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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 | |

Hélas

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 Philip Larkin | |

MCMXIV

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.
1964


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.


More great poems below...

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 Sir Walter Raleigh | |

Now What Is Love

 Now what is Love, I pray thee, tell?
It is that fountain and that well
Where pleasure and repentance dwell;
It is, perhaps, the sauncing bell
That tolls all into heaven or hell;
And this is Love, as I hear tell.
Yet what is Love, I prithee, say? It is a work on holiday, It is December matched with May, When lusty bloods in fresh array Hear ten months after of the play; And this is Love, as I hear say.
Yet what is Love, good shepherd, sain? It is a sunshine mixed with rain, It is a toothache or like pain, It is a game where none hath gain; The lass saith no, yet would full fain; And this is Love, as I hear sain.
Yet, shepherd, what is Love, I pray? It is a yes, it is a nay, A pretty kind of sporting fray, It is a thing will soon away.
Then, nymphs, take vantage while ye may; And this is Love, as I hear say.
Yet what is Love, good shepherd, show? A thing that creeps, it cannot go, A prize that passeth to and fro, A thing for one, a thing for moe, And he that proves shall find it so; And shepherd, this is Love, I trow.


Written by Alec Derwent (A D) Hope | |

Observation Car

 To be put on the train and kissed and given my ticket, 
Then the station slid backward, the shops and the neon lighting, 
Reeling off in a drunken blur, with a whole pound note in my pocket 
And the holiday packed with Perhaps.
It used to be very exciting.
The present and past were enough.
I did not mind having my back To the engine.
I sat like a spider and spun Time backward out of my guts - or rather my eyes - and the track Was a Now dwindling off to oblivion.
I thought it was fun: The telegraph poles slithered up in a sudden crescendo As we sliced the hill and scattered its grazing sheep; The days were a wheeling delirium that led without end to Nights when we plunged into roaring tunnels of sleep.
But now I am tired of the train.
I have learned that one tree Is much like another, one hill the dead spit of the next I have seen tailing off behind all the various types of country Like a clock running down.
I am bored and a little perplexed; And weak with the effort of endless evacuation Of the long monotonous Now, the repetitive, tidy Officialdom of each siding, of each little station Labelled Monday, Tuesday - and goodness ! what happened to - Friday ? And the maddening way the other passengers alter: The schoolgirl who goes to the Ladies' comes back to her seat A lollipop blonde who leads you on to assault her, And you've just got her skirts round her waist and her pants round her feet When you find yourself fumbling about the nightmare knees Of a pink hippopotamus with a permanent wave Who sends you for sandwiches and a couple of teas, But by then she has whiskers, no teeth and one foot in the grave.
I have lost my faith that the ticket tells where we are going.
There are rumours the driver is mad - we are all being trucked To the abattoirs somewhere - the signals are jammed and unknowing We aim through the night full speed at a wrecked viaduct.
But I do not believe them.
The future is rumour and drivel; Only the past is assured.
From the observation car I stand looking back and watching the landscape shrivel, Wondering where we are going and just where the hell we are, Remembering how I planned to break the journey, to drive My own car one day, to have choice in my hands and my foot upon power, To see through the trumpet throat of vertiginous perspective My urgent Now explode continually into flower, To be the Eater of Time, a poet and not that sly Anus of mind the historian.
It was so simple and plain To live by the sole, insatiable influx of the eye.
But something went wrong with the plan: I am still on the train.


