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Best Famous Friendship Poems

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

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Written by William Shakespeare | |

Blow Blow Thou Winter Wind

Blow, blow, thou winter wind,
Thou art not so unkind
As man's ingratitude;
Thy tooth is not so keen
Because thou art not seen,
Although thy breath be rude.
Heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho! unto the green holly: Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly: Then, heigh-ho! the holly! This life is most jolly.
Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky, Thou dost not bite so nigh As benefits forgot: Though thou the waters warp, Thy sting is not so sharp As friend remember'd not.
Heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho! unto the green holly: Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly: Then, heigh-ho! the holly! This life is most jolly.


Written by | |

A Part of an Ode

A Part of an Ode to the Immortal Memory and Friendship of that noble pair Sir Lucius Cary and Sir H.
Morison IT is not growing like a tree In bulk doth make man better be; Or standing long an oak three hundred year To fall a log at last dry bald and sere: A lily of a day 5 Is fairer far in May Although it fall and die that night; It was the plant and flower of light.
In small proportions we just beauties see; And in short measures life may perfect be.
10 Call noble Lucius then for wine And let thy looks with gladness shine: Accept this garland plant it on thy head And think¡ªnay know¡ªthy Morison 's not dead.
He leap'd the present age 15 Possest with holy rage To see that bright eternal Day Of which we Priests and Poets say Such truths as we expect for happy men; And there he lives with memory¡ªand Ben 20 Jonson: who sung this of him ere he went Himself to rest Or tast a part of that full joy he meant To have exprest In this bright Asterism 25 Where it were friendship's schism¡ª Were not his Lucius long with us to tarry¡ª To separate these twy Lights the Dioscuri And keep the one half from his Harry.
30 But fate doth so alternate the design Whilst that in Heav'n this light on earth must shine.
And shine as you exalted are! Two names of friendship but one star: Of hearts the union: and those not by chance 35 Made or indenture or leased out to advance The profits for a time.
No pleasures vain did chime Of rimes or riots at your feasts Orgies of drink or feign'd protests; 40 But simple love of greatness and of good That knits brave minds and manners more than blood.
This made you first to know the Why You liked then after to apply That liking and approach so one the t'other 45 Till either grew a portion of the other: Each styl¨¨d by his end The copy of his friend.
You lived to be the great surnames And titles by which all made claims 50 Unto the Virtue¡ªnothing perfect done But as a CARY or a MORISON.
And such the force the fair example had As they that saw The good and durst not practise it were glad 55 That such a law Was left yet to mankind Where they might read and find FRIENDSHIP indeed was written not in words And with the heart not pen 60 Of two so early men Whose lines her rules were and records: Who ere the first down bloom¨¨d on the chin Had sow'd these fruits and got the harvest in.


Written by Oliver Wendell Holmes | |

Brother Jonathans Lament

 SHE has gone,-- she has left us in passion and pride,--
Our stormy-browed sister, so long at our side!
She has torn her own star from our firmament's glow,
And turned on her brother the face of a foe!

Oh, Caroline, Caroline, child of the sun,
We can never forget that our hearts have been one,--
Our foreheads both sprinkled in Liberty's name,
From the fountain of blood with the finger of flame!

You were always too ready to fire at a touch;
But we said, "She is hasty,-- she does not mean much.
" We have scowled, when you uttered some turbulent threat; But Friendship still whispered, "Forgive and forget!" Has our love all died out? Have its altars grown cold? Has the curse come at last which the fathers foretold? Then Nature must teach us the strength of the chain That her petulant children would sever in vain.
They may fight till the buzzards are gorged with their spoil, Till the harvest grows black as it rots in the soil, Till the wolves and the catamounts troop from their caves, And the shark tracks the pirate, the lord of the waves: In vain is the strife! When its fury is past, Their fortunes must flow in one channel at last, As the torrents that rush from the mountains of snow Roll mingled in peace through the valleys below.
Our Union is river, lake, ocean, and sky: Man breaks not the medal, when God cuts the die! Though darkened with sulphur, though cloven with steel, The blue arch will brighten, the waters will heal! Oh, Caroline, Caroline, child of the sun, There are battles with Fate that can never be won! The star-flowering banner must never be furled, For its blossoms of light are the hope of the world! Go, then, our rash sister! afar and aloof, Run wild in the sunshine away from our roof; But when your heart aches and your feet have grown sore, Remember the pathway that leads to our door!


More great poems below...

