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Best Famous Holiday Poems

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

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Written by Oscar Wilde |


To drift with every passion till my soul
Is a stringed lute on which all winds can play,
Is it for this that I have given away
Mine ancient wisdom, and austere control?
Methinks my life is a twice-written scroll
Scrawled over on some boyish holiday
With idle songs for pipe and virelay,
Which do but mar the secret of the whole.
Surely there was a time I might have trod The sunlit heights, and from life's dissonance Struck one clear chord to reach the ears of God.
Is that time dead? lo! with a little rod I did but touch the honey of romance— And must I lose a soul's inheritance?

Written by Gregory Corso |



Paris, from throats of iron, silver, brass, 
Joy-thundering cannon, blent with chiming bells, 
And martial strains, the full-voiced pæan swells.
The air is starred with flags, the chanted mass Throngs all the churches, yet the broad streets swarm With glad-eyed groups who chatter, laugh, and pass, In holiday confusion, class with class.
And over all the spring, the sun-floods warm! In the Imperial palace that March morn, The beautiful young mother lay and smiled; For by her side just breathed the Prince, her child, Heir to an empire, to the purple born, Crowned with the Titan's name that stirs the heart Like a blown clarion--one more Bonaparte.
1879 Born to the purple, lying stark and dead, Transfixed with poisoned spears, beneath the sun Of brazen Africa! Thy grave is one, Fore-fated youth (on whom were visited Follies and sins not thine), whereat the world, Heartless howe'er it be, will pause to sing A dirge, to breathe a sigh, a wreath to fling Of rosemary and rue with bay-leaves curled.
Enmeshed in toils ambitious, not thine own, Immortal, loved boy-Prince, thou tak'st thy stand With early doomed Don Carlos, hand in hand With mild-browed Arthur, Geoffrey's murdered son.
Louis the Dauphin lifts his thorn-ringed head, And welcomes thee, his brother, 'mongst the dead.

Written by Lewis Carroll |


 Little maidens, when you look 
On this little story-book, 
Reading with attentive eye 
Its enticing history, 
Never think that hours of play 
Are your only HOLIDAY, 
And that in a HOUSE of joy 
Lessons serve but to annoy: 
If in any HOUSE you find 
Children of a gentle mind, 
Each the others pleasing ever-- 
Each the others vexing never-- 
Daily work and pastime daily 
In their order taking gaily-- 
Then be very sure that they 
Have a life of HOLIDAY.

More great poems below...

Written by Andrew Barton Paterson |

Old Schooldays

 Awake, of Muse, the echoes of a day 
Long past, the ghosts of mem'ries manifold -- 
Youth's memories that once were green and gold 
But now, alas, are grim and ashen grey.
The drowsy schoolboy wakened up from sleep, First stays his system with substantial food, Then off for school with tasks half understood, Alas, alas, that cribs should be so cheap! The journey down to town -- 'twere long to tell The storm and riot of the rabble rout; The wild Walpurgis revel in and out That made the ferry boat a floating hell.
What time the captive locusts fairly roared: And bulldog ants, made stingless with a knife, Climbed up the seats and scared the very life From timid folk, who near jumped overboard.
The hours of lessons -- hours with feet of clay Each hour a day, each day more like a week: While hapless urchins heard with blanched cheek The words of doom "Come in on Saturday".
The master gowned and spectacled, precise, Trying to rule by methods firm and kind But always just a little bit behind The latest villainy, the last device, Born of some smoothfaced urchin's fertile brain To irritate the hapless pedagogue, And first involve him in a mental fog Then "have" him with the same old tale again.
The "bogus" fight that brought the sergeant down To that dark corner by the old brick wall, Where mimic combat and theatric brawl Made noise enough to terrify the town.
But on wet days the fray was genuine, When small boys pushed each other in the mud And fought in silence till thin streams of blood Their dirty faces would incarnadine.
The football match or practice in the park With rampant hoodlums joining in the game Till on one famous holiday there came A gang that seized the football for a lark.
Then raged the combat without rest or pause, Till one, a hero, Hawkins unafraid Regained the ball, and later on displayed His nose knocked sideways in his country's cause.
Before the mind quaint visions rise and fall, Old jokes, old students dead and gone: And some that lead us still, while some toil on As rank and file, but "Grammar" children all.
And he, the pilot, who has laid the course For all to steer by, honest, unafraid -- Truth is his beacon light, so he has made The name of the old School a living force.

Written by Philip Larkin |


Those long uneven lines
Standing as patiently
As if they were stretched outside
The Oval or Villa Park 
The crowns of hats the sun
On moustached archaic faces
Grinning as if it were all
An August bank Holiday lark;

And the shut shops the bleached 
Established names on the sunblinds 
The farthings and sovereigns 
Adn dark-clothed children at play
Called after kings and queens 
The tin advertisements
For cocoa and twist and the pubs
Wide open all day;

And the countryside ont caring:
The place-names all hazed over
With flowering grasses and fields
Shadowing Domesday lines
Under wheat's restless silence;
The differently-dressed servants
With tiny rooms in huge houses 
The dust behind limousines;

Never such innocence 
Never before or since 
As changed itself to past
Without a word--the men
Leaving the gardens tidy 
The thousands of marriages
Lasting a littlewhile longer:
Never such innocence again.