Written by Laura Riding Jackson | |

The Quids

 The little quids, the million quids,
The everywhere, everything, always quids,
The atoms of the Monoton—
Each turned three essences where it stood
And ground a gisty dust from its neighbors' edges
Until a powdery thoughtfall stormed in and out,
The cerebration of a slippery quid enterprise.
Each quid stirred.
The united quids Waved through a sinuous decision.
The quids, that had never done anything before But be, be, be, be, be, The quids resolved to predicate And dissipate in a little grammar.
Oh, the Monoton didn't care, For whatever they did— The Monoton's contributing quids— The Monoton would always remain the same.
A quid here and there gyrated in place-position, While many essential quids turned inside-out For the fun of it And a few refused to be anything but Simple, unpredicated copulatives.
Little by little, this commotion of quids, By threes, by tens, by casual millions, Squirming within the state of things— The metaphysical acrobats, The naked, immaterial quids— Turned inside on themselves And came out dressed, Each similar quid of the inward same, Each similar quid dressed in a different way— The quid's idea of a holiday.
The quids could never tell what was happening.
But the Monoton felt itself differently the same In its different parts.
The silly quids upon their rambling exercise Never knew, could never tell What their pleasure was about, What their carnival was like, Being in, being in, being always in Where they never could get out Of the everywhere, everything, always in, To derive themselves from the Monoton.
But I know, with a quid inside of me, But I know what a quid's disguise is like, Being one myself, The gymnastic device That a quid puts on for exercise.
And so should the trees, And so should the worms, And so should you, And all the other predicates, And all the other accessories Of the quid's masquerade.


Written by Edna St Vincent Millay | |

Lines Written In Recapitulation

 I could not bring this splendid world nor any trading beast
In charge of it, to defer, no, not to give ear, not in the least
Appearance, to my handsome prophecies,
which here I ponder and put by.
I am left simpler, less encumbered, by the consciousness that I shall by no pebble in my dirty sling avail To slay one purple giant four feet high and distribute arms among his tall attendants, who spit at his name when spitting on the ground: They will be found one day Prone where they fell, or dead sitting —and pock-marked wall Supporting the beautiful back straight as an oak before it is old.
I have learned to fail.
And I have had my say.
Yet shall I sing until my voice crack (this being my leisure, this my holiday) That man was a special thing, and no commodity, a thing improper to be sold.


Written by T S (Thomas Stearns) Eliot | |

The Naming Of Cats

 The Naming of Cats is a difficult matter,
It isn't just one of your holiday games;
You may think at first I'm as mad as a hatter
When I tell you, a cat must have THREE DIFFERENT NAMES.
First of all, there's the name that the family use daily, Such as Peter, Augustus, Alonzo or James, Such as Victor or Jonathan, George or Bill Bailey-- All of them sensible everyday names.
There are fancier names if you think they sound sweeter, Some for the gentlemen, some for the dames: Such as Plato, Admetus, Electra, Demeter-- But all of them sensible everyday names.
But I tell you, a cat needs a name that's particular, A name that's peculiar, and more dignified, Else how can he keep up his tail perpendicular, Or spread out his whiskers, or cherish his pride? Of names of this kind, I can give you a quorum, Such as Munkustrap, Quaxo, or Coricopat, Such as Bombalurina, or else Jellylorum- Names that never belong to more than one cat.
But above and beyond there's still one name left over, And that is the name that you never will guess; The name that no human research can discover-- But THE CAT HIMSELF KNOWS, and will never confess.
When you notice a cat in profound meditation, The reason, I tell you, is always the same: His mind is engaged in a rapt contemplation Of the thought, of the thought, of the thought of his name: His ineffable effable Effanineffable Deep and inscrutable singular Name.


Written by | |

Betty Blue

 

    Little Betty Blue
    Lost her holiday shoe;
What shall little Betty do?
    Give her another
    To match the other
And then she'll walk upon two.


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 Lucy Maud Montgomery | |

Rain Along Shore

 Wan white mists upon the sea,
East wind harping mournfully
All the sunken reefs along,
Wail and heart-break in its song,
But adown the placid bay
Fisher-folk keep holiday.
All the deeps beyond the bar Call and murmur from afar, 'Plaining of a mighty woe Where the great ships come and go, But adown the harbor gray Fisher-folk keep holiday.
When the cloudy heavens frown, And the sweeping rain comes down, Boats at anchorage must bide In despite of time or tide; Making merry as they may Fisher-folk keep holiday.
Now is time for jest and song All the idle shore along, Now is time for wooing dear, Maidens cannot choose but hear; Daffing toil and care away Fisher-folk keep holiday.
Oh, the fretted reefs may wail, Every man has furled his sail! Oh, the wind may moan in fear, Every lad is with his dear! Mirth and laughter have their way, Fisher-folk keep holiday.


