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Best Famous Fruit Poems

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

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by Wallace Stevens | |

Poem Written at Morning

A sunny day's complete Poussiniana
Divide it from itself.
It is this or that And it is not.
By metaphor you paint A thing.
Thus, the pineapple was a leather fruit, A fruit for pewter, thorned and palmed and blue, To be served by men of ice.
The senses paint By metaphor.
The juice was fragranter Than wettest cinnamon.
It was cribled pears Dripping a morning sap.
The truth must be That you do not see, you experience, you feel, That the buxom eye brings merely its element To the total thing, a shapeless giant forced Upward.
Green were the curls upon that head.


by Wallace Stevens | |

Metaphors of a Magnifico

Twenty men crossing a bridge,
Into a village,
Are twenty men crossing twenty bridges,
Into twenty villages,
Or one man
Crossing a single bridge into a village.
This is old song That will not declare itself .
.
.
Twenty men crossing a bridge, Into a village, Are Twenty men crossing a bridge Into a village.
That will not declare itself Yet is certain as meaning .
.
.
The boots of the men clump On the boards of the bridge.
The first white wall of the village Rises through fruit-trees.
Of what was it I was thinking? So the meaning escapes.
The first white wall of the village .
.
.
The fruit-trees .
.
.


by Christina Rossetti | |

A Birthday

 My heart is like a singing bird
Whose nest is in a water'd shoot;
My heart is like an apple-tree
Whose boughs are bent with thickset fruit;
My heart is like a rainbow shell
That paddles in a halcyon sea;
My heart is gladder than all these
Because my love is come to me.
Raise me a dais of silk and down; Hang it with vair and purple dyes; Carve it in doves and pomegranates, And peacocks with a hundred eyes; Work it in gold and silver grapes, In leaves and silver fleurs-de-lys; Because the birthday of my life Is come, my love is come to me.


by Edmund Spenser | |

Sonnet LXXVI

 FAyre bosome fraught with vertues richest tresure,
The neast of loue, the lodging of delight:
the bowre of blisse, the paradice of pleasure,
the sacred harbour of that heuenly spright.
How was I rauisht with your louely sight, and my frayle thoughts too rashly led astray? whiles diuing deepe through amorous insight, on the sweet spoyle of beautie they did pray.
And twixt her paps like early fruit in May, whose haruest seemd to hasten now apace: they loosely did theyr wanton winges display, and there to rest themselues did boldly place.
Sweet thoughts I enuy your so happy rest, which oft I wisht, yet neuer was so blest.


by Edmund Spenser | |

Poem 22

 ANd thou great Iuno, which with awful might
the lawes of wedlock still dost patronize,
And the religion of the faith first plight
With sacred rites hast taught to solemnize:
and eeke for comfort often called art
Of women in their smart,
Eternally bind thou this louely band,
And all thy blessings vnto vs impart.
And thou glad Genius, in whose gentle hand, The bridale bowre and geniall bed remaine, Without blemish or staine.
And the sweet pleasures of theyr loues delight With secret ayde doest succour and supply, Till they bring forth the fruitfull progeny, Send vs the timely fruit of this same night.
And thou fayre Hebe, and thou Hymen free, Grant that it may so be.
Til which we cease your further prayse to sing, Ne any woods shal answer, nor your Eccho ring.


by Edmund Spenser | |

Sonnet LXXVII

 Was it a dreame, or did I see it playne,
a goodly table of pure yvory:
all spred with iuncats, fit to entertayne,
the greatest Prince with pompous roialty.
Mongst which there in a siluer dish did ly, twoo golden apples of vnualewd price: far passing those which Hercules came by, or those which Atalanta did entice.
Exceeding sweet, yet voyd of sinfull vice, That many sought yet none could euer taste, sweet fruit of pleasure brought from paradice: By loue himselfe and in his garden plaste.
Her brest that table was so richly spredd, my thoughts the guests, which would thereon haue fedd.


by Delmore Schwartz | |

Words For A Trumpet Chorale Celebrating The Autumn

 "The trumpet is a brilliant instrument.
" - Dietrich Buxtehude Come and come forth and come up from the cup of Your dumbness, stunned and numb, come with The statues and believed in, Thinking this is nothing, deceived.
Come to the summer and sun, Come see upon that height, and that sum In the seedtime of the winter's absolute, How yearly the phoenix inhabits the fruit.
Behold, above all, how the tall ball Called the body is but a drum, but a bell Summoning the soul To rise from the catacomb of sleep and fear To the blaze and death of summer, Rising from the lithe forms of the pure Furs of the rising flames, slender and supple, Which are the consummation of the blaze of fall and of all.