Written by Stephen Vincent Benet | |

Talk

 Tobacco smoke drifts up to the dim ceiling 
From half a dozen pipes and cigarettes, 
Curling in endless shapes, in blue rings wheeling, 
As formless as our talk.
Phil, drawling, bets Cornell will win the relay in a walk, While Bob and Mac discuss the Giants' chances; Deep in a morris-chair, Bill scowls at "Falk", John gives large views about the last few dances.
And so it goes -- an idle speech and aimless, A few chance phrases; yet I see behind The empty words the gleam of a beauty tameless, Friendship and peace and fire to strike men blind, Till the whole world seems small and bright to hold -- Of all our youth this hour is pure gold.


Written by William Lisle Bowles | |

Bereavement

 Whose was that gentle voice, that, whispering sweet,
Promised methought long days of bliss sincere!
Soothing it stole on my deluded ear,
Most like soft music, that might sometimes cheat
Thoughts dark and drooping! 'Twas the voice of Hope.
Of love and social scenes, it seemed to speak, Of truth, of friendship, of affection meek; That, oh! poor friend, might to life's downward slope Lead us in peace, and bless our latest hours.
Ah me! the prospect saddened as she sung; Loud on my startled ear the death-bell rung; Chill darkness wrapt the pleasurable bowers, Whilst Horror, pointing to yon breathless clay, "No peace be thine," exclaimed, "away, away!"


Written by Robert Seymour Bridges | |

Absence

 WHEN from the craggy mountain's pathless steep,
Whose flinty brow hangs o'er the raging sea, 
My wand'ring eye beholds the foamy deep,
I mark the restless surge­and think of THEE.
The curling waves, the passing breezes move, Changing and treach'rous as the breath of LOVE; The "sad similitude" awakes my smart, And thy dear image twines about my heart.
When at the sober hour of sinking day, Exhausted Nature steals to soft repose, When the hush'd linnet slumbers on the spray, And scarce a ZEPHYR fans the drooping ROSE; I glance o'er scenes of bliss to friendship dear, And at the fond remembrance drop a tear; Nor can the balmy incense soothe my smart, Still cureless sorrow preys upon my heart.
When the loud gambols of the village throng, Drown the lorn murmurs of the ring-dove's throat; I think I hear thy fascinating song, Join the melodious minstrel's tuneful note­ My list'ning ear soon tells me ­'tis not THEE, Nor THY lov'd song­nor THY soft minstrelsy; In vain I turn away to hide my smart, Thy dulcet numbers vibrate in my heart.
When with the Sylvan train I seek the grove, Where MAY'S soft breath diffuses incense round, Where VENUS smiles serene, and sportive LOVE With thornless ROSES spreads the fairy ground; The voice of pleasure dies upon mine ear, My conscious bosom sighs­THOU ART NOT HERE ! Soft tears of fond regret reveal its smart, And sorrow, restless sorrow, chills my heart.
When at my matin pray'rs I prostrate kneel, And Court RELIGION's aid to soothe my woe, The meek-ey'd saint who pities what I feel, Forbids the sigh to heave, the tear to flow; For ah ! no vulgar passion fills my mind, Calm REASON's hand illumes the flame refin'd, ALL the pure feelings FRIENDSHIP can impart, Live in the centre of my aching heart.
When at the still and solemn hour of night, I press my lonely couch to find repose; Joyless I watch the pale moon's chilling light, Where thro' the mould'ring tow'r the north-wind blows; My fev'rish lids no balmy slumbers own, Still my sad bosom beats for thee alone: Nor shall its aching fibres cease to smart, 'Till DEATH's cold SPELL is twin'd about my HEART.