Written by Arthur Symons | |

In the Stalls

 My life is like a music-hall, 
Where, in the impotence of rage, 
Chained by enchantment to my stall, 
I see myself upon the stage 
Dance to amuse a music-hall.
'Tis I that smoke this cigarette, Lounge here, and laugh for vacancy, And watch the dancers turn; and yet It is my very self I see Across the cloudy cigarette.
My very self that turns and trips, Painted, pathetically gay, An empty song upon the lips In make-believe of holiday: I, I, this thing that turns and trips! The light flares in the music-hall, The light, the sound, that weary us; Hour follows hour, I count them all, Lagging, and loud, and riotous: My life is like a music-hall.


Written by Rabindranath Tagore | |

The Little Big Man

 I am small because I am a little child.
I shall be big when I am as old as my father is.
My teacher will come and say, "It is late, bring your slate and your books.
" I shall tell him, " Do you not know I am as big as father? And I must not have lessons any more.
" My master will wonder and say, "He can leave his books if he likes, for he is grown up.
" I shall dress myself and walk to the fair where the crowd is thick.
My uncle will come rushing up to me and say, "You will get lost, my boy; let me carry you.
" I shall answer, "Can't you see, uncle, I am as big as father? I must go to the fair alone.
" Uncle will say, "Yes, he can go wherever he likes, for he is grown up.
" Mother will come from her bath when I am giving money to my nurse, for I shall know how to open the box with my key.
Mother will say, "What are you about, naughty child?" I shall tell her, "Mother, don't you know, I am as big as father, and I must give silver to my nurse.
" Mother will say to herself, "He can give money to whom he likes, for he is grown up.
" In the holiday time in October father will come home and, thinking that I am still a baby, will bring for me from the town little shoes and small silken frocks.
I shall say, "Father, give them to my data, for I am as big as you are.
" Father will think and say, "He can buy his own clothes if he likes, for he is grown up.
"


Written by Rabindranath Tagore | |

The Land of the Exile

 Mother, the light has grown grey in the sky; I do not know what
the time is.
There is no fun in my play, so I have come to you.
It is Saturday, our holiday.
Leave off your work, mother; sit here by the window and tell me where the desert of Tepantar in the fairy tale is.
The shadow of the rains has covered the day from end to end.
The fierce lightning is scratching the sky with its nails.
When the clouds rumble and it thunders, I love to be afraid in my heart and cling to you.
When the heavy rain patters for hours on the bamboo leaves, and our windows shake and rattle at the gusts of wind, I like to sit alone in the room, mother, with you, and hear you talk about the desert of Tepantar in the fairy tale.
Where is it, mother, on the shore of what sea, at the foot of what hills, in the kingdom of what king? There are no hedges there to mark the fields, no footpath across it by which the villagers reach their village in the evening, or the woman who gathers dry sticks in the forest can bring her load to the market.
With patches of yellow grass in the sand and only one tree where the pair of wise old birds have their nest, lies the desert of Tepantar.
I can imagine how, on just such a cloudy day, the young son of the king is riding alone on a grey horse through the desert, in search of the princess who lies imprisoned in the giant's palace across that unknown water.
When the haze of the rain comes down in the distant sky, and lightning starts up like a sudden fit of pain, does he remember his unhappy mother, abandoned by the king, sweeping the cow-stall and wiping her eyes, while he rides through the desert of Tepantar in the fairy tale? See, mother, it is almost dark before the day is over, and thee are no travellers yonder on the village road.
The shepherd boy has gone home early from the pasture, and men have left their fields to sit on mats under the eaves of their huts, watching the scowling clouds.
Mother, I have left all my books on the shelf-do not ask me to do my lessons now.
When I grow up and am bid like my father, I shall learn all that must be learnt.
But just for today, tell me, mother, where the desert of Tepantar in the fairy tale is.