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Best Famous Growth Poems

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

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Written by Alfred Lord Tennyson | |

The Kraken

Below the thunders of the upper deep;
Far, far beneath in the abysmal sea,
His ancient, dreamless, uninvaded sleep
The Kraken sleepeth: faintest sunlights flee
About his shadowy sides: above him swell
Huge sponges of millenial growth and height;
And far away into the sickly light,
From many a wondrous grot and secret cell
Unnumber'd and enormous polypi
Winnow with giant arms the slumbering green.
There hath he lain for ages and will lie Battening upon huge seaworms in his sleep, Until the latter fire shall heat the deep; Then once by man and angels to be seen, In roaring he shall rise and on the surface die.


Written by William Cullen Bryant | |

Summer Wind

 It is a sultry day; the sun has drank 
The dew that lay upon the morning grass, 
There is no rustling in the lofty elm 
That canopies my dwelling, and its shade 
Scarce cools me.
All is silent, save the faint And interrupted murmur of the bee, Settling on the sick flowers, and then again Instantly on the wing.
The plants around Feel the too potent fervors; the tall maize Rolls up its long green leaves; the clover droops Its tender foliage, and declines its blooms.
But far in the fierce sunshine tower the hills, With all their growth of woods, silent and stern, As if the scortching heat and dazzling light Were but an element they loved.
Bright clouds, Motionless pillars of the brazen heaven;-- Their bases on the mountains--their white tops Shining in the far ether--fire the air With a reflected radiance, and make turn The gazer's eye away.
For me, I lie Languidly in the shade, where the thick turf, Yet virgin from the kisses of the sun, Retains some freshness, and I woo the wind That still delays its coming.
Why so slow, Gentle and voluble spirit of the air? Oh, come and breathe upon the fainting earth Coolness and life.
Is it that in his caves He hears me? See, on yonder woody ridge, The pine is bending his proud top, and now, Among the nearer groves, chesnut and oak Are tossing their green boughs about.
He comes! Lo, where the grassy meadow runs in wives! The deep distressful silence of the scene Breaks up with mingling of unnumbered sounds And universal motion.
He is come, Shaking a shower of blossoms from the shrubs, And bearing on the fragrance; and he brings Music of birds, and rustling of young boughs, And soun of swaying branches, and the voice Of distant waterfalls.
All the green herbs Are stirring in his breath; a thousand flowers, By the road-side and the borders of the brook, Nod gaily to each other; glossy leaves Are twinkling in the sun, as if the dew Were on them yet, and silver waters break Into small waves and sparkle as he comes.


Written by W S Merwin | |

When You Go Away

 When you go away the wind clicks around to the north
The painters work all day but at sundown the paint falls
Showing the black walls
The clock goes back to striking the same hour
That has no place in the years

And at night wrapped in the bed of ashes
In one breath I wake
It is the time when the beards of the dead get their growth
I remember that I am falling
That I am the reason
And that my words are the garment of what I shall never be
Like the tucked sleeve of a one-armed boy


More great poems below...

Written by Petrarch | |

SONNET CXCII.

SONNET CXCII.

Amor con la man destra il lato manco.

UNDER THE FIGURE OF A LAUREL, HE RELATES THE GROWTH OF HIS LOVE.

My poor heart op'ning with his puissant hand,
Love planted there, as in its home, to dwell
A Laurel, green and bright, whose hues might well
In rivalry with proudest emeralds stand:
Plough'd by my pen and by my heart-sighs fann'd,
Cool'd by the soft rain from mine eyes that fell,
It grew in grace, upbreathing a sweet smell,
Unparallel'd in any age or land.
Fair fame, bright honour, virtue firm, rare grace,
The chastest beauty in celestial frame,—
These be the roots whence birth so noble came.
Such ever in my mind her form I trace,
A happy burden and a holy thing,
To which on rev'rent knee with loving prayer I cling.
Macgregor.


Written by Syl Cheney-Coker | |

Blood Money

Along the route of this river,
with a little luck, we shall chance upon
our brothers' fortune, hidden with that cold smile
reserved for discreet bankers unmindful of the hydra
growing fiery mornings from our discontent
Wealth was always fashionable, telluric,
not honor pristine and profound.
In blasphemous glee, they raise to God's lips those cups filled with ethnic offerings that saps the blood of all human good.
Having no other country to call my own except for this one full of pine needles on which we nail our children's lives, I have put off examining this skull, savage harvest, the swollen earth, until that day when, all God's children, we shall plant a eureka supported by a blood knot.
And remorse not being theirs to feel, I offer an inventory of abuse by these men, with this wretched earth on my palms, so as to remind them of our stilted growth the length of a cutlass, or if you prefer the size of our burnt-out brotherhood.


