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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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See also: Best Member Poems

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 Wang Wei | |

The Cornel Grove

 Bear fruit red and green 
Again as if flower further open 
Hill at if remain guest 
Place here cornel cup 

When bearing fruit it's red and green, 
As if the flowers were budding again.
If a guest remains on the hill, Set a cup of cornel here.

by Gerard Manley Hopkins | |


 I awoke in the Midsummer not to call night, in the white and the walk of the morning:
The moon, dwindled and thinned to the fringe of a finger-nail held to the candle,
Or paring of paradisaical fruit, lovely in waning but lustreless,
Stepped from the stool, drew back from the barrow, of dark Maenefa the mountain;

A cusp still clasped him, a fluke yet fanged him, entangled him, not quite utterly.
This was the prized, the desirable sight, unsought, presented so easily, Parted me leaf and leaf, divided me, eyelid and eyelid of slumber.

by Gerard Manley Hopkins | |

For A Picture Of St. Dorothea

 I bear a basket lined with grass;
I am so light, I am so fair,
That men must wonder as I pass
And at the basket that I bear,
Where in a newly-drawn green litter
Sweet flowers I carry, -- sweets for bitter.
Lilies I shew you, lilies none, None in Caesar's gardens blow, -- And a quince in hand, -- not one Is set upon your boughs below; Not set, because their buds not spring; Spring not, 'cause world is wintering.
But these were found in the East and South Where Winter is the clime forgot.
-- The dewdrop on the larkspur's mouth O should it then be quenchèd not? In starry water-meads they drew These drops: which be they? stars or dew? Had she a quince in hand? Yet gaze: Rather it is the sizing moon.
Lo, linkèd heavens with milky ways! That was her larkspur row.
-- So soon? Sphered so fast, sweet soul? -- We see Nor fruit, nor flowers, nor Dorothy.

by G K Chesterton | |

A Prayer in Darkness

 This much, O heaven—if I should brood or rave, 
Pity me not; but let the world be fed, 
Yea, in my madness if I strike me dead, 
Heed you the grass that grows upon my grave.
If I dare snarl between this sun and sod, Whimper and clamour, give me grace to own, In sun and rain and fruit in season shown, The shining silence of the scorn of God.
Thank God the stars are set beyond my power, If I must travail in a night of wrath, Thank God my tears will never vex a moth, Nor any curse of mine cut down a flower.
Men say the sun was darkened: yet I had Thought it beat brightly, even on—Calvary: And He that hung upon the Torturing Tree Heard all the crickets singing, and was glad.

by Helen Hunt Jackson | |

A Calendar of Sonnets: June

 O month whose promise and fulfilment blend, 
And burst in one! it seems the earth can store 
In all her roomy house no treasure more; 
Of all her wealth no farthing have to spend 
On fruit, when once this stintless flowering end.
And yet no tiniest flower shall fall before It hath made ready at its hidden core Its tithe of seed, which we may count and tend Till harvest.
Joy of blossomed love, for thee Seems it no fairer thing can yet have birth? No room is left for deeper ecstacy? Watch well if seeds grow strong, to scatter free Germs for thy future summers on the earth.
A joy which is but joy soon comes to dearth.

by Helen Hunt Jackson | |


 My snowy eupatorium has dropped 
Its silver threads of petals in the night; 
No signal told its blossoming had stopped; 
Its seed-films flutter silent, ghostly white: 
No answer stirs the shining air, 
As I ask, "Where?" 

Beneath the glossy leaves of winter-green 
Dead lilly-bells lie low, and in their place 
A rounded disk of pearly pink is seen, 
Which tells not of the lily's fragrant grace: 
No answer stirs the shining air, 
As I ask, "Where?" 

