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Best Famous Husband Poems

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

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See also: Best Member Poems

by Phillis Wheatley | |

To a Lady on the Death of Her Husband

Grim monarch! see, depriv'd of vital breath,
A young physician in the dust of death:
Dost thou go on incessant to destroy,
Our griefs to double, and lay waste our joy?
"Enough" thou never yet wast known to say,
Though millions die, the vassals of thy sway:
Nor youth, nor science, nor the ties of love,
Nor aught on earth thy flinty heart can move.
The friend, the spouse from his dire dart to save, In vain we ask the sovereign of the grave.
Fair mourner, there see thy lov'd Leonard laid, And o'er him spread the deep impervious shade; Clos'd are his eyes, and heavy fetters keep His senses bound in never-waking sleep, Till time shall cease, till many a starry world Shall fall from heav'n, in dire confusion hurl'd, Till nature in her final wreck shall lie, And her last groan shall rend the azure sky: Not, not till then his active soul shall claim His body, a divine immortal frame.
But see the softly-stealing tears apace Pursue each other down the mourner's face; But cease thy tears, bid ev'ry sigh depart, And cast the load of anguish from thine heart: From the cold shell of his great soul arise, And look beyond, thou native of the skies; There fix thy view, where fleeter than the wind Thy Leonard mounts, and leaves the earth behind.
Thyself prepare to pass the vale of night To join for ever on the hills of light: To thine embrace his joyful sprit moves To thee, the partner of his earthly loves; He welcomes thee to pleasures more refin'd, And better suited to th' immortal mind.


by Conrad Aiken | |

ZUDORA

Here on the pale beach, in the darkness; 
With the full moon just to rise; 
They sit alone, and look over the sea, 
Or into each other's eyes.
.
.
She pokes her parasol into the sleepy sand, Or sifts the lazy whiteness through her hand.
'A lovely night,' he says, 'the moon, Comes up for you and me.
Just like a blind old spotlight there, Fizzing across the sea!' She pays no heed, nor even turns her head: He slides his arm around her waist instead.
'Why don't we do a sketch together-- Those songs you sing are swell.
Where did you get them, anyway? They suit you awfully well.
' She will not turn to him--will not resist.
Impassive, she submits to being kissed.
'My husband wrote all four of them.
You know,--my husband drowned.
He was always sickly, soon depressed.
.
.
' But still she hears the sound Of a stateroom door shut hard, and footsteps going Swiftly and steadily, and the dark sea flowing.
She hears the dark sea flowing, and sees his eyes Hollow with disenchantment, sick surprise,-- And hate of her whom he had loved too well.
.
.
She lowers her eyes, demurely prods a shell.
'Yes.
We might do an act together.
That would be very nice.
' He kisses her passionately, and thinks She's carnal, but cold as ice.


by Anna Akhmatova | |

The Grey-Eyed King

Hail! Hail to thee, o, immovable pain!
The young grey-eyed king had been yesterday slain.
This autumnal evening was stuffy and red.
My husband, returning, had quietly said, "He'd left for his hunting; they carried him home; They'd found him under the old oak's dome.
I pity the queen.
He, so young, past away!.
.
.
During one night her black hair turned to grey.
" He found his pipe on a warm fire-place, And quietly left for his usual race.
Now my daughter will wake up and rise -- Mother will look in her dear grey eyes.
.
.
And poplars by windows rustle as sing, "Never again will you see your young king.
.
.
"


More great poems below...

by | |

The Noble Balm

HIGH-SPIRITED friend  
I send nor balms nor cor'sives to your wound: 
Your fate hath found 
A gentler and more agile hand to tend 
The cure of that which is but corporal; 5 
And doubtful days which were named critical  
Have made their fairest flight 
And now are out of sight.
Yet doth some wholesome physic for the mind Wrapp'd in this paper lie 10 Which in the taking if you misapply You are unkind.
Your covetous hand Happy in that fair honour it hath gain'd Must now be rein'd.
15 True valour doth her own renown command In one full action; nor have you now more To do than be a husband of that store.
Think but how dear you bought This fame which you have caught: 20 Such thoughts will make you more in love with truth.
'Tis wisdom and that high For men to use their fortune reverently Even in youth.


by Sappho | |

Some an army of horsemen some an army on foot

Some an army of horsemen some an army on foot
and some say a fleet of ships is the loveliest sight
on this dark earth; but I say it is what-
ever you desire: 

and it it possible to make this perfectly clear
to all; for the woman who far surpassed all others 
in her beauty Helen left her husband --
the best of all men -- 

behind and sailed far away to Troy; she did not spare
a single thought for her child nor for her dear parents
but [the goddess of love] led her astray
[to desire...] 

