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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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See also: Best Member Poems

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.


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.


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...

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.


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.


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.


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.


by William Strode | |

On A Gentlewomans Blistred Lipp

 Hide not that sprouting lipp, nor kill
The juicy bloome with bashfull skill:
Know it is an amorous dewe
That swells to court thy corall hewe,
And what a blemish you esteeme
To other eyes a pearle may seeme
Whose watery growth is not above
The thrifty seize that pearles doe love,
And doth so well become that part
That chance may seeme a secret art.
Doth any judge that face lesse fayre Whose tender silke a mole doth beare? Or will a diamond shine less cleare If in the midst a soil appeare? Or else that eye a finer nett Whose glasse is ring'd about with jett? Or is an apple thought more sweete When hony specks and redde doe meete? Then is the lipp made fayrer by Such sweetness of deformitie.
The nectar which men strive to sipp Springs like a well upon your lipp, Nor doth it shew immodesty, But overflowing chastity.
O who will blame the fruitfull trees When too much sapp and gumme hee sees? Here nature from her store doth send Only what other parts can lend; The budde of love which here doth growe Were too too sweete if pluckt belowe; When lovely buddes ascend so high The roote belowe cannot be drye.


by William Strode | |

On The Death Of Mistress Mary Prideaux

 Weep not because this childe hath dyed so yong,
But weepe because yourselves have livde so long:
Age is not fild by growth of time, for then
What old man lives to see th' estate of men?
Who sees the age of grande Methusalem?
Ten years make us as old as hundreds him.
Ripenesse is from ourselves: and then wee dye When nature hath obteynde maturity.
Summer and winter fruits there bee, and all Not at one time, but being ripe, must fall.
Death did not erre: your mourners are beguilde; She dyed more like a mother than a childe.
Weigh the composure of her pretty partes: Her gravity in childhood; all her artes Of womanly behaviour; weigh her tongue So wisely measurde, not too short nor long; And to her youth adde some few riches more, She tooke upp now what due was at threescore.
She livde seven years, our age's first degree; Journeys at first time ended happy bee; Yet take her stature with the age of man, They well are fitted: both are but a span.


by Rabindranath Tagore | |

She

 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.


by Barry Tebb | |

THE INNOCENT EYE

 I struggled through streets of

Bricked-up, boarded-up houses,

Mostly burned-out, keeping

To the middle of the road,

Watching the abandoned gardens

With here and there a house

Still lived in, curtained

Against the daylight and distantly

I saw the iron railings of the school

I’d taught in thirty years before.
The same brick buildings, hop scotch Squares and rounders posts And the sign, ‘Welcome to Wyther Park Primary School’.
The wooden prefabs Where I taught poetry nine till four Replaced by newer prefabs of I don’t Know what, hidden in trees with Thirty years more growth, one playground Grassed over, with benches and tables Like a pub garden, yet there was the same Innocence still, my inner sense declared.
I sat on a stone seat by the bridge Over the canal, watching the pylons Stretching away to Kirkstall Forge, By the steps to the railway where Once the station stood that took us Every year to Flamborough Head.


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.


by Henry Vaughan | |

Upon the Priory Grove His Usual Retirement

 Hail sacred shades! cool, leavy House! 
Chaste treasurer of all my vows, 
And wealth! on whose soft bosom laid 
My love's fair steps I first betrayed: 
Henceforth no melancholy flight, 
No sad wing, or hoarse bird of night, 
Disturb this air, no fatal throat 
Of raven, or owl, awake the note 
Of our laid echo, no voice dwell 
Within these leaves, but Philomel.
The poisonous ivy here no more His false twists on the oak shall score, Only the woodbine here may twine As th'emblem of her love and mine; Th'amorous sun shall here convey His best beams, in thy shades to play; The active air, the gentlest showers Shall from his wings rain on thy flowers; And the moon from her dewy locks Shall deck thee with her brightest drops: What ever can a fancy move, Or feed the eye; be on this Grove; And when at last the winds and tears Of Heaven, with the consuming years, Shall these green curls bring to decay, And clothe thee in an aged gray: (If ought a lover can foresee; Or if we poets, prophets be) From hence transplant'd, thou shalt stand A fresh Grove in th'Elysian land; Where (most blest pair!) as here on earth Thou first didst eye our growth and birth; So there again, thou'lt see us move In our first innocence, and love: And in thy shades, as now, so then, We'll kiss, and smile, and walk again.