This morning's sunrise does not show to me 
Seed-film or fruit of my sweet yesterday; 
Like falling flowers, to realms I cannot see 
Its moments floated silently away: 
No answer stirs the shining air, 
As I ask, "Where?"

by George William Russell | |

A Prayer

 O HOLY SPIRIT of the Hazel, hearken now:
Though shining suns and silver moons burn on the bough,
And though the fruit of stars by many myriads gleam,
Yet in the undergrowth below, still in thy dream,
Lighting the monstrous maze and labyrinthine gloom
Are many gem-winged flowers with gay and delicate bloom.
And in the shade, hearken, O Dreamer of the Tree, One wild-rose blossom of thy spirit breathed on me With lovely and still light: a little sister flower To those that whitely on the tall moon-branches tower.
Lord of the Hazel, now, O hearken while I pray.
This wild-rose blossom of thy spirit fades away.

by George William Russell | |

The Nuts of Knowledge

 A CABIN on the mountain side hid in a grassy nook
Where door and windows open wide that friendly stars may look.
The rabbit shy can patter in, the winds may enter free, Who throng around the mountain throne in living ecstasy.
And when the sun sets dimmed in eve and purple fills the air, I think the sacred Hazel Tree is dropping berries there From starry fruitage waved aloft where Connla’s Well o’erflows; For sure the enchanted waters run through every wind that blows.
I think when night towers up aloft and shakes the trembling dew, How every high and lonely thought that thrills my being through Is but a ruddy berry dropped down through the purple air, And from the magic tree of life the fruit falls everywhere.

by Ella Wheeler Wilcox | |


 Because of the fullness of what I had, 
All that I have seems poor and vain.
If I had not been happy, I were not sad-- Tho' my salt is savorless, why complain? From the ripe perfection of what was mine, All that is mine seems worse than naught; Yet I know, as I sit in the dark and pine, No cup can be drained which has not been fraught.
From the throb and the thrill of a day that was, The day that now is seems dull with gloom; Yet I bear the dullness and darkness, because 'Tis but the reaction of glow and bloom.
From the royal feast that of old was spread I am starved on the diet that now is mine; Yet, I could not turn hungry from water and bread If I had not been sated on fruit and wine.

by Friedrich von Schiller | |


 To Archimedes once a scholar came,
"Teach me," he said, "the art that won thy fame;--
The godlike art which gives such boons to toil,
And showers such fruit upon thy native soil;--
The godlike art that girt the town when all
Rome's vengeance burst in thunder on the wall!"
"Thou call'st art godlike--it is so, in truth,
And was," replied the master to the youth,
"Ere yet its secrets were applied to use--
Ere yet it served beleaguered Syracuse:--
Ask'st thou from art, but what the art is worth?
The fruit?--for fruit go cultivate the earth.
-- He who the goddess would aspire unto, Must not the goddess as the woman woo!"

by Friedrich von Schiller | |

Different Destinies

 Millions busily toil, that the human race may continue;
But by only a few is propagated our kind.
Thousands of seeds by the autumn are scattered, yet fruit is engendered Only by few, for the most back to the element go.
But if one only can blossom, that one is able to scatter Even a bright living world, filled with creations eterne.

by Friedrich von Schiller | |

The Learned Workman

 Ne'er does he taste the fruit of the tree that he raised with such trouble;
Nothing but taste e'er enjoys that which by learning is reared.

by Algernon Charles Swinburne | |

Wasted Love

 What shall be done for sorrow
With love whose race is run?
Where help is none to borrow,
What shall be done?

In vain his hands have spun
The web, or drawn the furrow:
No rest their toil hath won.
His task is all gone thorough, And fruit thereof is none: And who dare say to-morrow What shall be done?

by Algernon Charles Swinburne | |

The Lute And The Lyre

 Deep desire, that pierces heart and spirit to the root,
Finds reluctant voice in verse that yearns like soaring fire,
Takes exultant voice when music holds in high pursuit
Deep desire.
Keen as burns the passion of the rose whose buds respire, Strong as grows the yearning of the blossom toward the fruit, Sounds the secret half unspoken ere the deep tones tire.
Slow subsides the rapture that possessed love's flower-soft lute, Slow the palpitation of the triumph of the lyre: Still the soul feels burn, a flame unslaked though these be mute, Deep desire.

by Henry Van Dyke | |

One World

 "The worlds in which we live are two
The world 'I am' and the world 'I do.
'" The worlds in which we live at heart are one, The world "I am," the fruit of "I have done"; And underneath these worlds of flower and fruit, The world "I love,"--the only living root.

by Henry Van Dyke | |

Sicily December 1908

 O garden isle, beloved by Sun and Sea, --
Whose bluest billows kiss thy curving bays,
Whose amorous light enfolds thee in warm rays
That fill with fruit each dark-leaved orange-tree, --
What hidden hatred hath the Earth for thee? 
Behold, again, in these dark, dreadful days, 
She trembles with her wrath, and swiftly lays 
Thy beauty waste in wreck and agony! 

