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Best Famous Future Poems

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

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by Christina Rossetti | |

A Daughter of Eve

A fool I was to sleep at noon,
  And wake when night is chilly
Beneath the comfortless cold moon;
A fool to pluck my rose too soon,
  A fool to snap my lily.
My garden-plot I have not kept; Faded and all-forsaken, I weep as I have never wept: Oh it was summer when I slept, It's winter now I waken.
Talk what you please of future spring And sun-warm'd sweet to-morrow:— Stripp'd bare of hope and everything, No more to laugh, no more to sing, I sit alone with sorrow.


by Edgar Allan Poe | |

The One in Paradise

THOU wast that all to me love 
For which my soul did pine --
A green isle in the sea love 
A fountain and a shrine 
All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers 
And all the flowers were mine.
Ah dream too bright to last! Ah starry Hope! that didst arise But to be overcast! A voice from out the Future cries "On! on!" -- but o'er the Past (Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies Mute motionless aghast! For alas! alas! with me The light of Life is o'er! No more -- no more -- no more -- (Such language holds the solemn sea To the sands upon the shore) Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree Or the stricken eagle soar! And all my days are trances And all my nightly dreams Are where thy grey eye glances And where thy footstep gleams -- In what ethereal dances By what eternal streams.


by William Blake | |

HEAR the Voice

HEAR the voice of the Bard  
Who present past and future sees; 
Whose ears have heard 
The Holy Word 
That walk'd among the ancient trees; 5 

Calling the laps¨¨d soul  
And weeping in the evening dew; 
That might control 
The starry pole  
And fallen fallen light renew! 10 

'O Earth O Earth return! 
Arise from out the dewy grass! 
Night is worn  
And the morn 
Rises from the slumbrous mass.
15 'Turn away no more; Why wilt thou turn away? The starry floor The watery shore Is given thee till the break of day.
' 20


by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow | |

Song of the Silent Land

(Lied: Ins Stille Land) 
BY JOHANN GAUDENZ VON SALIS-SEEWIS


INTO the Silent Land! 
Ah! who shall lead us thither? 
Clouds in the evening sky more darkly gather  
And shattered wrecks lie thicker on the strand.
Who leads us with a gentle hand 5 Thither oh thither Into the Silent Land? Into the Silent Land! To you ye boundless regions Of all perfection! Tender morning-visions 10 Of beauteous souls! The Future's pledge and band! Who in Life's battle firm doth stand Shall bear Hope's tender blossoms Into the Silent Land! O Land! O Land! 15 For all the broken-hearted The mildest herald by our fate allotted Beckons and with inverted torch doth stand To lead us with a gentle hand To the land of the great Departed 20 Into the Silent Land!


by Ralph Waldo Emerson | |

Heri Cras Hodie

SHINES the last age the next with hope is seen  
To-day slinks poorly off unmarked between: 
Future or Past no richer secret folds  
O friendless Present! than thy bosom holds.


by Philip Larkin | |

To My Wife

 Choice of you shuts up that peacock-fan
The future was, in which temptingly spread
All that elaborative nature can.
Matchless potential! but unlimited Only so long as I elected nothing; Simply to choose stopped all ways up but one, And sent the tease-birds from the bushes flapping.
No future now.
I and you now, alone.
So for your face I have exchanged all faces, For your few properties bargained the brisk Baggage, the mask-and-magic-man's regalia.
Now you become my boredom and my failure, Another way of suffering, a risk, A heavier-than-air hypostasis.


by Philip Larkin | |

Next Please

 Always too eager for the future, we
Pick up bad habits of expectancy.
Something is always approaching; every day Till then we say, Watching from a bluff the tiny, clear Sparkling armada of promises draw near.
How slow they are! And how much time they waste, Refusing to make haste! Yet still they leave us holding wretched stalks Of disappointment, for, though nothing balks Each big approach, leaning with brasswork prinked, Each rope distinct, Flagged, and the figurehead wit golden tits Arching our way, it never anchors; it's No sooner present than it turns to past.
Right to the last We think each one will heave to and unload All good into our lives, all we are owed For waiting so devoutly and so long.
But we are wrong: Only one ship is seeking us, a black- Sailed unfamiliar, towing at her back A huge and birdless silence.
In her wake No waters breed or break.


by Philip Larkin | |

Triple Time

 This empty street, this sky to blandness scoured,
This air, a little indistinct with autumn
Like a reflection, constitute the present --
A time traditionally soured,
A time unrecommended by event.
But equally they make up something else: This is the furthest future childhood saw Between long houses, under travelling skies, Heard in contending bells -- An air lambent with adult enterprise, And on another day will be the past, A valley cropped by fat neglected chances That we insensately forbore to fleece.
On this we blame our last Threadbare perspectives, seasonal decrease.


by Christina Rossetti | |

Remember

 Remember me when I am gone away,
 Gone far away into the silent land;
 When you can no more hold me by the hand,
Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.
Remember me when no more day by day You tell me of our future that you plann'd: Only remember me; you understand It will be late to counsel then or pray.
Yet if you should forget me for a while And afterwards remember, do not grieve: For if the darkness and corruption leave A vestige of the thoughts that once I had, Better by far you should forget and smile Than that you should remember and be sad.