Written by Jane Taylor |

The Holidays

 "Ah! don't you remember, 'tis almost December,
And soon will the holidays come;
Oh, 'twill be so funny, I've plenty of money,
I'll buy me a sword and a drum.
" Thus said little Harry, unwilling to tarry, Impatient from school to depart; But we shall discover, this holiday lover Knew little what was in his heart.
For when on returning, he gave up his learning, Away from his sums and his books, Though playthings surrounded, and sweetmeats abounded, Chagrin still appear'd in his looks.
Though first they delighted, his toys were now slighted, And thrown away out of his sight; He spent every morning in stretching and yawning, Yet went to bed weary at night.
He had not that treasure which really makes pleasure, (A secret discover'd by few).
You'll take it for granted, more playthings he wanted; Oh naught was something to do.
We must have employment to give us enjoyment And pass the time cheerfully away; And study and reading give pleasure, exceeding The pleasures of toys and of play.
To school now returning­to study and learning With eagerness Harry applied; He felt no aversion to books or exertion, Nor yet for the holidays sigh'd.

Written by Emily Dickinson |

Me! Come! My dazzled face

Me! Come! My dazzled face
In such a shining place!

Me! Hear! My foreign ear
The sounds of welcome near!

The saints shall meet
Our bashful feet.
My holiday shall be That they remember me; My paradise, the fame That they pronounce my name.

Written by Robert William Service |

My Holiday

 I love the cheery bustle
Of children round the house,
The tidy maids a-hustle,
The chatter of my spouse;
The laughter and the singing,
The joy on every face:
With frequent laughter ringing,
O, Home's a happy place!

Aye, Home's a bit of heaven;
I love it every day;
My line-up of eleven
Combine to make it gay;
Yet when in June they're leaving
For Sandport by the sea,
By rights I should be grieving,
But gosh! I just fell free.
I'm left with parting kisses, The guardian of the house; The romp, it's true, one misses, I'm quiet as a mouse.
In carpet slippers stealing From room to room alone I get the strangest feeling The place is all my own.
It seems to nestle near me, It whispers in my ear; My books and pictures cheer me, Hearth never was so dear.
In peace profound I lap me, I take no stock of time, And from the dreams that hap me, I make (like this) a rhyme.
Oh, I'm ashamed of saying (And think it's mean of me), That when the kids are staying At Sandspot on the sea, And I evoke them clearly Disporting in the spray, I love them still more dearly Because .
they're far away.

Written by Jane Taylor |

The Disappointment

 In tears to her mother poor Harriet came, 
Let us listen to hear what she says:
"O see, dear mamma, it is pouring with rain, 
We cannot go out in the chaise.
"All the week I have long'd for this holiday so, And fancied the minutes were hours; And now that I'm dress'd and all ready to go, Do look at those terrible showers! " "I'm sorry, my dear, " her kind mother replied, The rain disappoints us to-day; But sorrow still more that you fret for a ride, In such an extravagant way.
"These slight disappointments are sent to prepare For what may hereafter befall; For seasons of real disappointment and care, Which commonly happen to all.
"For just like to-day with its holiday lost, Is life and its comforts at best: Our pleasures are blighted, our purposes cross'd, To teach us it is not our rest.
"And when those distresses and crosses appear, With which you may shortly be tried, You'll wonder that ever you wasted a tear On merely the loss of a ride.
"But though the world's pleasures are fleeting and vain, Religion is lasting and true; Real pleasure and peace in her paths you may gain, Nor will disappointment ensue.

Written by Yehuda Amichai |

Memorial Day For The War Dead

 Memorial day for the war dead.
Add now the grief of all your losses to their grief, even of a woman that has left you.
Mix sorrow with sorrow, like time-saving history, which stacks holiday and sacrifice and mourning on one day for easy, convenient memory.
Oh, sweet world soaked, like bread, in sweet milk for the terrible toothless God.
"Behind all this some great happiness is hiding.
" No use to weep inside and to scream outside.
Behind all this perhaps some great happiness is hiding.
Memorial day.
Bitter salt is dressed up as a little girl with flowers.
The streets are cordoned off with ropes, for the marching together of the living and the dead.
Children with a grief not their own march slowly, like stepping over broken glass.
The flautist's mouth will stay like that for many days.
A dead soldier swims above little heads with the swimming movements of the dead, with the ancient error the dead have about the place of the living water.
A flag loses contact with reality and flies off.
A shopwindow is decorated with dresses of beautiful women, in blue and white.
And everything in three languages: Hebrew, Arabic, and Death.
A great and royal animal is dying all through the night under the jasmine tree with a constant stare at the world.
A man whose son died in the war walks in the street like a woman with a dead embryo in her womb.
"Behind all this some great happiness is hiding.

