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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 Elizabeth Barrett Browning |

Human Life's Mystery

 We sow the glebe, we reap the corn, 
We build the house where we may rest, 
And then, at moments, suddenly, 
We look up to the great wide sky, 
Inquiring wherefore we were born… 
For earnest or for jest? 

The senses folding thick and dark 
About the stifled soul within, 
We guess diviner things beyond, 
And yearn to them with yearning fond; 
We strike out blindly to a mark 
Believed in, but not seen.
We vibrate to the pant and thrill Wherewith Eternity has curled In serpent-twine about God’s seat; While, freshening upward to His feet, In gradual growth His full-leaved will Expands from world to world.
And, in the tumult and excess Of act and passion under sun, We sometimes hear—oh, soft and far, As silver star did touch with star, The kiss of Peace and Righteousness Through all things that are done.
God keeps His holy mysteries Just on the outside of man’s dream; In diapason slow, we think To hear their pinions rise and sink, While they float pure beneath His eyes, Like swans adown a stream.
Abstractions, are they, from the forms Of His great beauty?—exaltations From His great glory?—strong previsions Of what we shall be?—intuitions Of what we are—in calms and storms, Beyond our peace and passions? Things nameless! which, in passing so, Do stroke us with a subtle grace.
We say, ‘Who passes?’—they are dumb.
We cannot see them go or come: Their touches fall soft, cold, as snow Upon a blind man’s face.
Yet, touching so, they draw above Our common thoughts to Heaven’s unknown, Our daily joy and pain advance To a divine significance, Our human love—O mortal love, That light is not its own! And sometimes horror chills our blood To be so near such mystic Things, And we wrap round us for defence Our purple manners, moods of sense— As angels from the face of God Stand hidden in their wings.
And sometimes through life’s heavy swound We grope for them!—with strangled breath We stretch our hands abroad and try To reach them in our agony,— And widen, so, the broad life-wound Which soon is large enough for death.

Written by Isaac Watts |

Psalm 129

 Persecutors punished.
Up from my youth, may Isr'el say, Have I been nursed in tears; My griefs were constant as the day, And tedious as the years.
Up from my youth I bore the rage Of all the sons of strife; Oft they assailed my riper age, But not destroyed my life.
Their cruel plow had torn my flesh With furrows long and deep; Hourly they vexed my wounds afresh, Nor let my sorrows sleep.
The Lord grew angry on his throne, And, with impartial eye, Measured the mischiefs they had done, Then let his arrows fly.
How was their insolence surprised To hear his thunders roll! And all the foes of Zion seized With horror to the soul! Thus shall the men that hate the saints Be blasted from the sky; Their glory fades, their courage faints And all their projects die.
[What though they flourish tall and fair, They have no root beneath; Their growth shall perish in despair, And lie despised in death.
] [So corn that on the house-top stands No hope of harvest gives; The reaper ne'er shall fill his hands, Nor binder fold the sheaves.
It springs and withers on the place; No traveller bestows A word of blessing on the grass, Nor minds it as he goes.

More great poems below...

Written by Henry Vaughan |

The Timber

 Sure thou didst flourish once! and many springs, 
Many bright mornings, much dew, many showers, 
Pass'd o'er thy head; many light hearts and wings, 
Which now are dead, lodg'd in thy living bowers.
And still a new succession sings and flies; Fresh groves grow up, and their green branches shoot Towards the old and still enduring skies, While the low violet thrives at their root.
But thou beneath the sad and heavy line Of death, doth waste all senseless, cold, and dark; Where not so much as dreams of light may shine, Nor any thought of greenness, leaf, or bark.
And yet—as if some deep hate and dissent, Bred in thy growth betwixt high winds and thee, Were still alive—thou dost great storms resent Before they come, and know'st how near they be.
Else all at rest thou liest, and the fierce breath Of tempests can no more disturb thy ease; But this thy strange resentment after death Means only those who broke—in life—thy peace.