Written by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | |

EPIPHANIAS.

 THE three holy kings with their star's bright ray,--
They eat and they drink, but had rather not pay;
They like to eat and drink away,
They eat and drink, but had rather not pay.
The three holy kings have all come here, In number not four, but three they appear; And if a fourth join'd the other three, Increased by one their number would be.
The first am I,--the fair and the white, I ought to be seen when the sun shines bright! But, alas! with all my spices and myrrh, No girl now likes me,--I please not her.
The next am I,--the brown and the long, Known well to women, known well to song.
Instead of spices, 'tis gold I bear, And so I'm welcome everywhere.
The last am I,--the black and small, And fain would be right merry withal.
I like to eat and to drink full measure, I eat and drink, and give thanks with pleasure.
The three holy kings are friendly and mild, They seek the Mother, and seek the Child; The pious Joseph is sitting by, The ox and the ass on their litter lie.
We're bringing gold, we're bringing myrrh, The women incense always prefer; And if we have wine of a worthy growth, We three to drink like six are not loth.
As here we see fair lads and lasses, But not a sign of oxen or asses, We know that we have gone astray And so go further on our way.


Written by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | |

GROWTH.

 O'ER field and plain, in childhood's artless days,

Thou sprang'st with me, on many a spring-morn fair.
"For such a daughter, with what pleasing care, Would I, as father, happy dwellings raise!" And when thou on the world didst cast thy gaze, Thy joy was then in household toils to share.
"Why did I trust her, why she trust me e'er? For such a sister, how I Heaven should praise!" Nothing can now the beauteous growth retard; Love's glowing flame within my breast is fann'd.
Shall I embrace her form, my grief to end? Thee as a queen must I, alas, regard: So high above me placed thou seem'st to stand; Before a passing look I meekly bend.
1807?8.


Written by Sir Philip Sidney | |

Sonnet XIX: On Cupids Bow

 On Cupid's bow how are my heartstrings bent, 
That see my wrack, and yet embrace the same? 
When most I glory, then I feel most shame: 
I willing run, yet while I run, repent.
My best wits still their own disgrace invent: My very ink turns straight to Stella's name; And yet my words, as them my pen doth frame, Avise themselves that they are vainly spent.
For though she pass all things, yet what is all That unto me, who fare like him that both Looks to the skies and in a ditch doth fall? Oh let me prop my mind, yet in his growth, And not in Nature, for best fruits unfit: "Scholar," saith Love, "bend hitherward your wit.
"


Written by Gerard Manley Hopkins | |

May Magnificat

 May is Mary's month, and I 
Muse at that and wonder why: 
Her feasts follow reason, 
Dated due to season—

Candlemas, Lady Day; 
But the Lady Month, May, 
Why fasten that upon her, 
With a feasting in her honour?

Is it only its being brighter 
Than the most are must delight her? 
Is it opportunest 
And flowers finds soonest?

Ask of her, the mighty mother: 
Her reply puts this other 
Question: What is Spring?— 
Growth in every thing—

Flesh and fleece, fur and feather, 
Grass and greenworld all together; 
Star-eyed strawberry-breasted 
Throstle above her nested

Cluster of bugle blue eggs thin 
Forms and warms the life within; 
And bird and blossom swell 
In sod or sheath or shell.
All things rising, all things sizing Mary sees, sympathising With that world of good, Nature's motherhood.
Their magnifying of each its kind With delight calls to mind How she did in her stored Magnify the Lord.
Well but there was more than this: Spring's universal bliss Much, had much to say To offering Mary May.
When drop-of-blood-and-foam-dapple Bloom lights the orchard-apple And thicket and thorp are merry With silver-surfed cherry And azuring-over greybell makes Wood banks and brakes wash wet like lakes And magic cuckoocall Caps, clears, and clinches all— This ecstasy all through mothering earth Tells Mary her mirth till Christ's birth To remember and exultation In God who was her salvation.


