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Best Famous Grandfather Poems

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

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by T S (Thomas Stearns) Eliot | |

A Cooking Egg

 En l’an trentiesme do mon aage
Que toutes mes hontes j’ay beues.
PIPIT sate upright in her chair Some distance from where I was sitting; Views of the Oxford Colleges Lay on the table, with the knitting.
Daguerreotypes and silhouettes, Here grandfather and great great aunts, Supported on the mantelpiece An Invitation to the Dance.
I shall not want Honour in Heaven For I shall meet Sir Philip Sidney And have talk with Coriolanus And other heroes of that kidney.
I shall not want Capital in Heaven For I shall meet Sir Alfred Mond.
We two shall lie together, lapt In a five per cent.
Exchequer Bond.
I shall not want Society in Heaven, Lucretia Borgia shall be my Bride; Her anecdotes will be more amusing Than Pipit’s experience could provide.
I shall not want Pipit in Heaven: Madame Blavatsky will instruct me In the Seven Sacred Trances; Piccarda de Donati will conduct me.
But where is the penny world I bought To eat with Pipit behind the screen? The red-eyed scavengers are creeping From Kentish Town and Golder’s Green; Where are the eagles and the trumpets? Buried beneath some snow-deep Alps.
Over buttered scones and crumpets Weeping, weeping multitudes Droop in a hundred A.

by Robert William Service | |


 As home from church we two did plod,
"Grandpa," said Rosy, "What is God?"
Seeking an answer to her mind,
This is the best that I could find.
God is the Iz-ness of our Cosmic Biz; The high, the low, the near, the far, The atom and the evening star; The lark, the shark, the cloud, the clod, The whole darned Universe - that's God.
Some deem that others there be, And to them humbly bend the knee; To Mumbo Jumbo and to Joss, To Bud and Allah - but the Boss Is mine .
While there are suns and seas MY timeless God shall dwell in these.
In every glowing leaf He lives; When roses die His life he gives; God is not outside and apart From Nature, but her very heart; No Architect (as I of verse) He is Himself the Universe.
Said Rosy-kins: "Grandpa, how odd Is your imagining of God.
To me he's always just appeared A huge Grandfather with a beard.

by Robert William Service | |

The Old Armchair

 In all the pubs from Troon to Ayr
Grandfather's father would repair
With Bobby Burns, a drouthy pair,
 The glass to clink;
And oftenwhiles, when not too "fou,"
They'd roar a bawdy stave or two,
From midnight muk to morning dew,
 And drink and drink.
And Grandfather, with eye aglow And proper pride, would often show An old armchair where long ago The Bard would sit; Reciting there with pawky glee "The Lass that Made the Bed for Me;" Or whiles a rhyme about the flea That ne'er was writ.
Then I would seek the Poet's chair And plant my kilted buttocks there, And read with joy the Bard of Ayr In my own tongue; The Diel, the Daisy and the Louse The Hare, the Haggis and the Mouse, (What fornication and carouse!) When I was young.
Though Kipling, Hardy, Stevenson Have each my admiration won, Today, my rhyme-race almost run, My fancy turns To him who did Pegasus prod For me, Bard of my native sod, The sinner best-loved of God - Rare Robbie Burns.

More great poems below...

by Robert William Service | |

The Centenarian

 Great Grandfather was ninety-nine
 And so it was our one dread,
That though his health was superfine
 He'd fail to make the hundred.
Though he was not a rolling stone No moss he seemed to gather: A patriarch of brawn and bone Was Great Grandfather.
He should have been senile and frail Instead of hale and hearty; But no, he loved a mug of ale, A boisterous old party.
'As frisky as a cold,' said he, 'A man's allotted span I've lived but now I plan to be A Centenarian.
' Then one night when I called on him Oh what a change I saw! His head was bowed, his eye was dim, Down-fallen was his jaw.
Said he: 'Leave me to die, I pray; I'm no more bloody use .
For in my mouth I found today-- A tooth that's loose.