Written by Rabindranath Tagore |


 She who ever had remained in the depth of my being, 
in the twilight of gleams and of glimpses; 
she who never opened her veils in the morning light, 
will be my last gift to thee, my God, folded in my final song.
Words have wooed yet failed to win her; persuasion has stretched to her its eager arms in vain.
I have roamed from country to country keeping her in the core of my heart, and around her have risen and fallen the growth and decay of my life.
Over my thoughts and actions, my slumbers and dreams, she reigned yet dwelled alone and apart.
Many a man knocked at my door and asked for her and turned away in despair.
There was none in the world who ever saw her face to face, and she remained in her loneliness waiting for thy recognition.

Written by Isaac Rosenberg |

Dead Mans Dump

 The plunging limbers over the shattered track
Racketed with their rusty freight,
Stuck out like many crowns of thorns,
And the rusty stakes like sceptres old
To stay the flood of brutish men
Upon our brothers dear.
The wheels lurched over sprawled dead But pained them not, though their bones crunched; Their shut mouths made no moan, They lie there huddled, friend and foeman, Man born of man, and born of woman, And shells go crying over them From night till night and now.
Earth has waited for them, All the time of their growth Fretting for their decay: Now she has them at last! In the strength of her strength Suspended—stopped and held.
What fierce imaginings their dark souls lit Earth! Have they gone into you? Somewhere they must have gone, And flung on your hard back Is their souls' sack, Emptied of God-ancestralled essences.
Who hurled them out? Who hurled? None saw their spirits' shadow shake the grass, Or stood aside for the half-used life to pass Out of those doomed nostrils and the doomed mouth, When the swift iron burning bee Drained the wild honey of their youth.
What of us, who flung on the shrieking pyre, Walk, our usual thoughts untouched, Our lucky limbs as on ichor fed, Immortal seeming ever? Perhaps when the flames beat loud on us, A fear may choke in our veins And the startled blood may stop.
The air is loud with death, The dark air spurts with fire, The explosions ceaseless are.
Timelessly now, some minutes past, These dead strode time with vigorous life, Till the shrapnel called "an end!" But not to all.
In bleeding pangs Some borne on stretchers dreamed of home, Dear things, war-blotted from their hearts.
A man's brains splattered on A stretcher-bearer's face; His shook shoulders slipped their load, But when they bent to look again The drowning soul was sunk too deep For human tenderness.
They left this dead with the older dead, Stretched at the cross roads.
Burnt black by strange decay, Their sinister faces lie The lid over each eye, The grass and coloured clay More motion have than they, Joined to the great sunk silences.
Here is one not long dead; His dark hearing caught our far wheels, And the choked soul stretched weak hands To reach the living word the far wheels said, The blood-dazed intelligence beating for light, Crying through the suspense of the far torturing wheels Swift for the end to break, Or the wheels to break, Cried as the tide of the world broke over his sight.
Will they come? Will they ever come? Even as the mixed hoofs of the mules, The quivering-bellied mules, And the rushing wheels all mixed With his tortured upturned sight.
So we crashed round the bend, We heard his weak scream, We heard his very last sound, And our wheels grazed his dead face.

Written by William Strode |

Of Death and Resurrection

 Like to the rowling of an eye,
Or like a starre shott from the skye,
Or like a hand upon a clock,
Or like a wave upon a rock,
Or like a winde, or like a flame,
Or like false newes which people frame,
Even such is man, of equall stay,
Whose very growth leades to decay.
The eye is turn'd, the starre down bendeth The hand doth steale, the wave descendeth, The winde is spent, the flame unfir'd, The newes disprov'd, man's life expir'd.
Like to an eye which sleepe doth chayne, Or like a starre whose fall we fayne, Or like the shade on Ahaz watch, Or like a wave which gulfes doe snatch Or like a winde or flame that's past, Or smother'd newes confirm'd at last; Even so man's life, pawn'd in the grave, Wayts for a riseing it must have.
The eye still sees, the starre still blazeth, The shade goes back, the wave escapeth, The winde is turn'd, the flame reviv'd, The newes renew'd, and man new liv'd.

