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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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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.


by Philip Larkin | |

Autobiography At An Air-Station

 Delay, well, travellers must expect 
Delay.
For how long? No one seems to know.
With all the luggage weighed, the tickets checked, It can't be long.
.
.
We amble too and fro, Sit in steel chairs, buy cigarettes and sweets And tea, unfold the papers.
Ought we to smile, Perhaps make friends? No: in the race for seats You're best alone.
Friendship is not worth while.
Six hours pass: if I'd gone by boat last night I'd be there now.
Well, it's too late for that.
The kiosk girl is yawning.
I fell stale, Stupified, by inaction - and, as light Begins to ebb outside, by fear, I set So much on this Assumption.
Now it's failed.


by Anne Kingsmill Finch | |

Friendship Between Ephelia And Ardelia

 Eph.
What Friendship is, ARDELIA shew.
Ard.
'Tis to love, as I love You.
Eph.
This Account, so short (tho' kind) Suits not my enquiring Mind.
Therefore farther now repeat; What is Friendship when complete? Ard.
'Tis to share all Joy and Grief; 'Tis to lend all due Relief From the Tongue, the Heart, the Hand; 'Tis to mortgage House and Land; For a Friend be sold a Slave; 'Tis to die upon a Grave, If a Friend therein do lie.
Eph.
This indeed, tho' carry'd high, This, tho' more than e'er was done Underneath the rolling Sun, This has all been said before.
Can ARDELIA say no more? Ard.
Words indeed no more can shew: But 'tis to love, as I love you.


by Walter Savage Landor | |

In spring and summer winds may blow

 In spring and summer winds may blow,
And rains fall after, hard and fast;
The tender leaves, if beaten low,
Shine but the more for shower and blast

But when their fated hour arrives,
When reapers long have left the field,
When maidens rifle turn'd-up hives,
And their last juice fresh apples yield,

A leaf perhaps may still remain
Upon some solitary tree,
Spite of the wind and of the rain .
.
.
A thing you heed not if you see.
At last it falls.
Who cares? Not one: And yet no power on earth can ever Replace the fallen leaf upon Its spray, so easy to dissever.
If such be love, I dare not say.
Friendship is such, too well I know: I have enjoyed my summer day; 'Tis past; my leaf now lies below.


by Helen Hunt Jackson | |

Unto one who lies at rest

 Unto one who lies at rest 
'Neath the sunset, in the West, 
Clover-blossoms on her breast.
Lover of each gracious thing Which makes glad the summer-tide, From the daisies clustering And the violets purple-eyed, To those shy and hidden blooms Which in forest coverts stay, Sending wandering perfumes Out as guide to show the way, All she knew, to all was kind; None so humble or so small That she did not seek and find Silent friendship from them all.
Moss-cups, tiarella leaves, Dappld like the adder's skin, Fungus huts with ivory eaves Which the fairies harbor in, Regiments of fronded ferns, Golden-rod and asters frail, Every flaming leaf that burns Red against the autumn pale, Every pink-cupped wayside rose,-- All to her were dear and known; But above them all she chose Clover-blossoms for her own.
So they laid her to her rest In the sun-warmed, bounteous West, Clover-blossoms on her breast.


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.


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!"


by Ella Wheeler Wilcox | |

Sorrows Uses

 The uses of sorrow I comprehend
Better and better at each year’s end.
Deeper and deeper I seem to see Why and wherefore it has to be Only after the dark, wet days Do we fully rejoice in the sun’s bright rays.
Sweeter the crust tastes after the fast Than the sated gourmand’s finest repast.
The faintest cheer sounds never amiss To the actor who once has heard a hiss.
To one who the sadness of freedom knows, Light seem the fetters love may impose.
And he who has dwelt with his heart alone, Hears all the music in friendship’s tone.
So better and better I comprehend, How sorrow ever would be our friend.


by Ella Wheeler Wilcox | |

Friendship After Love

 After the fierce midsummer all ablaze
Has burned itself to ashes, and expires
In the intensity of its own fires, 
There come the mellow, mild, St.
Martin days Crowned with the calm of peace, but sad with haze.
So after Love has led us, till he tires Of his own throes, and torments, and desires, Comes large-eyed Friendship: with a restful gaze.
He beckons us to follow, and across Cool verdant vales we wander free from care.
Is it a touch of frost lies in the air? Why are we haunted with a sense of loss? We do not wish the pain back, or the heat; And yet, and yet, these days are incomplete.


by Ella Wheeler Wilcox | |

Refuted

 ‘Anticipation is sweeter than realisation.
’ It may be, yet I have not found it so.
In those first golden dreams of future fame I did not find such happiness as came When toil was crowned with triumph.
Now I know My words have recognition, and will go Straight to some listening heart, my early aim, To win the idle glory of a name, Pales like a candle in the noonday’s glow.
So with the deeper joys of which I dreamed: Life yields more rapture than did childhood’s fancies, And each year brings more pleasure than I waited.
Friendship proves truer than of old it seemed, And, all beyond youth’s passion-hued romances, Love is more perfect than anticipated.


by Friedrich von Schiller | |

Fortune And Wisdom

 Enraged against a quondam friend,
To Wisdom once proud Fortune said
"I'll give thee treasures without end,
If thou wilt be my friend instead.
" "My choicest gifts to him I gave, And ever blest him with my smile; And yet he ceases not to crave, And calls me niggard all the while.
" "Come, sister, let us friendship vow! So take the money, nothing loth; Why always labor at the plough? Here is enough I'm sure for both!" Sage wisdom laughed,--the prudent elf!-- And wiped her brow, with moisture hot: "There runs thy friend to hang himself,-- Be reconciled--I need thee not!"