by Robert William Service | |


 This morning on my pensive walk
I saw a fisher on a rock,
Who watched his ruby float careen
In waters bluely crystalline,
While silver fishes nosed his bait,
Yet hesitated ere they ate.
Nearby I saw a mother mid Who knitted by her naked child, And watched him as he romped with glee, In golden sand, in singing sea, Her eyes so blissfully love-lit She gazed and gazed and ceased to knit.
And then I watched a painter chap, Grey-haired, a grandfather, mayhap, Who daubed with delicate caress As if in love with loveliness, And looked at me with vague surmise, The joy of beauty in his eyes.
Yet in my Morning Rag I read Of paniked peoples, dark with dread, Of flame and famine near and far, Of revolution, pest and war; The fall of this, the rise of that, The writhing proletariat.
I saw the fisher from his hook Take off a shiny perch to cook; The mother garbed her laughing boy, And sang a silver lilt of joy; The artist, packing up his paint, Went serenely as a saint.
The sky was gentleness and love, The sea soft-crooning as a dove; Peace reigned so brilliantly profound In every sight, in every sound.
Alas, what mockery for me! Can peace be mine till Man be free?

by Chris Tusa | |


 My grandmother’s teeth stare at her
from a mason jar on the nightstand.
The radio turns itself on, sunlight crawls through the window, and she thinks she feels her bright blue eyes rolling out her head.
She’s certain her blood has turned to dirt, that beetles haunt the dark hollow of her bones.
The clock on the kitchen wall is missing its big hand.
The potatoes in the sink are growing eyes.
She stares at my grandfather standing in the doorway, his smile flickering like the side of an axe.
Outside, in the yard, a chicken hops through the tall grass, looking for its head.

by Ellis Parker Butler | |

A Pastoral

 Just as the sun was setting
Back of the Western hills
Grandfather stood by the window
Eating the last of his pills.
And Grandmother, by the cupboard, Knitting, heard him say: “I ought to have went to the village To fetch some more pills today.
” Then Grandmother snuffled a teardrop And said.
“It is jest like I suz T’ th’ parson—Grandfather’s liver Ain’t what it used to was: “It’s gittin’ torpid and dormant, It don’t function like of old, And even them pills he swallers Don’t seem no more t’ catch hold; “They used to grab it and shake it And joggle it up and down And turn dear Grandfather yaller Except when they turned him brown; “I remember when we was married His liver was lively and gay, A kickin’ an’ rippin’ an’ givin’ Dear Ezry new pains ev’ry day; “It used to turn clear over backwards An’ palpitate wuss’n a pump An’ give him the janders and yallers An’ bounce around thumpty-thump; “But now it is torpid and dormant And painless and quiet and cold; Ah, me! all’s so peaceful an’ quiet Since Grandfather’s liver ’s grown old! Then Grandmother wiped a new teardrop And sighed: “It is just like I suz T’ th’ parson: Grandfather’s liver Ain’t what it used to was.

by Edgar Lee Masters | |

Le Roy Goldman

 "What will you do when you come to die,
If all your life long you have rejected Jesus,
And know as you lie there, He is not your friend?"
Over and over I said, I, the revivalist.
Ah, yes! but there are friends and friends.
And blessed are you, say I, who know all now, You who have lost, ere you pass, A father or mother, or old grandfather or mother Some beautiful soul that lived life strongly, And knew you all through, and loved you ever, Who would not fail to speak for you, And give God an intimate view of your soul, As only one of your flesh could do it.
That is the hand your hand will reach for, To lead you along the corridor To the court where you are a stranger!

by Etheridge Knight | |

The Idea of Ancestry

 Taped to the wall of my cell are 47 pictures: 47 black
faces: my father, mother, grandmothers (1 dead), grand-
fathers (both dead), brothers, sisters, uncles, aunts,
cousins (1st and 2nd), nieces, and nephews.
They stare across the space at me sprawling on my bunk.
I know their dark eyes, they know mine.
I know their style, they know mine.
I am all of them, they are all of me; they are farmers, I am a thief, I am me, they are thee.
I have at one time or another been in love with my mother, 1 grandmother, 2 sisters, 2 aunts (1 went to the asylum), and 5 cousins.
I am now in love with a 7-yr-old niece (she sends me letters in large block print, and her picture is the only one that smiles at me).
I have the same name as 1 grandfather, 3 cousins, 3 nephews, and 1 uncle.
The uncle disappeared when he was 15, just took off and caught a freight (they say).
He's discussed each year when the family has a reunion, he causes uneasiness in the clan, he is an empty space.
My father's mother, who is 93 and who keeps the Family Bible with everbody's birth dates (and death dates) in it, always mentions him.
There is no place in her Bible for "whereabouts unknown.

