Submit Your Poems
Get Your Premium Membership

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.

Search for the best famous Flying poems, articles about Flying poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Flying poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

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 | |

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 Philip Larkin | |


 Tired of a landscape known too well when young:
The deliberate shallow hills, the boring birds
Flying past rocks; tired of remembering
The village children and their naughty words,
He abandoned his small holding and went South,
Recognised at once his wished-for lie
In the inhabitants' attractive mouth,
The church beside the marsh, the hot blue sky.
And in this mirage lived his dreams, The friendly bully, saint, or lovely chum According to his moods.
Yet he at times Would think about his village, and would wonder If the children and the rocks were still the same.
But he forgot all this as he grew older.

by Wang Wei | |

Lily Magnolia Enclosure

 Autumn hill gather surplus shine 
Fly bird chase before companion.
Colour green moment bright, Sunset mist no fixed place.
The autumn hill gathers remaining light, A flying bird chases its companion before.
The green colour is momentarily bright, Sunset mist has no fixed place.

by Richard Wilbur | |

For K.R. on her Sixtieth Birthday

 Blow out the candles of your cake.
They will not leave you in the dark, Who round with grace this dusky arc Of the grand tour which souls must take.
You who have sounded William Blake, And the still pool, to Plato's mark, Blow out the candles of your cake.
They will not leave you in the dark.
Yet, for your friends' benighted sake, Detain your upward-flying spark; Get us that wish, though like the lark You whet your wings till dawn shall break: Blow out the candles of your cake.

by Anne Kingsmill Finch | |

Fragment at Tunbridge-Wells

 FOR He, that made, must new create us,
Ere Seneca, or Epictetus, 
With all their serious Admonitions,
Can, for the Spleen, prove good Physicians.
The Heart's unruly Palpitation Will not be laid by a Quotation; Nor will the Spirits move the lighter For the most celebrated Writer.
Sweats, Swoonings, and convulsive Motions Will not be cur'd by Words, and Notions.
Then live, old Brown! with thy Chalybeats, Which keep us from becoming Idiots.
At Tunbridge let us still be Drinking, Though 'tis the Antipodes to Thinking: Such Hurry, whilst the Spirit's flying, Such Stupefaction, when 'tis dying; Yet these, and not sententious Papers, Must brighten Life, and cure the Vapours

by Anne Kingsmill Finch | |

The Unequal Fetters

 Cou'd we stop the time that's flying
Or recall itt when 'tis past
Put far off the day of Dying
Or make Youth for ever last
To Love wou'd then be worth our cost.
But since we must loose those Graces Which at first your hearts have wonne And you seek for in new Faces When our Spring of Life is done It wou'd but urdge our ruine on Free as Nature's first intention Was to make us, I'll be found Nor by subtle Man's invention Yeild to be in Fetters bound By one that walks a freer round.
Mariage does but slightly tye Men Whil'st close Pris'ners we remain They the larger Slaves of Hymen Still are begging Love again At the full length of all their chain.

by G K Chesterton | |

The Latest School

 See the flying French depart
Like the bees of Bonaparte,
Swarming up with a most venomous vitality.
Over Baden and Bavaria, And Brighton and Bulgaria, Thus violating Belgian neutrality.
And the injured Prussian may Not unreasonably say "Why, it cannot be so small a nationality Since Brixton and Batavia, Bolivia and Belgravia, Are bursting with the Belgian neutrality.
" By pure Alliteration You may trace this curious nation, And respect this somewhat scattered Principality; When you see a B in Both You may take your Bible oath You are violating Belgian neutrality.

by Edwin Arlington Robinson | |

The Flying Dutchman

 Unyielding in the pride of his defiance, 
Afloat with none to serve or to command, 
Lord of himself at last, and all by Science, 
He seeks the Vanished Land.
Alone, by the one light of his one thought, He steers to find the shore from which he came, Fearless of in what coil he may be caught On seas that have no name.
Into the night he sails, and after night There is a dawning, thought there be no sun; Wherefore, with nothing but himself in sight, Unsighted, he sails on.
At last there is a lifting of the cloud Between the flood before him and the sky; And then--though he may curse the Power aloud That has no power to die-- He steers himself away from what is haunted By the old ghost of what has been before,-- Abandoning, as always, and undaunted, One fog-walled island more.