Is Nature, then, a strife of jealous powers,
And man the plaything of unconscious fate?
Not so, my troubled heart! God reigns above
And man is greatest in his darkest hours:
Walking amid the cities desolate,
The Son of God appears in human love.

by David Herbert Lawrence | |


 The sick grapes on the chair by the bed lie prone; at the window
The tassel of the blind swings gently, tapping the pane, 
As a little wind comes in.
The room is the hollow rind of a fruit, a gourd Scooped out and dry, where a spider, Folded in its legs as in a bed, Lies on the dust, watching where is nothing to see but twilight and walls.
And if the day outside were mine! What is the day But a grey cave, with great grey spider-cloths hanging Low from the roof, and the wet dust falling softly from them Over the wet dark rocks, the houses, and over The spiders with white faces, that scuttle on the floor of the cave! I am choking with creeping, grey confinedness.
But somewhere birds, beside a lake of light, spread wings Larger than the largest fans, and rise in a stream upwards And upwards on the sunlight that rains invisible, So that the birds are like one wafted feather, Small and ecstatic suspended over a vast spread country.

by Rainer Maria Rilke | |

Growing Old

 In some summers there is so much fruit,
the peasants decide not to reap any more.
Not having reaped you, oh my days, my nights, have I let the slow flames of your lovely produce fall into ashes? My nights, my days, you have borne so much! All your branches have retained the gesture of that long labor you are rising from: my days, my nights.
Oh my rustic friends! I look for what was so good for you.
Oh my lovely, half-dead trees, could some equal sweetness still stroke your leaves, open your calyx? Ah, no more fruit! But one last time bloom in fruitless blossoming without planning, without reckoning, as useless as the powers of millenia.

by Rainer Maria Rilke | |

Song Of The Sea

 (Capri, Piccola Marina)

Timeless sea breezes,
sea-wind of the night:
you come for no one;
if someone should wake,
he must be prepared
how to survive you.
Timeless sea breezes, that for aeons have blown ancient rocks, you are purest space coming from afar.
Oh, how a fruit-bearing fig tree feels your coming high up in the moonlight.

by Rainer Maria Rilke | |


 Look how she stands, high on the steep facade
of the cathedral, near the window-rose,
simply, holding in her hand the apple,
judged for all time as the guiltless-guilty

for the growing fruit her body held
which she gave birth to after parting from
the circle of eternities.
She left to face the strange New Earth, so young in years.
Oh, how she would have loved to stay a little longer in that enchanted garden, where the peaceful gentle beasts grazed side by side.
But Adam was resolved to leave, to go out into this New Earth, and facing death she followed him.
God she had hardly known.

by Rainer Maria Rilke | |

The Apple Orchard

 Come let us watch the sun go down
and walk in twilight through the orchard's green.
Does it not seem as if we had for long collected, saved and harbored within us old memories? To find releases and seek new hopes, remembering half-forgotten joys, mingled with darkness coming from within, as we randomly voice our thoughts aloud wandering beneath these harvest-laden trees reminiscent of Durer woodcuts, branches which, bent under the fully ripened fruit, wait patiently, trying to outlast, to serve another season's hundred days of toil, straining, uncomplaining, by not breaking but succeeding, even though the burden should at times seem almost past endurance.
Not to falter! Not to be found wanting! Thus must it be, when willingly you strive throughout a long and uncomplaining life, committed to one goal: to give yourself! And silently to grow and to bear fruit.

by Rainer Maria Rilke | |

Archaic Torso Of Apollo

 We cannot know his legendary head
with eyes like ripening fruit.
And yet his torso is still suffused with brilliance from inside, like a lamp, in which his gaze, now turned to low, gleams in all its power.
Otherwise the curved breast could not dazzle you so, nor could a smile run through the placid hips and thighs to that dark center where procreation flared.
Otherwise this stone would seem defaced beneath the translucent cascade of the shoulders and would not glisten like a wild beast's fur: would not, from all the borders of itself, burst like a star: for here there is no place that does not see you.
You must change your life.