Written by Robert Frost |

Christmas Trees

 (A Christmas Circular Letter)

THE CITY had withdrawn into itself
And left at last the country to the country;
When between whirls of snow not come to lie
And whirls of foliage not yet laid, there drove
A stranger to our yard, who looked the city,
Yet did in country fashion in that there
He sat and waited till he drew us out
A-buttoning coats to ask him who he was.
He proved to be the city come again To look for something it had left behind And could not do without and keep its Christmas.
He asked if I would sell my Christmas trees; My woods—the young fir balsams like a place Where houses all are churches and have spires.
I hadn’t thought of them as Christmas Trees.
I doubt if I was tempted for a moment To sell them off their feet to go in cars And leave the slope behind the house all bare, Where the sun shines now no warmer than the moon.
I’d hate to have them know it if I was.
Yet more I’d hate to hold my trees except As others hold theirs or refuse for them, Beyond the time of profitable growth, The trial by market everything must come to.
I dallied so much with the thought of selling.
Then whether from mistaken courtesy And fear of seeming short of speech, or whether From hope of hearing good of what was mine, I said, “There aren’t enough to be worth while.
” “I could soon tell how many they would cut, You let me look them over.
” “You could look.
But don’t expect I’m going to let you have them.
” Pasture they spring in, some in clumps too close That lop each other of boughs, but not a few Quite solitary and having equal boughs All round and round.
The latter he nodded “Yes” to, Or paused to say beneath some lovelier one, With a buyer’s moderation, “That would do.
” I thought so too, but wasn’t there to say so.
We climbed the pasture on the south, crossed over, And came down on the north.
He said, “A thousand.
” “A thousand Christmas trees!—at what apiece?” He felt some need of softening that to me: “A thousand trees would come to thirty dollars.
” Then I was certain I had never meant To let him have them.
Never show surprise! But thirty dollars seemed so small beside The extent of pasture I should strip, three cents (For that was all they figured out apiece), Three cents so small beside the dollar friends I should be writing to within the hour Would pay in cities for good trees like those, Regular vestry-trees whole Sunday Schools Could hang enough on to pick off enough.
A thousand Christmas trees I didn’t know I had! Worth three cents more to give away than sell, As may be shown by a simple calculation.
Too bad I couldn’t lay one in a letter.
I can’t help wishing I could send you one, In wishing you herewith a Merry Christmas.

Written by Philip Levine |

Passing Out

 The doctor fingers my bruise.
"Magnificent," he says, "black at the edges and purple cored.
" Seated, he spies for clues, gingerly probing the slack flesh, while I, standing, fazed, pull for air, losing the battle.
Faced by his aged diploma, the heavy head of the X- ray, and the iron saddle, I grow lonely.
He finds my secrets common and my sex neither objectionable nor lovely, though he is on the hunt for significance.
The shelved cutlery twinkles behind glass, and I am on the way out, "an instance of the succumbed through extreme fantasy.
" He is alarmed at last, and would raise me, but I am floorward in a dream of lowered trousers, unarmed and weakly fighting to shut the window of my drawers.
There are others in the room, voices of women above white oxfords; and the old floor, the friendly linoleum, departs.
I whisper, "my love," and am safe, tabled, sniffing spirits of ammonia in the land of my fellows.
"Open house!" my openings sing: pores, nose, anus let go their charges, a shameless flow into the outer world; and the ceiling, equipped with intelligence, surveys my produce.
The doctor is thrilled by my display, for he is half the slave of necessity; I, enormous in my need, justify his sciences.
"We have alternatives," he says, "Removal.
" (And my blood whitens as on their dull trays the tubes dance.
I must study the dark bellows of the gas machine, the painless maker.
) ".
and learning to live with it.
" Oh, but I am learning fast to live with any pain, ache, growth to keep myself intact; and in imagination I hug my bruise like an old Pooh Bear, already attuned to its moods.
"Oh, my dark one, tell of the coming of cold and of Kings, ancient and ruined.

