" That night I saw them in my dreams, How changed from what I knew them! The dews had steeped their faded threads, The winds had whistled through them! I saw the wide and ghastly rents Where demon claws had torn them; A hole was in their amplest part, As if an imp had worn them.
I have had many happy years, And tailors kind and clever, But those young pantaloons have gone Forever and forever! And not till fate has cut the last Of all my earthly stitches, This aching heart shall cease to mourn My loved, my long-lost breeches!


by D A Levy | |

Reality Jew

When i was a little kid
my parents never told me
i didn't find out until
i got out of high school
then when people asked me,
I ASKED THEM,
"Nationality or Religion?"

When i was a little kid
my parents brought me up as a christian
that when i discovered,
i was different
i wasnt THAT sick!
so at sixteen
still being a virgin forest
i decided
i must be a buddhist monk,
Then when people asked me
I TOLD THEM, i told them
"Not me, man, i don't belong to No-thing

In the navy
a swabby once asked me,
if i wanted to go to the
temple with him,
i told him
"NOt me, man, im the last
of the full blooded american indians.
" it became confusing so after a while when people inquired "Hey.
.
ah.
.
you arnt……are you?" i answered, "with a name like levy, what the hell do you think i am?" A Ritz Cracker? A flying bathtub? An arab? etc.
But now its getting pretty hip to be a jew and some of my best friend are becoming converted to halavah, even the crones who suddenly became World War 2 catholics are now praising bagels & lox i still dont feel on ethnic things like "Ok, we all niggers so lets hold hands.
" & "OK, we're all wops so lets support the mafia," & "Ok, we're all jews so lets weep on each others shoulders.
" so now when people smile and say, "Hey, you're one of us," i smile and say, "Fuck you, man, im still alive.
"


by Edna St Vincent Millay | |

Wild Swans

 I looked in my heart while the wild swans went over.
And what did I see I had not seen before? Only a question less or a question more: Nothing to match the flight of wild birds flying.
Tiresome heart, forever living and dying, House without air, I leave you and lock your door.
Wild swans, come over the town, come over The town again, trailing your legs and crying!


by Lam Quang My | |

ON ROUT

We swear – take not forbidden fruit
But still want paradise!
We pass our wondering years on earth
But knowing naught of life!

We miss the clod beneath our feet
While thought is flying high.
We thought – the heart turned into stone But still will cry through nights! Our gain is but a gift to all But still we count our loss.
We know - life is the branched tree Yet walk the traveled paths…


by Lam Quang My | |

A voice singing lullaby

You sitting by the window
Copy poems with great care.
As I pass accidentally Watch you dazed as in a dream.
So skilled your calligraphic hand Floats pen on paper surface.
An unknown sense of poetry Shines within your blinking eyes.
Window takes the colour green Your shirt is a canary shade.
Little bird is flying by And sings with sweetest voice.
Weather mourns autumnally.
Yellowed leaves of trees.
Regret of summer still remained No voice sings lullaby.


by Petrarch | |

SONNET CX.

SONNET CX.

Come talora al caldo tempo suole.

HE LIKENS HIMSELF TO THE INSECT WHICH, FLYING INTO ONE'S EYES, MEETS ITS DEATH.

As when at times in summer's scorching heats.
Lured by the light, the simple insect flies,
As a charm'd thing, into the passer's eyes,
Whence death the one and pain the other meets,
Thus ever I, my fatal sun to greet,
Rush to those eyes where so much sweetness lies
That reason's guiding hand fierce Love defies,
And by strong will is better judgment beat.
I clearly see they value me but ill,
[Pg 140]And, for against their torture fails my strength.
That I am doom'd my life to lose at length:
But Love so dazzles and deludes me still,
My heart their pain and not my loss laments,
And blind, to its own death my soul consents.
Macgregor.


by Petrarch | |

SONNET LXXXV.

SONNET LXXXV.

Tennemi Amor anni ventuno ardendo.

HE CONFESSES AND REGRETS HIS SINS, AND PRAYS GOD TO SAVE HIM FROM ETERNAL DEATH.

Love held me one and twenty years enchain'd,
His flame was joy—for hope was in my grief!
For ten more years I wept without relief,
When Laura with my heart, to heaven attain'd.
Now weary grown, my life I had arraign'd
That in its error, check'd (to my belief)
Blest virtue's seeds—now, in my yellow leaf,
I grieve the misspent years, existence stain'd.
Alas! it might have sought a brighter goal,
In flying troublous thoughts, and winning peace;
O Father! I repentant seek thy throne:
Thou, in this temple hast enshrined my soul,
Oh, bless me yet, and grant its safe release!
Unjustified—my sin I humbly own.
Wollaston.


by Dejan Stojanovic | |

An Island in the Mind

Dream, flying out from the head
Becomes a bird flying over the sea; 

The Sun, sprouting from the sea
Makes the sea alive and blue; 

The flying dream that hovers in space
Becomes an island in the sea; 

The island—the dream emanating from the head, 
The bird, the air, the sea, and the light.


by Dejan Stojanovic | |

Ancient Roman Villa

Here lies once splendid ancient Roman Villa in ruins.
Remnants of a gorgeous mosaic—Venus and a flying dove on the floor—of big gardens, fountains and pools talk about her rich and lively history.
The Roman wealthy patrician did not think of us looking at the mosaic of his Villa.
He built it for posterity, yet desired to live longer than his creation.
He thought he could deceive the uncompromising ruler—time.
Although there was no real stock market then, he had his own treasury; he thought the treasury will live longer even than his Villa to support his posterity—buy them power, fame.
We can almost hear and see the water that once sprinkled from fountains; hear giggles and secret stories shared in the gardens among his children and servants; we can imagine his demeanor at the extravagant parties he loved; bacchanalias in the secret rooms of the Villa.
Here lies the ancient Roman Villa in ruins and little is known of her once larger-than-life owner, and even less about his stock, treasury, and posterity.


by Dejan Stojanovic | |

Bright Moments

There can be no forced inspiration, 
But there can be mergers with the world

There can be a flowing of feelings
Quiet, yet overwhelming

Flying outside to unite
Flying inside to find

The melody of the moment
When the yellow corona appears on the horizon

And blue light appears over the mountain
And the world becomes mellow

Hospitable and generous, 
And you fly into the heart of the mountain

To find an egg of an unborn bird
Able to break out and fly as a newborn eagle 


by Dejan Stojanovic | |

Inner Space

Entering a cell, penetrating deep 
As a flying saucer 
To find a new galaxy 
Would be an honorable task 
For a new scientist interested 
More in the inner state of the soul 
Than in outer space.


by Dejan Stojanovic | |

Sounds of Imagination

I imagined I was a mountain 
Then I became a cloud over that mountain 
Lightning and thunder pummeled the mountain 
Pierced the heart of the earth, 
Becoming lava and exploding as a volcano.
I imagined I was a star Light traveling into space Then I grew as a tree With leaves of galaxies eating the light Becoming the angel of life and the bearer of light.
I imagined I was a black hole Flying through myself and swallowing myself While eating others to consume the abyss of energy But still, holding the whole galaxy in order Keeping billions of stars circling around me.
I imagined I was God for a millisecond And became speechless for a long time.