Written by Henry Lawson |

The Cockney Soul

 From Woolwich and Brentford and Stamford Hill, from Richmond into the Strand, 
Oh, the Cockney soul is a silent soul – as it is in every land! 
But out on the sand with a broken band it's sarcasm spurs them through; 
And, with never a laugh, in a gale and a half, 'tis the Cockney cheers the crew.
Oh, send them a tune from the music-halls with a chorus to shake the sky! Oh, give them a deep-sea chanty now – and a star to steer them by! Now this is a song of the great untrained, a song of the Unprepared, Who had never the brains to plead unfit, or think of the things they dared; Of the grocer-souled and the draper-souled, and the clerks of the four o'clock, Who stood for London and died for home in the nineteen-fourteen shock.
Oh, this is a pork-shop warrior's chant – come back from it, maimed and blind, To a little old counter in Grey's Inn-road and a tiny parlour behind; And the bedroom above, where the wife and he go silently mourning yet For a son-in-law who shall never come back and a dead son's room "To Let".
(But they have a boy "in the fried-fish line" in a shop across the "wye", Who will take them "aht" and "abaht" to-night and cheer their old eyes dry.
) And this is a song of the draper's clerk (what have you all to say?) – He'd a tall top-hat and a walking-coat in the city every day – He wears no flesh on his broken bones that lie in the shell-churned loam; For he went over the top and struck with his cheating yard-wand – home.
(Oh, touch your hat to the tailor-made before you are aware, And lilt us a lay of Bank-holiday and the lights of Leicester-square!) Hats off to the dowager lady at home in her house in Russell-square! Like the pork-shop back and the Brixton flat, they are silently mourning there; For one lay out ahead of the rest in the slush 'neath a darkening sky, With the blood of a hundred earls congealed and his eye-glass to his eye.
(He gave me a cheque in an envelope on a distant gloomy day; He gave me his hand at the mansion door and he said: "Good-luck! Good-bai!")

Written by Delmore Schwartz |

Occasional Poems

 I Christmas Poem for Nancy

Noel, Noel
We live and we die
Between heaven and hell
Between the earth and the sky
And all shall be well
And all shall be unwell
And once again! all shall once again!
 All shall be well
By the ringing and the swinging
 of the great beautiful holiday bell
Of Noel! Noel!

II Salute Valentine

I'll drink to thee only with my eyes
When two are three and four,
And guzzle reality's rise and cries
And praise the truth beyond surmise
When small shots shout: More! More! More! More!

III Rabbi to Preach

Rabbi Robert Raaba will preach
 on "An Eye for an Eye"
 (an I for an I?)
(Two weeks from this week: "On the Sacred Would")
At Temple Sholem on Lake Shore Drive
- Pavel Slavensky will chant the liturgical responses
And William Leon, having now thirteen years
 will thank his parents that he exists
To celebrate his birthday of manhood, his chocolate 
Bar Mitzvah, his yum-yum kippered herring, his Russian

Written by Billy Collins |

Walking Across The Atlantic

 I wait for the holiday crowd to clear the beach
before stepping onto the first wave.
Soon I am walking across the Atlantic thinking about Spain, checking for whales, waterspouts.
I feel the water holding up my shifting weight.
Tonight I will sleep on its rocking surface.
But for now I try to imagine what this must look like to the fish below, the bottoms of my feet appearing, disappearing.

Written by Ella Wheeler Wilcox |

A Holiday

 The Wife
The house is like a garden,
The children are the flowers,
The gardener should come methinks
And walk among his bowers,
Oh! lock the door on worry
And shut your cares away,
Not time of year, but love and cheer,
Will make a holiday.
The Husband Impossible! You women do not know The toil it takes to make a business grow.
I cannot join you until very late, So hurry home, nor let the dinner wait.
The Wife The feast will be like Hamlet Without a Hamlet part: The home is but a house, dear, Till you supply the heart.
The Xmas gift I long for You need not toil to buy; Oh! give me back one thing I lack – The love-light in your eye.
The Husband Of course I love you, and the children too.
Be sensible, my dear, it is for you I work so hard to make my business pay.
There, now, run home, enjoy your holiday.
The Wife (turning) He does not mean to wound me, I know his heart is kind.
Alas! that man can love us And be so blind, so blind.
A little time for pleasure, A little time for play; A word to prove the life of love And frighten care away! Tho’ poor my lot in some small cot That were a holiday.
The Husband (musing) She has not meant to wound me, nor to vex – Zounds! but ‘tis difficult to please the sex.
I’ve housed and gowned her like a very queen Yet there she goes, with discontented mien.
I gave her diamonds only yesterday: Some women are like that, do what you may.

Written by Emily Dickinson |

Me! Come! My dazzled face

Me! Come! My dazzled face
In such a shining place!

Me! Hear! My foreign ear
The sounds of welcome near!

The saints shall meet
Our bashful feet.
My holiday shall be That they remember me; My paradise, the fame That they pronounce my name.