by Edwin Arlington Robinson | |

Ballad of Dead Friends

 As we the withered ferns 
By the roadway lying, 
Time, the jester, spurns 
All our prayers and prying -- 
All our tears and sighing, 
Sorrow, change, and woe -- 
All our where-and-whying 
For friends that come and go.
Life awakes and burns, Age and death defying, Till at last it learns All but Love is dying; Love's the trade we're plying, God has willed it so; Shrouds are what we're buying For friends that come and go.
Man forever yearns For the thing that's flying.
Everywhere he turns, Men to dust are drying, -- Dust that wanders, eying (With eyes that hardly glow) New faces, dimly spying For friends that come and go.
ENVOY And thus we all are nighing The truth we fear to know: Death will end our crying For friends that come and go.

by George William Russell | |


 ONE thing in all things have I seen:
One thought has haunted earth and air:
Clangour and silence both have been
Its palace chambers.
Everywhere I saw the mystic vision flow And live in men and woods and streams, Until I could no longer know The dream of life from my own dreams.
Sometimes it rose like fire in me Within the depths of my own mind, And spreading to infinity, It took the voices of the wind: It scrawled the human mystery— Dim heraldry—on light and air; Wavering along the starry sea I saw the flying vision there.
Each fire that in God’s temple lit Burns fierce before the inner shrine, Dimmed as my fire grew near to it And darkened at the light of mine.
At last, at last, the meaning caught— The spirit wears its diadem; It shakes its wondrous plumes of thought And trails the stars along with them.

by George William Russell | |

Alter Ego

 ALL the morn a spirit gay
Breathes within my heart a rhyme,
’Tis but hide and seek we play
In and out the courts of time.
Fairy lover, when my feet Through the tangled woodland go, ’Tis thy sunny fingers fleet Fleck the fire dews to and fro.
In the moonlight grows a smile Mid its rays of dusty pearl— ’Tis but hide and seek the while, As some frolic boy and girl.
When I fade into the deep Some mysterious radiance showers From the jewel-heart of sleep Through the veil of darkened hours.
Where the ring of twilight gleams Round the sanctuary wrought, Whispers haunt me—in my dreams We are one yet know it not.
Some for beauty follow long Flying traces; some there be Seek thee only for a song: I to lose myself in thee.

by Ella Wheeler Wilcox | |

At an Old Drawer

 Before this scarf was faded,
What hours of mirth it knew;
How gayly it paraded
From smiling eyes to view.
The days were tinged with glory, The nights too quickly sped, And life was like a story Where all the people wed.
Before this rosebud wilted, How passionately sweet The wild waltz smelled and lilted In time for flying feet; How loud the bassoons muttered, The horns grew madly shrill, And oh! the vows lips uttered That hearts could not fulfill.
Before this fan was broken, Behind its lace and pearl What whispered words were spoken, What hearts were in a whirl; What homesteads were selected In Fancy's realm of Spain, What castles were erected Without a room for pain.
When this odd glove was mated, How thrilling seemed the play; Maybe our hearts are sated-- We tire so soon to-day.
O, thrust away these treasures, They speak the dreary truth; We have outgrown the pleasures And keen delights of youth.

by Friedrich von Schiller | |

Wisdom And Prudence

 Wouldst thou, my friend, mount up to the highest summit of wisdom,
Be not deterred by the fear, prudence thy course may deride
That shortsighted one sees but the bank that from thee is flying,
Not the one which ere long thou wilt attain with bold flight.

by David Herbert Lawrence | |


 A wind comes from the north
Blowing little flocks of birds 
Like spray across the town, 
And a train, roaring forth, 
Rushes stampeding down
With cries and flying curds
Of steam, out of the darkening north.
Whither I turn and set Like a needle steadfastly, Waiting ever to get The news that she is free; But ever fixed, as yet, To the lode of her agony.

by David Herbert Lawrence | |


 I listen to the stillness of you,
My dear, among it all; 
I feel your silence touch my words as I talk,
And take them in thrall.
My words fly off a forge The length of a spark; I see the night-sky easily sip them Up in the dark.
The lark sings loud and glad, Yet I am not loth That silence should take the song and the bird And lose them both.
A train goes roaring south, The steam-flag flying; I see the stealthy shadow of silence Alongside going.
And off the forge of the world, Whirling in the draught of life, Go sparks of myriad people, filling The night with strife.
Yet they never change the darkness Or blench it with noise; Alone on the perfect silence The stars are buoys.

by John Gould Fletcher | |


 Birds' love and birds' song
Flying here and there,
Birds' songand birds' love
And you with gold for hair!
Birds' songand birds' love
Passing with the weather,
Men's song and men's love,
To love once and forever.
Men's love and birds' love, And women's love and men's! And you my wren with a crown of gold, You my queen of the wrens! You the queen of the wrens -- We'll be birds of a feather, I'll be King of the Queen of the wrens, And all in a nest together.