by Mary Darby Robinson | |

Sonnet to Ingratitude

 He that's ungrateful, has no guilt but one;
All other crimes may pass for virtues in him.
- YOUNG.
I COULD have borne affliction's sharpest thorn; The sting of malice­poverty's deep wound; The sneers of vulgar pride, the idiot's scorn; Neglected Love, false Friendship's treach'rous sound; I could, with patient smile, extract the dart Base calumny had planted in my heart; The fangs of envy; agonizing pain; ALL, ALL, nor should my steady soul complain: E'en had relentless FATE, with cruel pow'r, Darken'd the sunshine of each youthful day; While from my path she snatch'd each transient flow'r.
Not one soft sigh my sorrow should betray; But where INGRATITUDE'S fell poisons pour, HOPE shrinks subdued­and LIFE'S BEST JOYS DECAY.


by Mary Darby Robinson | |

Echo to Him Who Complains

 O FLY thee from the shades of night,
Where the loud tempests yelling rise; 
Where horrror wings her sullen flight
Beneath the bleak and lurid skies.
As the pale light'ning swiftly gleams O'er the scorch'd wood, thy well-known form More radiant than an angel seems, Contending with the ruthless storm.
I see the scowling witch, DESPAIR Drink the big tear that scalds thy cheek; While thro' the dark and turbid air, The screams of haggard ENVY break.
From the cold mountain's flinty steep, I hear the dashing waters roar; Ah! turn thee, turn thee, cease to weep, Thou hast no reason to deplore.
See fell DESPAIR expiring fall, See ENVY from thy glances start; No more shall howling blasts appall, Or with'ring grief corrode thy heart.
See FRIENDSHIP from her azure eye Drops the fond balm for ev'ry pain She comes, the offspring of the sky, "TO RAZE THE TROUBLES OF THE brain.
"


by Henry Van Dyke | |

A Health to Mark Twain

 At his Birthday Feast

With memories old and wishes new
We crown our cups again,
And here's to you, and here's to you
With love that ne'er shall wane!
And may you keep, at sixty-seven,
The joy of earth, the hope of heaven,
And fame well-earned, and friendship true,
And peace that comforts every pain,
And faith that fights the battle through,
And all your heart's unbounded wealth,
And all your wit, and all your health,--
Yes, here's a hearty health to you,
And here's to you, and here's to you,
Long life to you, Mark Twain.


by Henry Van Dyke | |

A Home Song

 I read within a poet's book 
A word that starred the page:
"Stone walls do not a prison make, 
Nor iron bars a cage!" 

Yes, that is true; and something more
You'll find, where'er you roam,
That marble floors and gilded walls
Can never make a home.
But every house where Love abides, And Friendship is a guest, Is surely home, and home-sweet-home: For there the heart can rest.


by Henry Van Dyke | |

Life

 Let me but live my life from year to year, 
With forward face and unreluctant soul; 
Not hurrying to, nor turning from the goal; 
Not mourning for the things that disappear 
In the dim past, nor holding back in fear 
From what the future veils; but with a whole 
And happy heart, that pays its toll 
To Youth and Age, and travels on with cheer.
So let the way wind up the hill or down, O'er rough or smooth, the journey will be joy: Still seeking what I sought when but a boy, New friendship, high adventure, and a crown, My heart will keep the courage of the quest, And hope the road's last turn will be the best.


by Lucy Maud Montgomery | |

To My Enemy

 Let those who will of friendship sing,
And to its guerdon grateful be,
But I a lyric garland bring
To crown thee, O, mine enemy! 

Thanks, endless thanks, to thee I owe
For that my lifelong journey through
Thine honest hate has done for me
What love perchance had failed to do.
I had not scaled such weary heights But that I held thy scorn in fear, And never keenest lure might match The subtle goading of thy sneer.
Thine anger struck from me a fire That purged all dull content away, Our mortal strife to me has been Unflagging spur from day to day.
And thus, while all the world may laud The gifts of love and loyalty, I lay my meed of gratitude Before thy feet, mine enemy!


by Lucy Maud Montgomery | |

The Wood Pool

 Here is a voice that soundeth low and far
And lyric­voice of wind among the pines,
Where the untroubled, glimmering waters are,
And sunlight seldom shines.
Elusive shadows linger shyly here, And wood-flowers blow, like pale, sweet spirit-bloom, And white, slim birches whisper, mirrored clear In the pool's lucent gloom.
Here Pan might pipe, or wandering dryad kneel To view her loveliness beside the brim, Or laughing wood-nymphs from the byways steal To dance around its rim.
'Tis such a witching spot as might beseem A seeker for young friendship's trysting place, Or lover yielding to the immortal dream Of one beloved face.


by Lucy Maud Montgomery | |

Fancies

 Surely the flowers of a hundred springs 
Are simply the souls of beautiful things! 

The poppies aflame with gold and red 
Were the kisses of lovers in days that are fled.
The purple pansies with dew-drops pearled Were the rainbow dreams of a youngling world.
The lily, white as a star apart, Was the first pure prayer of a virgin heart.
The daisies that dance and twinkle so Were the laughter of children in long ago.
The sweetness of all true friendship yet Lives in the breath of the mignonette.
To the white narcissus there must belong The very delight of a maiden's song.
And the rose, all flowers of the earth above, Was a perfect, rapturous thought of love.
Oh! surely the blossoms of all the springs Must be the souls of beautiful things.


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.