by David Wagoner | |

For A Row Of Laurel Shrubs

 They don't want to be your hedge,
 Your barrier, your living wall, the no-go
 Go-between between your property
And the prying of dogs and strangers.
They don't Want to settle any of your old squabbles Inside or out of bounds.
Their new growth In three-foot shoots goes thrusting straight Up in the air each April or goes off Half-cocked sideways to reconnoiter Wilder dimensions: the very idea Of squareness, of staying level seems Alien to them, and they aren't in the least Discouraged by being suddenly lopped off Year after year by clippers or the stuttering Electric teeth of trimmers hedging their bets To keep them all in line, all roughly In order.
They don't even Want to be good-neighborly bushes (Though under the outer stems and leaves The thick, thick-headed, soot-blackened Elderly branches have been dodging And weaving through so many disastrous springs, So many whacked-out, contra- Dictory changes of direction, they've locked Themselves together for good).
Yet each Original planting, left to itself, would be No fence, no partition, no crook-jointed Entanglement, but a tree by now outspread With all of itself turned upward at every Inconvenient angle you can imagine, And look, on the ground, the fallen leaves, Brown, leathery, as thick as tongues, remain Almost what they were, tougher than ever, Slow to molder, to give in, dead slow to feed The earth with themselves, there at the feet Of their fathers in the evergreen shade Of their replacements.
Remember, admirers Long ago would sometimes weave fresh clippings Into crowns and place them squarely on the heads Of their most peculiar poets.


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.
]


by Isaac Watts | |

Psalm 139 part 2

 The wonderful formation of man.
'Twas from thy hand, my God, I came, A work of such a curious frame In me thy fearful wonders shine, And each proclaims thy skill divine.
Thine eyes did all my limbs survey, Which yet in dark confusion lay; Thou saw'st the daily growth they took, Formed by the model of thy book.
By thee my growing parts were named, And what thy sovereign counsels framed- The breathing lungs, the beating heart- Was copied with unerring art.
At last, to show my Maker's name, God stamped his image on my frame, And in some unknown moment joined The finished members to the mind.
There the young seeds of thought began, And all the passions of the man: Great God, our infant nature pays Immortal tribute to thy praise.
PAUSE.
Lord, since in my advancing age I've acted on life's busy stage, Thy thoughts of love to me surmount The power of numbers to recount.
I could survey the ocean o'er, And count each sand that makes the shore, Before my swiftest thoughts could trace The num'rous wonders of thy grace.
These on my heart are still impressed, With these I give my eyes to rest; And at my waking hour I find God and his love possess my mind.


by Charles Webb | |

Giant Fungus

 40-acre growth found in Michigan.
— The Los Angeles Times The sky is full of ruddy ducks and widgeon's, mockingbirds, bees, bats, swallowtails, dragonflies, and great horned owls.
The land below teems with elands and kit foxes, badgers, aardvarks, juniper, banana slugs, larch, cactus, heather, humankind.
Under them, a dome of dirt.
Under that, the World's Largest Living Thing spreads like a hemorrhage poised to paralyze the earth—like a tumor ready to cause 9.
0 convulsions, or a brain dreaming this world of crickets and dung beetles, sculpins, Beethoven, coots, Caligula, St.
Augustine grass, Mister Lincoln roses, passion fruit, wildebeests, orioles like sunspots shooting high, then dropping back to the green arms of trees, their roots sunk deep in the power of things sleeping and unknown.


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.


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.


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.


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.
"


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.


by Edgar Lee Masters | |

Willie Pennington

 They called me the weakling, the simpleton,
For my brothers were strong and beautiful,
While I, the last child of parents who had aged,
Inherited only their residue of power.
But they, my brothers, were eaten up In the fury of the flesh, which I had not, Made pulp in the activity of the senses, which I had not, Hardened by the growth of the lusts, which I had not, Though making names and riches for themselves.
Then I, the weak one, the simpleton, Resting in a little corner of life, Saw a vision, and through me many saw the vision, Not knowing it was through me.
Thus a tree sprang From me, a mustard seed.


by Edgar Lee Masters | |

Ami Green

 Not "a youth with hoary head and haggard eye,"
But an old man with a smooth skin
And black hair!
I had the face of a boy as long as I lived,
And for years a soul that was stiff and bent,
In a world which saw me just as a jest,
To be hailed familiarly when it chose,
And loaded up as a man when it chose,
Being neither man nor boy.
In truth it was soul as well as body Which never matured, and I say to you That the much-sought prize of eternal youth Is just arrested growth.


by Edgar Lee Masters | |

Eugenia Todd

 Have any of you, passers-by,
Had an old tooth that was an unceasing discomfort?
Or a pain in the side that never quite left you?
Or a malignant growth that grew with time?
So that even in profoundest slumber
There was shadowy consciousness or the phantom of thought
Of the tooth, the side, the growth?
Even so thwarted love, or defeated ambition,
Or a blunder in life which mixed your life
Hopelessly to the end,
Will like a tooth, or a pain in the side,
Float through your dreams in the final sleep
Till perfect freedom from the earth-sphere
Comes to you as one who wakes
Healed and glad in the morning!