by Philip Levine | |

The New World

 A man roams the streets with a basket
of freestone peaches hollering, "Peaches,
peaches, yellow freestone peaches for sale.
" My grandfather in his prime could outshout the Tigers of Wrath or the factory whistles along the river.
Hamtramck hungered for yellow freestone peaches, downriver wakened from a dream of work, Zug Island danced into the bright day glad to be alive.
Full-figured women in their negligees streamed into the streets from the dark doorways to demand in Polish or Armenian the ripened offerings of this new world.
Josef Prisckulnick out of Dubrovitsa to Detroit by way of Ellis Island raised himself regally to his full height of five feet two and transacted until the fruit was gone into those eager hands.
Thus would there be a letter sent across an ocean and a continent, and thus would Sadie waken to the news of wealth without limit in the bright and distant land, and thus bags were packed and she set sail for America.
Some of this is true.
The women were gaunt.
All day the kids dug in the back lots searching for anything.
The place was Russia with another name.
Joe was five feet two.
Dubrovitsa burned to gray ashes the west wind carried off, then Rovno went, then the Dnieper turned to dust.
We sat around the table telling lies while the late light filled an empty glass.
Bread, onions, the smell of burning butter, small white potatoes we shared with no one because the hour was wrong, the guest was late, and this was Michigan in 1928.

by Philip Levine | |

My Fathers The Baltic

 Along the strand stones, 
busted shells, wood scraps, 
bottle tops, dimpled 
and stainless beer cans.
Something began here a century ago, a nameless disaster, perhaps a voyage to the lost continent where I was born.
Now the cold winds of March dimple the gray, incoming waves.
I kneel on the wet earth looking for a sign, maybe an old coin, an amulet against storms, and find my face blackened in a pool of oil and water.
My grandfather crossed this sea in '04 and never returned, so I've come alone to thank creation as he would never for bringing him home to work, defeat, and death, those three blood brothers faithful to the end.
Yusel Prishkulnick, I bless your laughter thrown in the wind's face, your gall, your rages, your abiding love for women and money and all that money never bought, for what the sea taught you and you taught me: that the waves go out and nothing comes back.

by Philip Levine | |

On The Murder Of Lieutenant Jose Del Castillo By The Falangist Bravo Martinez July 12 1936

 When the Lieutenant of the Guardia de Asalto
heard the automatic go off, he turned
and took the second shot just above
the sternum, the third tore away
the right shoulder of his uniform,
the fourth perforated his cheek.
As he slid out of his comrade's hold toward the gray cement of the Ramblas he lost count and knew only that he would not die and that the blue sky smudged with clouds was not heaven for heaven was nowhere and in his eyes slowly filling with their own light.
The pigeons that spotted the cold floor of Barcelona rose as he sank below the waves of silence crashing on the far shores of his legs, growing faint and watery.
His hands opened a last time to receive the benedictions of automobile exhaust and rain and the rain of soot.
His mouth, that would never again say "I am afraid," closed on nothing.
The old grandfather hawking daisies at his stand pressed a handkerchief against his lips and turned his eyes away before they held the eyes of a gunman.
The shepherd dogs on sale howled in their cages and turned in circles.
There is more to be said, but by someone who has suffered and died for his sister the earth and his brothers the beasts and the trees.
The Lieutenant can hear it, the prayer that comes on the voices of water, today or yesterday, form Chicago or Valladolid, and hands like smoke above this street he won't walk as a man ever again.

by Anne Sexton | |

The Fury Of Beautiful Bones

 Sing me a thrush, bone.
Sing me a nest of cup and pestle.
Sing me a sweetbread fr an old grandfather.
Sing me a foot and a doorknob, for you are my love.
Oh sing, bone bag man, sing.
Your head is what I remember that Augusty you were in love with another woman but taht didn't matter.
I was the gury of your bones, your fingers long and nubby, your forehead a beacon, bare as marble and I worried you like an odor because you had not quite forgotten, bone bag man, garlic in the North End, the book you dedicated, naked as a fish, naked as someone drowning into his own mouth.
I wonder, Mr.
Bone man, what you're thinking of your fury now, gone sour as a sinking whale, crawling up the alphabet on her own bones.
Am I in your ear still singing songs in the rain, me of the death rattle, me of the magnolias, me of the sawdust tavern at the city's edge.
Women have lovely bones, arms, neck, thigh and I admire them also, but your bones supersede loveliness.
They are the tough ones that get broken and reset.
I just can't answer for you, only for your bones, round rulers, round nudgers, round poles, numb nubkins, the sword of sugar.
I feel the skull, Mr.
Skeleton, living its own life in its own skin.