Written by Sir Walter Raleigh | |

The Lie

 Go, Soul, the body's guest,
Upon a thankless errand;
Fear not to touch the best;
The truth shall be thy warrant:
Go, since I needs must die,
And give the world the lie.
Say to the court, it glows And shines like rotten wood; Say to the church, it shows What's good, and doth no good: If church and court reply, Then give them both the lie.
Tell potentates, they live Acting by others' action; Not loved unless they give, Not strong but by a faction.
If potentates reply, Give potentates the lie.
Tell men of high condition, That manage the estate, Their purpose is ambition, Their practice only hate: And if they once reply, Then give them all the lie.
Tell them that brave it most, They beg for more by spending, Who, in their greatest cost, Seek nothing but commending.
And if they make reply, Then give them all the lie.
Tell zeal it wants devotion; Tell love it is but lust; Tell time it is but motion; Tell flesh it is but dust: And wish them not reply, For thou must give the lie.
Tell age it daily wasteth; Tell honour how it alters; Tell beauty how she blasteth; Tell favour how it falters: And as they shall reply, Give every one the lie.
Tell wit how much it wrangles In tickle points of niceness; Tell wisdom she entangles Herself in overwiseness: And when they do reply, Straight give them both the lie.
Tell physic of her boldness; Tell skill it is pretension; Tell charity of coldness; Tell law it is contention: And as they do reply, So give them still the lie.
Tell fortune of her blindness; Tell nature of decay; Tell friendship of unkindness; Tell justice of delay: And if they will reply, Then give them all the lie.
Tell arts they have no soundness, But vary by esteeming; Tell schools they want profoundness, And stand too much on seeming: If arts and schools reply, Give arts and schools the lie.
Tell faith it's fled the city; Tell how the country erreth; Tell manhood shakes off pity And virtue least preferreth: And if they do reply, Spare not to give the lie.
So when thou hast, as I Commanded thee, done blabbing— Although to give the lie Deserves no less than stabbing— Stab at thee he that will, No stab the soul can kill.


Written by Henry David Thoreau | |

Friendship

 I think awhile of Love, and while I think, 
Love is to me a world, 
Sole meat and sweetest drink, 
And close connecting link 
Tween heaven and earth.
I only know it is, not how or why, My greatest happiness; However hard I try, Not if I were to die, Can I explain.
I fain would ask my friend how it can be, But when the time arrives, Then Love is more lovely Than anything to me, And so I'm dumb.
For if the truth were known, Love cannot speak, But only thinks and does; Though surely out 'twill leak Without the help of Greek, Or any tongue.
A man may love the truth and practise it, Beauty he may admire, And goodness not omit, As much as may befit To reverence.
But only when these three together meet, As they always incline, And make one soul the seat, And favorite retreat, Of loveliness; When under kindred shape, like loves and hates And a kindred nature, Proclaim us to be mates, Exposed to equal fates Eternally; And each may other help, and service do, Drawing Love's bands more tight, Service he ne'er shall rue While one and one make two, And two are one; In such case only doth man fully prove Fully as man can do, What power there is in Love His inmost soul to move Resistlessly.
________________________________ Two sturdy oaks I mean, which side by side, Withstand the winter's storm, And spite of wind and tide, Grow up the meadow's pride, For both are strong Above they barely touch, but undermined Down to their deepest source, Admiring you shall find Their roots are intertwined Insep'rably.


Written by Petrarch | |

SONNET LXIV.

SONNET LXIV.

Io amai sempre, ed amo forte ancora.

HE LOVES, AND WILL ALWAYS LOVE, THE SPOT AND THE HOUR IN WHICH HE FIRST BECAME ENAMOURED OF LAURA.

I always loved, I love sincerely yet,
And to love more from day to day shall learn,
The charming spot where oft in grief I turn
When Love's severities my bosom fret:
My mind to love the time and hour is set
Which taught it each low care aside to spurn;
She too, of loveliest face, for whom I burn
Bids me her fair life love and sin forget.
Who ever thought to see in friendship join'd,
On all sides with my suffering heart to cope,
The gentle enemies I love so well?
Love now is paramount my heart to bind,
And, save that with desire increases hope,
Dead should I lie alive where I would dwell.
Macgregor.


Written by Ben Jonson | |

To Fine Grand


LXXIII.
 — TO FINE GRAND.

What is't, FINE GRAND, makes thee my friendship fly,
Or take an Epigram so fearfully,
As 'twere a challenge, or a borrower's letter:
The world must know your greatness is my debtor.
Imprimis, Grand, you owe me for a jest
I lent you, on mere acquaintance, at a feast.
Item, a tale or two some fortnight after,
That yet maintains you, and your house in laughter.
Item, the Babylonian song you sing;
Item, a fair Greek poesy for a ring,
With which a learned madam you bely.
Item, a charm surrounding fearfully
Your partie-per-pale picture, one half drawn
In solemn cypress, th' other cobweb lawn.
Item, a gulling imprese for you, at tilt.
Item, your mistress' anagram, in your hilt.
Item, your own, sewn in your mistress' smock.
Item, an epitaph on my lord's cock,
In most vile verses, and cost me more pain,
Than had I made 'em good, to fit your vein.
Forty things more, dear Grand, which you know true,
For which, or pay me quickly, or I'll pay you.