Written by David Lehman |

The Gift

 "He gave her class.
She gave him sex.
" -- Katharine Hepburn on Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers He gave her money.
She gave him head.
He gave her tips on "aggressive growth" mutual funds.
She gave him a red rose and a little statue of eros.
He gave her Genesis 2 (21-23).
She gave him Genesis 1 (26-28).
He gave her a square peg.
She gave him a round hole.
He gave her Long Beach on a late Sunday in September.
She gave him zinnias and cosmos in the plenitude of July.
He gave her a camisole and a brooch.
She gave him a cover and a break.
He gave her Venice, Florida.
She gave him Rome, New York.
He gave her a false sense of security.
She gave him a true sense of uncertainty.
He gave her the finger.
She gave him what for.
He gave her a black eye.
She gave him a divorce.
He gave her a steak for her black eye.
She gave him his money back.
He gave her what she had never had before.
She gave him what he had had and lost.
He gave her nastiness in children.
She gave him prudery in adults.
He gave her Panic Hill.
She gave him Mirror Lake.
He gave her an anthology of drum solos.
She gave him the rattle of leaves in the wind.

Written by Anne Sexton |

For My Lover Returning To His Wife

 She is all there.
She was melted carefully down for you and cast up from your childhood, cast up from your one hundred favorite aggies.
She has always been there, my darling.
She is, in fact, exquisite.
Fireworks in the dull middle of February and as real as a cast-iron pot.
Let's face it, I have been momentary.
vA luxury.
A bright red sloop in the harbor.
My hair rising like smoke from the car window.
Littleneck clams out of season.
She is more than that.
She is your have to have, has grown you your practical your tropical growth.
This is not an experiment.
She is all harmony.
She sees to oars and oarlocks for the dinghy, has placed wild flowers at the window at breakfast, sat by the potter's wheel at midday, set forth three children under the moon, three cherubs drawn by Michelangelo, done this with her legs spread out in the terrible months in the chapel.
If you glance up, the children are there like delicate balloons resting on the ceiling.
She has also carried each one down the hall after supper, their heads privately bent, two legs protesting, person to person, her face flushed with a song and their little sleep.
I give you back your heart.
I give you permission -- for the fuse inside her, throbbing angrily in the dirt, for the bitch in her and the burying of her wound -- for the burying of her small red wound alive -- for the pale flickering flare under her ribs, for the drunken sailor who waits in her left pulse, for the mother's knee, for the stocking, for the garter belt, for the call -- the curious call when you will burrow in arms and breasts and tug at the orange ribbon in her hair and answer the call, the curious call.
She is so naked and singular She is the sum of yourself and your dream.
Climb her like a monument, step after step.
She is solid.
As for me, I am a watercolor.
I wash off.