by Ogden Nash | |

Peekabo I Almost See You

 Middle-aged life is merry, and I love to
lead it,
But there comes a day when your eyes
are all right but your arm isn't long
to hold the telephone book where you can read it,
And your friends get jocular, so you go
to the oculist,
And of all your friends he is the joculist,
So over his facetiousness let us skim,
Only noting that he has been waiting for you ever since
you said Good evening to his grandfather clock under
the impression that it was him,
And you look at his chart and it says SHRDLU QWERTYOP,
and you say Well, why SHRDNTLU QWERTYOP? and he
says one set of glasses won't do.
You need two.
One for reading Erle Stanley Gardner's Perry Mason and Keats's "Endymion" with, And the other for walking around without saying Hello to strange wymion with.
So you spend your time taking off your seeing glasses to put on your reading glasses, and then remembering that your reading glasses are upstairs or in the car, And then you can't find your seeing glasses again because without them on you can't see where they are.
Enough of such mishaps, they would try the patience of an ox, I prefer to forget both pairs of glasses and pass my declining years saluting strange women and grandfather clocks.

by Elizabeth Bishop | |


 For a Child of 1918

My grandfather said to me
as we sat on the wagon seat,
"Be sure to remember to always
speak to everyone you meet.
" We met a stranger on foot.
My grandfather's whip tapped his hat.
"Good day, sir.
Good day.
A fine day.
" And I said it and bowed where I sat.
Then we overtook a boy we knew with his big pet crow on his shoulder.
"Always offer everyone a ride; don't forget that when you get older," my grandfather said.
So Willy climbed up with us, but the crow gave a "Caw!" and flew off.
I was worried.
How would he know where to go? But he flew a little way at a time from fence post to fence post, ahead; and when Willy whistled he answered.
"A fine bird," my grandfather said, "and he's well brought up.
See, he answers nicely when he's spoken to.
Man or beast, that's good manners.
Be sure that you both always do.
" When automobiles went by, the dust hid the people's faces, but we shouted "Good day! Good day! Fine day!" at the top of our voices.
When we came to Hustler Hill, he said that the mare was tired, so we all got down and walked, as our good manners required.

by Pablo Neruda | |

Cats Dream

 How neatly a cat sleeps,
Sleeps with its paws and its posture,
Sleeps with its wicked claws,
And with its unfeeling blood,
Sleeps with ALL the rings a series 
Of burnt circles which have formed 
The odd geology of its sand-colored tail.
I should like to sleep like a cat, With all the fur of time, With a tongue rough as flint, With the dry sex of fire and After speaking to no one, Stretch myself over the world, Over roofs and landscapes, With a passionate desire To hunt the rats in my dreams.
I have seen how the cat asleep Would undulate, how the night flowed Through it like dark water and at times, It was going to fall or possibly Plunge into the bare deserted snowdrifts.
Sometimes it grew so much in sleep Like a tiger's great-grandfather, And would leap in the darkness over Rooftops, clouds and volcanoes.
Sleep, sleep cat of the night with Episcopal ceremony and your stone-carved moustache.
Take care of all our dreams Control the obscurity Of our slumbering prowess With your relentless HEART And the great ruff of your tail.