by Alan Seeger | |

Kyrenaikos

 Lay me where soft Cyrene rambles down 
In grove and garden to the sapphire sea; 
Twine yellow roses for the drinker's crown; 
Let music reach and fair heads circle me, 
Watching blue ocean where the white sails steer 
Fruit-laden forth or with the wares and news 
Of merchant cities seek our harbors here, 
Careless how Corinth fares, how Syracuse; 
But here, with love and sleep in her caress, 
Warm night shall sink and utterly persuade 
The gentle doctrine Aristippus bare, -- 
Night-winds, and one whose white youth's loveliness, 
In a flowered balcony beside me laid, 
Dreams, with the starlight on her fragrant hair.


by Alan Seeger | |

Sonnet 10

 I have sought Happiness, but it has been 
A lovely rainbow, baffling all pursuit, 
And tasted Pleasure, but it was a fruit 
More fair of outward hue than sweet within.
Renouncing both, a flake in the ferment Of battling hosts that conquer or recoil, There only, chastened by fatigue and toil, I knew what came the nearest to content.
For there at least my troubled flesh was free From the gadfly Desire that plagued it so; Discord and Strife were what I used to know, Heartaches, deception, murderous jealousy; By War transported far from all of these, Amid the clash of arms I was at peace.


by Alan Seeger | |

With a Copy of Shakespeares Sonnets on Leaving College

 As one of some fat tillage dispossessed, 
Weighing the yield of these four faded years, 
If any ask what fruit seems loveliest, 
What lasting gold among the garnered ears, -- 
Ah, then I'll say what hours I had of thine, 
Therein I reaped Time's richest revenue, 
Read in thy text the sense of David's line, 
Through thee achieved the love that Shakespeare knew.
Take then his book, laden with mine own love As flowers made sweeter by deep-drunken rain, That when years sunder and between us move Wide waters, and less kindly bonds constrain, Thou may'st turn here, dear boy, and reading see Some part of what thy friend once felt for thee.


by Anne Sexton | |

Red Roses

 Tommy is three and when he's bad
his mother dances with him.
She puts on the record, "Red Roses for a Blue Lady" and throws him across the room.
Mind you, she never laid a hand on him.
He gets red roses in different places, the head, that time he was as sleepy as a river, the back, that time he was a broken scarecrow, the arm like a diamond had bitten it, the leg, twisted like a licorice stick, all the dance they did together, Blue Lady and Tommy.
You fell, she said, just remember you fell.
I fell, is all he told the doctors in the big hospital.
A nice lady came and asked him questions but because he didn't want to be sent away he said, I fell.
He never said anything else although he could talk fine.
He never told about the music or how she'd sing and shout holding him up and throwing him.
He pretends he is her ball.
He tries to fold up and bounce but he squashes like fruit.
For he loves Blue Lady and the spots of red roses he gives her


by Karl Shapiro | |

The Olive Tree

 Save for a lusterless honing-stone of moon
The sky stretches its flawless canopy
Blue as the blue silk of the Jewish flag
Over the valley and out to sea.
It is bluest just above the olive tree.
You cannot find in twisted Italy So straight a one; it stands not on a crag, Is not humpbacked with bearing in scored stone, But perfectly erect in my front yard, Oblivious of its fame.
The fruit is hard, Multitudinous, acid, tight on the stem; The leaves ride boat-like in the brimming sun, Going nowhere and scooping up the light.
It is the silver tree, the holy tree, Tree of all attributes.
Now on the lawn The olives fall by thousands, and I delight To shed my tennis shoes and walk on them, Pressing them coldly into the deep grass, In love and reverence for the total loss.


by Charles Simic | |

Watermelons

 Green Buddhas
On the fruit stand.
We eat the smile And spit out the teeth.