Written by Gerard Manley Hopkins | |

Duns Scotuss Oxford

 Towery city and branchy between towers;
Cuckoo-echoing, bell-swarmèd, lark-charmèd, rook-racked, river-rounded;
The dapple-eared lily below thee; that country and town did
Once encounter in, here coped and poisèd powers; 
Thou hast a base and brickish skirt there, sours
That neighbour-nature thy grey beauty is grounded
Best in; graceless growth, thou hast confounded
Rural rural keeping—folk, flocks, and flowers.
Yet ah! this air I gather and I release He lived on; these weeds and waters, these walls are what He haunted who of all men most sways my spirits to peace; Of realty the rarest-veinèd unraveller; a not Rivalled insight, be rival Italy or Greece; Who fired France for Mary without spot.


Written by Gerard Manley Hopkins | |

The May Magnificat

 May is Mary's month, and I
Muse at that and wonder why:
 Her feasts follow reason,
 Dated due to season—
Candlemas, Lady Day;
But the Lady Month, May,
 Why fasten that upon her,
 With a feasting in her honour? 

Is it only its being brighter
Than the most are must delight her?
 Is it opportunest
 And flowers finds soonest? 

Ask of her, the mighty mother:
Her reply puts this other
 Question: What is Spring?—
 Growth in every thing—

Flesh and fleece, fur and feather,
Grass and greenworld all together;
 Star-eyed strawberry-breasted
 Throstle above her nested 

Cluster of bugle blue eggs thin
Forms and warms the life within;
 And bird and blossom swell
 In sod or sheath or shell.
All things rising, all things sizing Mary sees, sympathising With that world of good, Nature's motherhood.
Their magnifying of each its kind With delight calls to mind How she did in her stored Magnify the Lord.
Well but there was more than this: Spring's universal bliss Much, had much to say To offering Mary May.
When drop-of-blood-and-foam-dapple Bloom lights the orchard-apple And thicket and thorp are merry With silver-surfèd cherry And azuring-over greybell makes Wood banks and brakes wash wet like lakes And magic cuckoocall Caps, clears, and clinches all— This ecstasy all through mothering earth Tells Mary her mirth till Christ's birth To remember and exultation In God who was her salvation.


Written by Anne Kingsmill Finch | |

Hope

 The Tree of Knowledge we in Eden prov'd; 
The Tree of Life was thence to Heav'n remov'd: 
Hope is the growth of Earth, the only Plant, 
Which either Heav'n, or Paradise cou'd want.
Hell knows it not, to Us alone confin'd, And Cordial only to the Human Mind.
Receive it then, t'expel these mortal Cares, Nor wave a Med'cine, which thy God prepares.


Written by Edwin Arlington Robinson | |

The Growth of Lorraine

 I

While I stood listening, discreetly dumb, 
Lorraine was having the last word with me: 
“I know,” she said, “I know it, but you see 
Some creatures are born fortunate, and some 
Are born to be found out and overcome,—
Born to be slaves, to let the rest go free; 
And if I’m one of them (and I must be) 
You may as well forget me and go home.
“You tell me not to say these things, I know, But I should never try to be content: I’ve gone too far; the life would be too slow.
Some could have done it—some girls have the stuff; But I can’t do it: I don’t know enough.
I’m going to the devil.
”—And she went.
II I did not half believe her when she said That I should never hear from her again; Nor when I found a letter from Lorraine, Was I surprised or grieved at what I read: “Dear friend, when you find this, I shall be dead.
You are too far away to make me stop.
They say that one drop—think of it, one drop!— Will be enough,—but I’ll take five instead.
“You do not frown because I call you friend, For I would have you glad that I still keep Your memory, and even at the end— Impenitent, sick, shattered—cannot curse The love that flings, for better or for worse, This worn-out, cast-out flesh of mine to sleep.