[...which]
reminds me now of Anactoria
although far away  

--Translated by Josephine Balmer 


by | |

I Had A Little Husband


I had a little husband no bigger than my thumb,
I put him in a pint pot, and there I bid him drum,
I bought a little handkerchief to wipe his little nose,
And a pair of little garters to tie his little hose.


by | |

The Old Woman Of Surrey

 

There was an old woman in Surrey,
Who was morn, noon, and night in a hurry;
    Called her husband a fool,
    Drove the children to school,
The worrying old woman of Surrey.


by Erin Belieu | |

For Catherine: Juana Infanta of Navarre

 Ferdinand was systematic when
he drove his daughter mad.
With a Casanova's careful art, he moved slowly, stole only one child at a time through tunnels specially dug behind the walls of her royal chamber, then paid the Duenna well to remember nothing but his appreciation.
Imagine how quietly the servants must have worked, loosening the dirt, the muffled ring of pick-ends against the castle stone.
The Duenna, one eye gauging the drugged girl's sleep, each night handing over another light parcel, another small body vanished through the mouth of a hole.
Once you were a daughter, too, then a wife and now the mother of a baby with a Spanish name.
Paloma, you call her, little dove; she sleeps in a room beyond you.
Your husband, too, works late, drinks too much at night, comes home lit, wanting sex and dinner.
You feign sleep, shrunk in the corner of the queen-sized bed.
You've confessed, you can't feel things when they touch you; take Prozac for depression, Ativan for the buzz.
Drunk, you call your father who doesn't want to claim a ha!fsand-niggergrandkid.
He says he never loved your mother.
No one remembers Juana; almost everything's forgotten in time, and if I tell her story, it's only when guessing what she loved, what she dreamed about, the lost details of a life that barely survives history.
God and Latin, I suppose, what she loved.
And dreams of mice pouring out from a hole.
The Duenna, in spite of her black, widow's veil, leaning to kiss her, saying Juana, don't listen.
.
.


by Ben Jonson | |

On Sir Voluptuous Beast


XXV.
 ? ON SIR VOLUPTUOUS BEAST.
  
While BEAST instructs his fair and innocent wife,
In the past pleasures of his sensual life,
Telling the motions of each petticoat,
And how his Ganymede mov'd, and how his goat,
And now her hourly her own cucquean makes,
In varied shapes, which for his lust she takes :
What doth he else, but say, Leave to be chaste,
Just wife, and, to change me, make woman's haste.



[AJ Notes:
Ganymede, in Greek mythology, a beautiful shepherd boy
        with whom Zeus fell in love.
Cucquean, n.
[Cuckold + queen], a woman whose
        husband is unfaithful to her.
]


by Oliver Wendell Holmes | |

The Old Man Dreams

 OH for one hour of youthful joy!
Give back my twentieth spring!
I'd rather laugh, a bright-haired boy,
Than reign, a gray-beard king.
Off with the spoils of wrinkled age! Away with Learning's crown! Tear out life's Wisdom-written page, And dash its trophies down! One moment let my life-blood stream From boyhood's fount of flame! Give me one giddy, reeling dream Of life all love and fame! .
.
.
.
.
My listening angel heard the prayer, And, calmly smiling, said, "If I but touch thy silvered hair Thy hasty wish hath sped.
"But is there nothing in thy track, To bid thee fondly stay, While the swift seasons hurry back To find the wished-for day?" "Ah, truest soul of womankind! Without thee what were life ? One bliss I cannot leave behind: I'll take-- my-- precious-- wife!" The angel took a sapphire pen And wrote in rainbow dew, The man would be a boy again, And be a husband too! "And is there nothing yet unsaid, Before the change appears? Remember, all their gifts have fled With those dissolving years.
" "Why, yes;" for memory would recall My fond paternal joys; "I could not bear to leave them all-- I'll take-- my-- girl-- and-- boys.
" The smiling angel dropped his pen,-- "Why, this will never do; The man would be a boy again, And be a father too!" .
.
.
.
.
And so I laughed,-- my laughter woke The household with its noise,-- And wrote my dream, when morning broke, To please the gray-haired boys.