by Stephen Dunn | |

Biography In The First Person

 This is not the way I am.
Really, I am much taller in person, the hairline I conceal reaches back to my grandfather, and the shyness my wife will not believe in has always been why I was bold on first dates.
My father a crack salesman.
I've saved his pines, the small acclamations I used to show my friends.
And the billyclub I keep by my bed was his, too; an heirloom.
I am somewhat older than you can tell.
The early deaths have decomposed behind my eyes, leaving lines apparently caused by smiling.
My voice still reflects the time I believed in prayer as a way of getting what I wanted.
I am none of my clothes.
My poems are approximately true.
The games I play and how I play them are the arrows you should follow: they'll take you to the enormous body of a child.
It is not that simple.
At parties I have been known to remove from the bookshelf the kind of book that goes best with my beard.
My habits in bed are so perverse that they differentiate me from no one.
And I prefer soda, the bubbles just after it's opened, to anyone who just lies there.
Be careful: I would like to make you believe in me.
When I come home at night after teaching myself to students, I want to search the phone book for their numbers, call them, and pick their brains.
Oh, I am much less flamboyant than this.
If you ever meet me, I'll be the one with the lapel full of carnations.

by Russell Edson | |

The Family Monkey

 We bought an electric monkey, experimenting rather 
recklessly with funds carefully gathered since 
grandfather's time for the purchase of a steam monkey.
We had either, by this time, the choice of an electric or gas monkey.
The steam monkey is no longer being made, said the monkey merchant.
But the family always planned on a steam monkey.
Well, said the monkey merchant, just as the wind-up monkey gave way to the steam monkey, the steam monkey has given way to the gas and electric monkeys.
Is that like the grandfather clock being replaced by the grandchild clock? Sort of, said the monkey merchant.
So we bought the electric monkey, and plugged its umbilical cord into the wall.
The smoke coming out of its fur told us something was wrong.
We had electrocuted the family monkey.

by Robert Francis | |

Hallelujah: A Sestina

 A wind's word, the Hebrew Hallelujah.
I wonder they never gave it to a boy (Hal for short) boy with wind-wild hair.
It means Praise God, as well it should since praise Is what God's for.
Why didn't they call my father Hallelujah instead of Ebenezer? Eben, of course, but christened Ebenezer, Product of Nova Scotia (hallelujah).
Daniel, a country doctor, was his father And my father his tenth and final boy.
A baby and last, he had a baby's praise: Red petticoats, red cheeks, and crow-black hair.
A boy has little to say about his hair And little about a name like Ebenezer Except that you can shorten either.
Praise God for that, for that shout Hallelujah.
Shout Hallelujah for everything a boy Can be that is not his father or grandfather.
But then, before you know it, he is a father Too and passing on his brand of hair To one more perfectly defenseless boy, Dubbing him John or James or Ebenezer But never, so far as I know, Hallelujah, As if God didn't need quite that much praise.
But what I'm coming to - Could I ever praise My father half enough for being a father Who let me be myself? Sing Hallelujah.
Preacher he was with a prophet's head of hair And what but a prophet's name was Ebenezer, However little I guessed it as a boy? Outlandish names of course are never a boy's Choice.
And it takes some time to learn to praise.
Stone of Help is the meaning of Ebenezer.
Stone of Help - what fitter name for my father? Always the Stone of Help however his hair Might graduate from black to Hallelujah.
Such is the old drama of boy and father.
Praise from a grayhead now with thinning hair.
Sing Ebenezer, Robert, sing Hallelujah!

by Donald Hall | |


 To grow old is to lose everything.
Aging, everybody knows it.
Even when we are young, we glimpse it sometimes, and nod our heads when a grandfather dies.
Then we row for years on the midsummer pond, ignorant and content.
But a marriage, that began without harm, scatters into debris on the shore, and a friend from school drops cold on a rocky strand.
If a new love carries us past middle age, our wife will die at her strongest and most beautiful.
New women come and go.
All go.
The pretty lover who announces that she is temporary is temporary.
The bold woman, middle-aged against our old age, sinks under an anxiety she cannot withstand.
Another friend of decades estranges himself in words that pollute thirty years.
Let us stifle under mud at the pond's edge and affirm that it is fitting and delicious to lose everything.

by Seamus Heaney | |


 Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pin rest; snug as a gun.
Under my window, a clean rasping sound When the spade sinks into gravelly ground: My father, digging.
I look down Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds Bends low, comes up twenty years away Stooping in rhythm through potato drills Where he was digging.
The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft Against the inside knee was levered firmly.
He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep To scatter new potatoes that we picked, Loving their cool hardness in our hands.
By God, the old man could handle a spade.
Just like his old man.
My grandfather cut more turf in a day Than any other man on Toner's bog.
Once I carried him milk in a bottle Corked sloppily with paper.
He straightened up To drink it, then fell to right away Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods Over his shoulder, going down and down For the good turf.
The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge Through living roots awaken in my head.
But I've no spade to follow men like them.
Between my finger and my thumb The squat pen rests.
I'll dig with it.

