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Best Famous Hart Crane Poems

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

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by Hart Crane | |

Legend

 As silent as a mirror is believed
Realities plunge in silence by .
.
.
I am not ready for repentance; Nor to match regrets.
For the moth Bends no more than the still Imploring flame.
And tremorous In the white falling flakes Kisses are,-- The only worth all granting.
It is to be learned-- This cleaving and this burning, But only by the one who Spends out himself again.
Twice and twice (Again the smoking souvenir, Bleeding eidolon!) and yet again.
Until the bright logic is won Unwhispering as a mirror Is believed.
Then, drop by caustic drop, a perfect cry Shall string some constant harmony,-- Relentless caper for all those who step The legend of their youth into the noon.


by Hart Crane | |

Chaplinesque

 We will make our meek adjustments,
Contented with such random consolations
As the wind deposits
In slithered and too ample pockets.
For we can still love the world, who find A famished kitten on the step, and know Recesses for it from the fury of the street, Or warm torn elbow coverts.
We will sidestep, and to the final smirk Dally the doom of that inevitable thumb That slowly chafes its puckered index toward us, Facing the dull squint with what innocence And what surprise! And yet these fine collapses are not lies More than the pirouettes of any pliant cane; Our obsequies are, in a way, no enterprise.
We can evade you, and all else but the heart: What blame to us if the heart live on.
The game enforces smirks; but we have seen The moon in lonely alleys make A grail of laughter of an empty ash can, And through all sound of gaiety and quest Have heard a kitten in the wilderness.


by Hart Crane | |

At Melvilles Tomb

 Often beneath the wave, wide from this ledge
The dice of drowned men's bones he saw bequeath
An embassy.
Their numbers as he watched, Beat on the dusty shore and were obscured.
And wrecks passed without sound of bells, The calyx of death's bounty giving back A scattered chapter, livid hieroglyph, The portent wound in corridors of shells.
Then in the circuit calm of one vast coil, Its lashings charmed and malice reconciled, Frosted eyes there were that lifted altars; And silent answers crept across the stars.
Compass, quadrant and sextant contrive No farther tides .
.
.
High in the azure steeps Monody shall not wake the mariner.
This fabulous shadow only the sea keeps.


by Hart Crane | |

The Visible The Untrue

 Yes, I being
the terrible puppet of my dreams, shall
lavish this on you—
the dense mine of the orchid, split in two.
And the fingernails that cinch such environs? And what about the staunch neighbor tabulations, with all their zest for doom? I'm wearing badges that cancel all your kindness.
Forthright I watch the silver Zeppelin destroy the sky.
To stir your confidence? To rouse what sanctions—? The silver strophe.
.
.
the canto bright with myth .
.
.
Such distances leap landward without evil smile.
And, as for me.
.
.
.
The window weight throbs in its blind partition.
To extinguish what I have of faith.
Yes, light.
And it is always always, always the eternal rainbow And it is always the day, the farewell day unkind.


by Hart Crane | |

Interior

 It sheds a shy solemnity,
This lamp in our poor room.
O grey and gold amenity, -- Silence and gentle gloom! Wide from the world, a stolen hour We claim, and none may know How love blooms like a tardy flower Here in the day's after-glow.
And even should the world break in With jealous threat and guile, The world, at last, must bow and win Our pity and a smile.


by Hart Crane | |

The Great Western Plains

 The little voices of the prairie dogs 
Are tireless .
.
.
They will give three hurrahs Alike to stage, equestrian, and pullman, And all unstingingly as to the moon.
And Fifi's bows and poodle ease Whirl by them centred on the lap Of Lottie Honeydew, movie queen, Toward lawyers and Nevada.
And how much more they cannot see! Alas, there is so little time, The world moves by so fast these days! Burrowing in silk is not their way -- And yet they know the tomahawk.
Indeed, old memories come back to life; Pathetic yelps have sometimes greeted Noses pressed against the glass.


by Hart Crane | |

To Emily Dickinson

 You who desired so much--in vain to ask--
Yet fed you hunger like an endless task,
Dared dignify the labor, bless the quest--
Achieved that stillness ultimately best,

Being, of all, least sought for: Emily, hear!
O sweet, dead Silencer, most suddenly clear
When singing that Eternity possessed
And plundered momently in every breast; 

--Truly no flower yet withers in your hand.
The harvest you descried and understand Needs more than wit to gather, love to bind.
Some reconcilement of remotest mind-- Leaves Ormus rubyless, and Ophir chill.
Else tears heap all within one clay-cold hill.


by Hart Crane | |

Forgetfulness

 Forgetfulness is like a song 
That, freed from beat and measure, wanders.
Forgetfulness is like a bird whose wings are reconciled, Outspread and motionless, -- A bird that coasts the wind unwearyingly.
Forgetfulness is rain at night, Or an old house in a forest, -- or a child.
Forgetfulness is white, -- white as a blasted tree, And it may stun the sybil into prophecy, Or bury the Gods.
I can remember much forgetfulness.


by Hart Crane | |

Exile

 My hands have not touched pleasure since your hands, --
No, -- nor my lips freed laughter since 'farewell',
And with the day, distance again expands
Voiceless between us, as an uncoiled shell.
Yet, love endures, though starving and alone.
A dove's wings clung about my heart each night With surging gentleness, and the blue stone Set in the tryst-ring has but worn more bright.


by Hart Crane | |

Fear

 The host, he says that all is well
And the fire-wood glow is bright;
The food has a warm and tempting smell,—
But on the window licks the night.
Pile on the logs.
.
.
Give me your hands, Friends! No,— it is not fright.
.
.
But hold me.
.
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somewhere I heard demands.
.
.
And on the window licks the night.