by Christina Rossetti | |

Cobwebs

 It is a land with neither night nor day, 
Nor heat nor cold, nor any wind, nor rain, 
Nor hills nor valleys; but one even plain 
Stretches thro' long unbroken miles away: 
While thro' the sluggish air a twilight grey 
Broodeth; no moons or seasons wax and wane, 
No ebb and flow are there among the main, 
No bud-time no leaf-falling there for aye, 
No ripple on the sea, no shifting sand, 
No beat of wings to stir the stagnant space, 
And loveless sea: no trace of days before, 
No guarded home, no time-worn restingplace 
No future hope no fear forevermore.


by Richard Wilbur | |

The Prisoner of Zenda

 At the end a
"The Prisoner of Zenda,"
The King being out of danger,
Stewart Granger
(As Rudolph Rassendyll)
Must swallow a bitter pill
By renouncing his co-star,
Deborah Kerr.
It would be poor behavia In him and in Princess Flavia Were they to put their own Concerns before those of the Throne.
Deborah Kerr must wed The King instead.
Rassendyll turns to go.
Must it be so? Why can’t they have their cake And eat it, for heaven’s sake? Please let them have it both ways, The audience prays.
And yet it is hard to quarrel With a plot so moral.
One redeeming factor, However, is that the actor Who plays the once-dissolute King (Who has learned through suffering Not to drink or be mean To his future Queen), Far from being a stranger, Is also Stewart Granger.


by Constantine P Cavafy | |

Neros Term

 Nero was not worried when he heard
the prophecy of the Delphic Oracle.
"Let him fear the seventy three years.
" He still had ample time to enjoy himself.
He is thirty.
More than sufficient is the term the god allots him to prepare for future perils.
Now he will return to Rome slightly tired, but delightfully tired from this journey, full of days of enjoyment -- at the theaters, the gardens, the gymnasia.
.
.
evenings at cities of Achaia.
.
.
Ah the delight of nude bodies, above all.
.
.
Thus fared Nero.
And in Spain Galba secretly assembles and drills his army, the old man of seventy three.


by Constantine P Cavafy | |

Candles

 The days of our future stand in front of us
like a row of little lit candles --
golden, warm, and lively little candles.
The days past remain behind us, a mournful line of extinguished candles; the ones nearest are still smoking, cold candles, melted, and bent.
I do not want to look at them; their form saddens me, and it saddens me to recall their first light.
I look ahead at my lit candles.
I do not want to turn back, lest I see and shudder at how fast the dark line lengthens, at how fast the extinguished candles multiply.


by Walter Savage Landor | |

Proud Word You Never Spoke

 Proud word you never spoke, but you will speak
Four not exempt from pride some future day.
Resting on one white hand a warm wet cheek, Over my open volume you will say, 'This man loved me'—then rise and trip away.


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 George William Russell | |

A New Theme

 I FAIN would leave the tender songs
 I sang to you of old,
Thinking the oft-sung beauty wrongs
 The magic never told.
And touch no more the thoughts, the moods, That win the easy praise; But venture in the untrodden woods To carve the future ways.
Though far or strange or cold appear The shadowy things I tell, Within the heart the hidden seer Knows and remembers well.
I think that in the coming time The hearts and hopes of men The mountain tops of life shall climb, The gods return again.
I strive to blow the magic horn; It feebly murmureth; Arise on some enchanted morn, Poet, with God’s own breath! And sound the horn I cannot blow, And by the secret name Each exile of the heart will know Kindle the magic flame.


by Ella Wheeler Wilcox | |

Searching

 These quiet Autumn days, 
My soul, like Noah's dove, on airy wings
Goes out and searches for the hidden things
Beyond the hills of haze.
With mournful, pleading cries, Above the waters of the voiceless sea That laps the shore of broad Eternity, Day after day, it flies, Searching, but all in vain, For some stray leaf that it may light upon, And read the future, as the days agone - Its pleasures, and its pain.
Listening patiently For some voice speaking from the mighty deep, Revealing all the things that it doth keep In secret there for me.
Come back and wait, my soul! Day after day thy search has been in vain.
Voiceles and silent o'er the future's plain Its mystic waters roll.
God, seeing, knoweth best, And in His time the waters shall subside, And thou shalt know what lies beneath the tide, Then wait, my soul, and rest.


by Ella Wheeler Wilcox | |

A Golden Day

  The subtle beauty of this day
Hangs o'er me like a fairy spell,
And care and grief have flown away,
And every breeze sings, "all is well.
" I ask, "Holds earth or sin, or woe?" My heart replies, "I do not know.
" Nay! all we know, or feel, my heart, Today is joy undimmed, complete; In tears or pain we have no part; The act of breathing is so sweet, We care no higher joy to name.
What reck we now of wealth or fame? The past--what matters it to me? The pain it gave has passed away.
The future--that I cannot see! I care for nothing save today-- This is a respite from all care, And trouble flies--I know not where.
Go on, oh noisy, restless life! Pass by, oh, feet that seek for heights! I have no part in aught of strife; I do not want your vain delights.
The day wraps round me like a spell And every breeze sings, "All is well.
"


by Ella Wheeler Wilcox | |

Resolve

 Build on resolve, and not upon regret, 
The structure of thy future.
Do not grope Among the shadows of old sins, but let Thine own soul’s light shine on the path of hope And dissipate the darkness.
Waste no tears Upon the blotted record of lost years, But turn the leaf, and smile, oh! smile, to see The fair white pages that remain for thee.
Prate not of thy repentance.
But believe The spark divine dwells in thee: let it grow.
That which the unpreaching spirit can achieve, The grand and all creative forces know; They will assist and strengthen as the light Lifts up the acorn to the oak-tree’s height.
Thou hast but to resolve, and lo! God’s whole Great universe shall fortify thy soul.


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.