by Robert Desnos | |

Dove in the Arch

be the father of the bride
of the blacksmith who forged the iron for the axe
with which the woodsman hacked down the oak
from which the bed was carved
in which was conceived the great-grandfather
of the man who was driving the carriage
in which your mother met your father.

by Aleksandr Blok | |

The Death of Grandfather

 We waited commonly for sleep or even death.
The instances were wearisome as ages.
But suddenly the wind's refreshing breath Touched through the window the Holy Bible's pages: An old man goes there - who's now all white-haired - With rapid steps and merry eyes, alone, He smiles to us, and often calls with hand, And leaves us with a gait, that is well-known.
And suddenly we all, who watched the old man's track, Well recognized just him who now lay before us, And turning in a sudden rapture back, Beheld a corpse with eyes forever closed .
And it was good for us the soul's way to trace, And, in the leaving one, to find the glee it's forming.
The time had come.
Recall and love in grace, And celebrate another house-warming!

by Carl Sandburg | |

Put Off the Wedding Five Times and Nobody Comes to It

 (Handbook for Quarreling Lovers)I THOUGHT of offering you apothegms.
I might have said, “Dogs bark and the wind carries it away.
” I might have said, “He who would make a door of gold must knock a nail in every day.
” So easy, so easy it would have been to inaugurate a high impetuous moment for you to look on before the final farewells were spoken.
You who assumed the farewells in the manner of people buying newspapers and reading the headlines—and all peddlers of gossip who buttonhole each other and wag their heads saying, “Yes, I heard all about it last Wednesday.
” I considered several apothegms.
“There is no love but service,” of course, would only initiate a quarrel over who has served and how and when.
“Love stands against fire and flood and much bitterness,” would only initiate a second misunderstanding, and bickerings with lapses of silence.
What is there in the Bible to cover our case, or Shakespere? What poetry can help? Is there any left but Epictetus? Since you have already chosen to interpret silence for language and silence for despair and silence for contempt and silence for all things but love, Since you have already chosen to read ashes where God knows there was something else than ashes, Since silence and ashes are two identical findings for your eyes and there are no apothegms worth handing out like a hung jury’s verdict for a record in our own hearts as well as the community at large, I can only remember a Russian peasant who told me his grandfather warned him: If you ride too good a horse you will not take the straight road to town.
It will always come back to me in the blur of that hokku: The heart of a woman of thirty is like the red ball of the sun seen through a mist.
Or I will remember the witchery in the eyes of a girl at a barn dance one winter night in Illinois saying: Put off the wedding five times and nobody comes to it.

by William Butler Yeats | |

The Seven Sages

 The First.
My great-grandfather spoke to Edmund Burke In Grattan's house.
The Second.
My great-grandfather shared A pot-house bench with Oliver Goldsmith once.
The Third.
My great-grandfather's father talked of music, Drank tar-water with the Bishop of Cloyne.
The Fourth.
But mine saw Stella once.
The Fifth.
Whence came our thought? The Sixth.
From four great minds that hated Whiggery.
The Fifth.
Burke was a Whig.
The Sixth.
Whether they knew or not, Goldsmith and Burke, Swift and the Bishop of Cloyne All hated Whiggery; but what is Whiggery? A levelling, rancorous, rational sort of mind That never looked out of the eye of a saint Or out of drunkard's eye.
The Seventh.
All's Whiggery now, But we old men are massed against the world.
The First.
American colonies, Ireland, France and India Harried, and Burke's great melody against it.
The Second.
Oliver Goldsmith sang what he had seen, Roads full of beggars, cattle in the fields, But never saw the trefoil stained with blood, The avenging leaf those fields raised up against it.
The Fourth.
The tomb of Swift wears it away.
The Third.
A voice Soft as the rustle of a reed from Cloyne That gathers volume; now a thunder-clap.
The Sixtb.
What schooling had these four? The Seventh.
They walked the roads Mimicking what they heard, as children mimic; They understood that wisdom comes of beggary.