by Annie Louisa Walker | |

The Night Cometh

 Work! for the night is coming;
Work! through the morning hours;
Work! while the dew is sparkling;
Work! 'mid the springing flowers;
Work! while the day grows brighter,
Under the glowing sun;
Work! for the night is coming,--
Night, when man's work is done.
Work! for the night is coming; Work! through the sunny noon; Fill the bright hours with labour, Rest cometh sure and soon.
Give to each flying minute Something to keep in store; Work! for the night is coming,-- Night, when man works no more.
Work! for the night is coming; Under the sunset skies, While their bright tints are glowing, Work! for the daylight flies; Work! till the last beam fadeth, Fadeth to shine no more; Work! while the night is darkening,-- Night, when man's work is o'er.

by Diane di Prima | |

The Belltower

 the weighing is done in autumn
and the sifting
what is to be threshed
is threshed in autumn
what is to be gathered is taken

the wind does not die in autumn
the moon
shifts endlessly thru flying clouds
in autumn the sea is high

& a golden light plays everywhere
making it harder
to go one's way.
all leavetaking is in autumn where there is leavetaking it is always autumn & the sun is a crystal ball on a golden stand & the wind cannont make the spruce scream loud enough

by Joseph Freiherr Von Eichendorff | |

Mondnacht (Night Of The Moon)

 Es war, als hätt' der Himmel 
Die Erde still geküsst 
Dass sie im Blütenschimmer 
Von ihm nun träumen müsst 

Die Luft ging durch die Felder 
Die Ähren wogten sacht 
Es rauschten leis die Wälder 
So sternklar war die Nacht 

Und meine Seele spannte 
Weit ihre Flügel aus 
Flog durch die stillen Lande 
Als flöge sie nach Haus

It was as though the sky
had silently kissed the earth,
so that it now had to dream of sky
in shimmers of flowers.
The air went through the fields, the corn-ears leaned heavy down the woods swished softly— so clear with stars was the night And my soul stretched its wings out wide, flew through the silent lands as though it were flying home.

by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | |


 WHEN on thy pillow lying,

Half listen, I implore,
And at my lute's soft sighing,

Sleep on! what wouldst thou more?

For at my lute's soft sighing

The stars their blessings pour
On feelings never-dying;

Sleep on! what wouldst thou more?

Those feelings never-dying

My spirit aid to soar
From earthly conflicts trying;

Sleep on! what wouldst thou more?

From earthly conflicts trying

Thou driv'st me to this shore;
Through thee I'm thither flying,--

Sleep on! what wouldst thou more?

Through thee I'm hither flying,

Thou wilt not list before
In slumbers thou art lying:

Sleep on! what wouldst thou more?


by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | |


 Up in th' mountain
I was a-sitting,
With the bird there
As my guest,
Blithely singing,
Blithely springing,
And building
His nest.
In the garden I was a-standing, And the bee there Saw as well, Buzzing, humming, Going, coming, And building His cell.
O'er the meadow I was a-going, And there saw the Butterflies, Sipping, dancing, Flying, glancing, And charming The eyes.
And then came my Dear Hansel, And I show'd them With glee, Sipping, quaffing, And he, laughing, Sweet kisses Gave me.

by A S J Tessimond | |

Day Dream

 One day people will touch and talk perhaps 
And loving be natural as breathing and warm as 
And people will untie themselves, as string is unknotted, 
Unfold and yawn and stretch and spread their fingers, 
Unfurl, uncurl like seaweed returned to the sea, 
And work will be simple and swift 
as a seagull flying, 
And play will be casual and quiet
as a seagull settling, 
And the clocks will stop, and no one will wonder
or care or notice, 
And people will smile without reason,
Even in winter, even in the rain.

by A S J Tessimond | |


 Architects plant their imagination, weld their poems on rock,
Clamp them to the skidding rim of the world and anchor them down to its core;
Leave more than the painter's or poet's snail-bright trail on a friable leaf;
Can build their chrysalis round them - stand in their sculpture's belly.
They see through stone, they cage and partition air, they cross-rig space With footholds, planks for a dance; yet their maze, their flying trapeze Is pinned to the centre.
They write their euclidean music standing With a hand on a cornice of cloud, themselves set fast, earth-square.

by J R R Tolkien | |

The Sea

 To the Sea, to the Sea! The white gulls are crying,
The wind is blowing, and the white foam is flying.
West, west away, the round sun is falling.
Grey ship, grey ship, do you hear them calling? The voices of my people gone before me? I will leave, I will leave the woods that bore me; For our days are ending and our years failing.
I will pass the wide waters lonely sailing.
Long are the waves on the Last Shore falling, Sweet are the voices in the Lost Isle calling.
In Eressea, in Elvenhome, that no man can discover, Where the leaves fall not: land of my people forever!