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 Henry Van Dyke |

The Proud Lady

 When Stiivoren town was in its prime
And queened the Zuyder Zee,
Its ships went out to every clime
With costly merchantry.
A lady dwelt in that rich town, The fairest in all the land; She walked abroad in a velvet gown, With many rings on her hand.
Her hair was bright as the beaten gold, Her lips as coral red, Her roving eyes were blue and bold, And her heart with pride was fed.
For she was proud of her father's ships, As she watched them gayly pass; And pride looked out of her eyes and lips When she saw herself in the glass.
"Now come," she said to the captains ten, Who were ready to put to sea, "Ye are all my men and my father's men, And what will ye do for me?" "Go north and south, go east and west, And get me gifts," she said.
"And he who bringeth me home the best, With that man will I wed.
" So they all fared forth, and sought with care In many a famous mart, For satins and silks and jewels rare, To win that lady's heart.
She looked at them all with never a thought, And careless put them by; "I am not fain of the things ye brought, Enough of these have I.
" The last that came was the head of the fleet, His name was Jan Borel; He bent his knee at the lady's feet,-- In truth he loved her well.
"I've brought thee home the best i' the world, A shipful of Danzig corn!" She stared at him long; her red lips curled, Her blue eyes filled with scorn.
"Now out on thee, thou feckless kerl, A loon thou art," she said.
"Am I a starving beggar girl? Shall I ever lack for bread?" "Go empty all thy sacks of grain Into the nearest sea, And never show thy face again To make a mock of me.
" Then Jan Borel, he hoisted sail, And out to sea he bore; He passed the Helder in a gale And came again no more.
But the grains of corn went drifting down Like devil-scattered seed, To sow the harbor of the town With a wicked growth of weed.
The roots were thick and the silt and sand Were gathered day by day, Till not a furlong out from land A shoal had barred the way.
Then Stavoren town saw evil years, No ships could out or in, The boats lay rotting at the piers, And the mouldy grain in the bin.
The grass-grown streets were all forlorn, The town in ruin stood, The lady's velvet gown was torn, Her rings were sold for food.
Her father had perished long ago, But the lady held her pride, She walked with a scornful step and slow, Till at last in her rags she died.
Yet still on the crumbling piers of the town, When the midnight moon shines free, woman walks in a velvet gown And scatters corn in the sea.

Written by Walt Whitman |

As I Walk These Broad Majestic Days.

 AS I walk these broad, majestic days of peace, 
(For the war, the struggle of blood finish’d, wherein, O terrific Ideal! 
Against vast odds, having gloriously won, 
Now thou stridest on—yet perhaps in time toward denser wars, 
Perhaps to engage in time in still more dreadful contests, dangers,
Longer campaigns and crises, labors beyond all others; 
—As I walk solitary, unattended, 
Around me I hear that eclat of the world—politics, produce, 
The announcements of recognized things—science, 
The approved growth of cities, and the spread of inventions.
I see the ships, (they will last a few years,) The vast factories, with their foremen and workmen, And here the indorsement of all, and do not object to it.
But I too announce solid things; Science, ships, politics, cities, factories, are not nothing—I watch them, Like a grand procession, to music of distant bugles, pouring, triumphantly moving—and grander heaving in sight; They stand for realities—all is as it should be.
Then my realities; What else is so real as mine? Libertad, and the divine average—Freedom to every slave on the face of the earth, The rapt promises and luminé of seers—the spiritual world—these centuries lasting songs, And our visions, the visions of poets, the most solid announcements of any.
For we support all, fuse all, After the rest is done and gone, we remain; There is no final reliance but upon us; Democracy rests finally upon us (I, my brethren, begin it,) And our visions sweep through eternity.

Written by Elizabeth Bishop |

Song For The Rainy Season

 Hidden, oh hidden 
in the high fog 
the house we live in, 
beneath the magnetic rock, 
rain-, rainbow-ridden, 
where blood-black 
bromelias, lichens, 
owls, and the lint 
of the waterfalls cling, 
familiar, unbidden.
In a dim age of water the brook sings loud from a rib cage of giant fern; vapor climbs up the thick growth effortlessly, turns back, holding them both, house and rock, in a private cloud.
At night, on the roof, blind drops crawl and the ordinary brown owl gives us proof he can count: five times--always five-- he stamps and takes off after the fat frogs that, shrilling for love, clamber and mount.
House, open house to the white dew and the milk-white sunrise kind to the eyes, to membership of silver fish, mouse, bookworms, big moths; with a wall for the mildew's ignorant map; darkened and tarnished by the warm touch of the warm breath, maculate, cherished; rejoice! For a later era will differ.
(O difference that kills or intimidates, much of all our small shadowy life!) Without water the great rock will stare unmagnetized, bare, no longer wearing rainbows or rain, the forgiving air and the high fog gone; the owls will move on and the several waterfalls shrivel in the steady sun.