Written by Algernon Charles Swinburne | |

The Garden of Proserpine

 Here, where the world is quiet;
Here, where all trouble seems
Dead winds' and spent waves' riot
In doubtful dreams of dreams;
I watch the green field growing
For reaping folk and sowing,
For harvest-time and mowing,
A sleepy world of streams.
I am tired of tears and laughter, And men that laugh and weep; Of what may come hereafter For men that sow to reap: I am weary of days and hours, Blown buds of barren flowers, Desires and dreams and powers And everything but sleep.
Here life has death for neighbour And far from eye or ear Wan waves and wet winds labour, Weak ships and spirits steer; They drive adrift, and whither They wot not who make thither; But no such winds blow hither, And no such things grow here.
No growth of moor or coppice, No heather-flower or vine, But bloomless buds of poppies, Green grapes of Proserpine, Pale beds of blowing rushes Where no leaf blooms or blushes Save this whereout she crushes For dead men deadly wine.
Pale, without name or number, In fruitless fields of corn, They bow themselves and slumber All night till light is born; And like a soul belated, In hell and heaven unmated, By cloud and mist abated Comes out of darkness morn.
Though one were strong as seven, He too with death shall dwell, Nor wake with wings in heaven, Nor weep for pains in hell; Though one were fair as roses, His beauty clouds and closes; And well though love reposes, In the end it is not well.
Pale, beyond porch and portal, Crowned with calm leaves, she stands Who gathers all things mortal With cold immortal hands; Her languid lips are sweeter Than love's who fears to greet her To men that mix and meet her From many times and lands.
She waits for each and other, She waits for all men born; Forgets the earth her mother, The life of fruits and corn; And spring and seed and swallow Take wing for her and follow Where summer song rings hollow And flowers are put to scorn.
There go the loves that wither, The old loves with wearier wings; And all dead years draw thither, And all disastrous things; Dead dreams of days forsaken, Blind buds that snows have shaken, Wild leaves that winds have taken, Red strays of ruined springs.
We are not sure of sorrow, And joy was never sure; To-day will die to-morrow; Time stoops to no man's lure; And love, grown faint and fretful, With lips but half regretful Sighs, and with eyes forgetful Weeps that no loves endure.
From too much love of living, From hope and fear set free, We thank with brief thanksgiving Whatever gods may be That no life lives for ever; That dead men rise up never; That even the weariest river Winds somewhere safe to sea.
Then star nor sun shall waken, Nor any change of light: Nor sound of waters shaken, Nor any sound or sight: Nor wintry leaves nor vernal, Nor days nor things diurnal; Only the sleep eternal In an eternal night.


Written by Algernon Charles Swinburne | |

Genesis

 In the outer world that was before this earth,
That was before all shape or space was born,
Before the blind first hour of time had birth,
Before night knew the moonlight or the morn;

Yea, before any world had any light,
Or anything called God or man drew breath,
Slowly the strong sides of the heaving night
Moved, and brought forth the strength of life and death.
And the sad shapeless horror increate That was all things and one thing, without fruit, Limit, or law; where love was none, nor hate, Where no leaf came to blossom from no root; The very darkness that time knew not of, Nor God laid hand on, nor was man found there, Ceased, and was cloven in several shapes; above Light, and night under, and fire, earth, water, and air.
Sunbeams and starbeams, and all coloured things, All forms and all similitudes began; And death, the shadow cast by life's wide wings, And God, the shade cast by the soul of man.
Then between shadow and substance, night and light, Then between birth and death, and deeds and days, The illimitable embrace and the amorous fight That of itself begets, bears, rears, and slays, The immortal war of mortal things that is Labour and life and growth and good and ill, The mild antiphonies that melt and kiss, The violent symphonies that meet and kill, All nature of all things began to be.
But chiefliest in the spirit (beast or man, Planet of heaven or blossom of earth or sea) The divine contraries of life began.
For the great labour of growth, being many, is one; One thing the white death and the ruddy birth; The invisible air and the all-beholden sun, And barren water and many-childed earth.
And these things are made manifest in men From the beginning forth unto this day: Time writes and life records them, and again Death seals them lest the record pass away.
For if death were not, then should growth not be, Change, nor the life of good nor evil things; Nor were there night at all nor light to see, Nor water of sweet nor water of bitter springs.
For in each man and each year that is born Are sown the twin seeds of the strong twin powers; The white seed of the fruitful helpful morn, The black seed of the barren hurtful hours.
And he that of the black seed eateth fruit, To him the savour as honey shall be sweet; And he in whom the white seed hath struck root, He shall have sorrow and trouble and tears for meat.
And him whose lips the sweet fruit hath made red In the end men loathe and make his name a rod; And him whose mouth on the unsweet fruit hath fed In the end men follow and know for very God.
And of these twain, the black seed and the white, All things come forth, endured of men and done; And still the day is great with child of night, And still the black night labours with the sun.
And each man and each year that lives on earth Turns hither or thither, and hence or thence is fed; And as a man before was from his birth, So shall a man be after among the dead.