by Judith Skillman | |

Bourne

 When the Cherry
rustles above her head
she hardly realizes
why she leaves
her clothes on the rocks,

passes a hand absently
through water
as if smoothing
an infant’s forehead.
Instead she takes the fruit pressed into her hand and watches the bloody stone wet her fingers.
Wasn’t sweetness always a symbol for their falling.
She walks with the man along the river bank until they come to know the sore places in the soles of their feet, the fish knifing away.
Under the currents every death moves in time towards them, each cliché is soothed into language as if there were no way to limit Paradise, other than this that has already happened.


by Robert Southey | |

Inscription 01 - For A Tablet At Godstow Nunnery

 Here Stranger rest thee! from the neighbouring towers
Of Oxford, haply thou hast forced thy bark
Up this strong stream, whose broken waters here
Send pleasant murmurs to the listening sense:
Rest thee beneath this hazel; its green boughs
Afford a grateful shade, and to the eye
Fair is its fruit: Stranger! the seemly fruit
Is worthless, all is hollowness within,
For on the grave of ROSAMUND it grows!
Young lovely and beloved she fell seduced,
And here retir'd to wear her wretched age
In earnest prayer and bitter penitence,
Despis'd and self-despising: think of her
Young Man! and learn to reverence Womankind!


by Michael Lally | |

Forbidden Fruit

 all the forbidden fruit I ever
dreamt of--or was taught to
resist and fear--ripens and
blossoms under the palms of my
hands as they uncover and explore
you--and in the most secret
corners of my heart as it discovers
and adores you--the forbidden fruit
of forgiveness--the forbidden fruit
of finally feeling the happiness
you were afraid you didn't deserve--
the forbidden fruit of my life's labor
--the just payment I have avoided
since my father taught me how--
the forbidden fruit of the secret
language of our survivors' souls as
they unfold each others secret
ballots--the ones where we voted
for our first secret desires to come
true--there's so much more
I want to say to you--but for
the first time in my life I'm at
a loss for words--because
(I understand at last)
I don't need them
to be heard by you.


by Pablo Neruda | |

Your Feet

 When I cannot look at your face 
I look at your feet.
Your feet of arched bone, your hard little feet.
I know that they support you, and that your sweet weight rises upon them.
Your waist and your breasts, the doubled purple of your nipples, the sockets of your eyes that have just flown away, your wide fruit mouth, your red tresses, my little tower.
But I love your feet only because they walked upon the earth and upon the wind and upon the waters, until they found me.


by Pablo Neruda | |

The Light Wraps You

 The light wraps you in its mortal flame.
Abstracted pale mourner, standing that way against the old propellers of the twighlight that revolves around you.
Speechless, my friend, alone in the loneliness of this hour of the dead and filled with the lives of fire, pure heir of the ruined day.
A bough of fruit falls from the sun on your dark garment.
The great roots of night grow suddenly from your soul, and the things that hide in you come out again so that a blue and palled people your newly born, takes nourishment.
Oh magnificent and fecund and magnetic slave of the circle that moves in turn through black and gold: rise, lead and possess a creation so rich in life that its flowers perish and it is full of sadness.


by Pablo Neruda | |

Ode To The Lemon

 From blossoms
released
by the moonlight,
from an
aroma of exasperated
love,
steeped in fragrance,
yellowness
drifted from the lemon tree,
and from its plantarium
lemons descended to the earth.
Tender yield! The coasts, the markets glowed with light, with unrefined gold; we opened two halves of a miracle, congealed acid trickled from the hemispheres of a star, the most intense liqueur of nature, unique, vivid, concentrated, born of the cool, fresh lemon, of its fragrant house, its acid, secret symmetry.
Knives sliced a small cathedral in the lemon, the concealed apse, opened, revealed acid stained glass, drops oozed topaz, altars, cool architecture.
So, when you hold the hemisphere of a cut lemon above your plate, you spill a universe of gold, a yellow goblet of miracles, a fragrant nipple of the earth's breast, a ray of light that was made fruit, the minute fire of a planet.


by Kathleen Raine | |

Paradise Seed

 Where is the seed 
Of the tree felled, 
Of the forest burned, 
Or living root 
Under ash and cinders? 
From woven bud 
What last leaf strives 
Into life, last 
Shrivelled flower?
Is fruit of our harvest,
Our long labour
Dust to the core?
To what far, fair land 
Borne on the wind 
What winged seed 
Or spark of fire 
From holocaust 
To kindle a star?