Written by Edmund Blunden | |

Almswomen

    At Quincey's moat the squandering village ends,
    And there in the almshouse dwell the dearest friends
    Of all the village, two old dames that cling
    As close as any trueloves in the spring.
Long, long ago they passed threescore-and-ten, And in this doll's house lived together then; All things they have in common, being so poor, And their one fear, Death's shadow at the door.
Each sundown makes them mournful, each sunrise Brings back the brightness in their failing eyes.
How happy go the rich fair-weather days When on the roadside folk stare in amaze At such a honeycomb of fruit and flowers As mellows round their threshold; what long hours They gloat upon their steepling hollyhocks, Bee's balsams, feathery southernwood, and stocks, Fiery dragon's-mouths, great mallow leaves For salves, and lemon-plants in bushy sheaves, Shagged Esau's-hands with five green finger-tips.
Such old sweet names are ever on their lips.
As pleased as little children where these grow In cobbled pattens and worn gowns they go, Proud of their wisdom when on gooseberry shoots They stuck eggshells to fright from coming fruits The brisk-billed rascals; pausing still to see Their neighbour owls saunter from tree to tree, Or in the hushing half-light mouse the lane Long-winged and lordly.
But when those hours wane, Indoors they ponder, scared by the harsh storm Whose pelting saracens on the window swarm, And listen for the mail to clatter past And church clock's deep bay withering on the blast; They feed the fire that flings a freakish light On pictured kings and queens grotesquely bright, Platters and pitchers, faded calendars And graceful hour-glass trim with lavenders.
Many a time they kiss and cry, and pray That both be summoned in the self-same day, And wiseman linnet tinkling in his cage End too with them the friendship of old age, And all together leave their treasured room Some bell-like evening when the may's in bloom.


Written by Ehsan Sehgal | |

Worthy choice

"Lover is just a lover but the best , great and worthy choice is a good life-mate who includes friendship, love, sex and all responsibilities to care, that is a gift, fruit and the truth of true "love".
Ehsan Sehgal


Written by Ehsan Sehgal | |

Be a part

"Never be enemy, even you have reasons for that, never hurt and damage to anyone, you will look happy, safe, satisfy within you.
You are the society and society is you, be like a perfume, be like a blossom, be a part of harmony, love, friendship, justice, integration and tolerance.
Just fight against your own criminal and negative thoughts, you will see and feel the world is not less than paradise.
" Ehsan Sehgal


Written by Billy Jno Hope | |

Half Steps

 folly cracked the mirror
a soul gasping wound
voodoo induced vertigo
psychedelic blackouts
in the cracks
between art and blasphemy
paralyzing paranoia of becoming
the vision that heals
cast shadows to douse the flames
starved enlightenment
i betrayed my muse
i wallowed in nostalgic fumes
blood clots from yesteryears insurrection mad dissident desire found wanting a rage dissipating in the twilight of friendship a facade evolved.


Written by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | |

TO THE COUNTESS GRANVILLE.

 MY DEAR LADY GRANVILLE,--

THE reluctance which must naturally be felt by any one in
venturing to give to the world a book such as the present, where
the beauties of the great original must inevitably be diminished,
if not destroyed, in the process of passing through the
translator's hands, cannot but be felt in all its force when that
translator has not penetrated beyond the outer courts of the
poetic fane, and can have no hope of advancing further, or of
reaching its sanctuary.
But it is to me a subject of peculiar satisfaction that your kind permission to have your name inscribed upon this page serves to attain a twofold end--one direct and personal, and relating to the present day; the other reflected and historical, and belonging to times long gone by.
Of the first little need now be said, for the privilege is wholly mine, in making this dedication: as to the second, one word of explanation will suffice for those who have made the greatest poet of Germany, almost of the world, their study, and to whom the story of his life is not unknown.
All who have followed the career of GOETHE are familiar with the name and character of DALBERG, and also with the deep and lasting friendship that existed between them, from which SCHILLER too was not absent; recalling to the mind the days of old, when a Virgil and a Horace and a Maecenas sat side by side.
Remembering, then, the connection that, in a former century, was formed and riveted between your illustrious ancestor and him whom it is the object of these pages to represent, I deem it a happy augury that the link then established finds itself not wholly severed even now (although its strength may be immeasurably weakened in the comparison), inasmuch as this page brings them once more in contact, the one in the person of his own descendant, the other in that of the translator of his Poems.
Believe me, with great truth, Very faithfully yours, EDGAR A.
BOWRING.
London, April, 1853.