by Edna St Vincent Millay | |

An Ancient Gesture

 I thought, as I wiped my eyes on the corner of my apron:
Penelope did this too.
And more than once: you can't keep weaving all day And undoing it all through the night; Your arms get tired, and the back of your neck gets tight; And along towards morning, when you think it will never be light, And your husband has been gone, and you don't know where, for years.
Suddenly you burst into tears; There is simply nothing else to do.
And I thought, as I wiped my eyes on the corner of my apron: This is an ancient gesture, authentic, antique, In the very best tradition, classic, Greek; Ulysses did this too.
But only as a gesture,—a gesture which implied To the assembled throng that he was much too moved to speak.
He learned it from Penelope.
.
.
Penelope, who really cried.


by Julie Hill Alger | |

Pictures of Home

  In the red-roofed stucco house
of my childhood, the dining room 
was screened off by folding doors 
with small glass panes.
Our neighbors the Bertins, who barely escaped Hitler, often joined us at table.
One night their daughter said, In Vienna our dining room had doors like these.
For a moment, we all sat quite still.
And when Nath Nong, who has to live in Massachusetts now, saw a picture of green Cambodian fields she said, My father have animal like this, name krebey English? I told her, Water buffalo.
She said, Very very good animal.
She put her finger on the picture of the water buffalo and spoke its Khmer name once more.
So today, when someone (my ex- husband) sends me a shiny picture of a church in Santa Cruz that lost its steeple in the recent earthquake there's no reason at all for my throat to ache at the sight of a Pacific-blue sky and an old church three thousand miles away, because if I can only save enough money I can go back there any time and stay as long as I want.
-Julie Alger


by Lady Mary Chudleigh | |

To the Ladies.

 WIFE and servant are the same,
But only differ in the name : 
For when that fatal knot is ty'd, 
Which nothing, nothing can divide : 
When she the word obey has said, 
And man by law supreme has made, 
Then all that's kind is laid aside, 
And nothing left but state and pride : 
Fierce as an eastern prince he grows, 
And all his innate rigour shows : 
Then but to look, to laugh, or speak, 
Will the nuptial contract break.
Like mutes, she signs alone must make, And never any freedom take : But still be govern'd by a nod, And fear her husband as a God : Him still must serve, him still obey, And nothing act, and nothing say, But what her haughty lord thinks fit, Who with the power, has all the wit.
Then shun, oh ! shun that wretched state, And all the fawning flatt'rers hate : Value yourselves, and men despise : You must be proud, if you'll be wise.


by Maria Mazziotti Gillan | |

LOVE POEM TO MY HUSBAND OF THIRTY-ONE YEARS

 I watch you walk up our front path, 
the entire right side of your body, 
stiff and unbending, your leg, 
dragging on the ground, 
your arm not moving.
Six different times you ask me the date of our daughter's wedding, seem surprised each time, forget who called, though you can name obscure desert animals, and every detail of events that took place in 3 B.
C.
You complain now of pain in your muscles, of swimming at the Y where a 76 year old man tells you you swim too slowly.
I imagine a world in which you cannot move.
Most days, I force myself to look only into the past; remember you, singing and playing your guitar: "Black, black is the color of my true love's hair," you sang, and each time you came into a room how my love for you caught in my throat, how handsome you were, how strong and muscular, how the sun lit your blond hair.
Now I pretend not to notice the trouble you have buttoning your shirt, and yes, I am terrified and no, I cannot tell you.
The future is a murky lake.
I am afraid of the monsters who wait just below its surface.
Even in our mahogany bed, I am not safe.
Each day, I swim toward everything I didn't want to know.
Copyright © 1997 by Maria Mazziotti Gillan, all rights reserved.


by Walter de la Mare | |

The Widow

 Cold was the night wind, drifting fast the snows fell,
Wide were the downs and shelterless and naked,
When a poor Wanderer struggled on her journey
Weary and way-sore.
Drear were the downs, more dreary her reflexions; Cold was the night wind, colder was her bosom! She had no home, the world was all before her, She had no shelter.
Fast o'er the bleak heath rattling drove a chariot, "Pity me!" feebly cried the poor night wanderer.
"Pity me Strangers! lest with cold and hunger Here I should perish.
"Once I had friends,--but they have all forsook me! "Once I had parents,--they are now in Heaven! "I had a home once--I had once a husband-- "Pity me Strangers! "I had a home once--I had once a husband-- "I am a Widow poor and broken-hearted!" Loud blew the wind, unheard was her complaining.
On drove the chariot.
On the cold snows she laid her down to rest her; She heard a horseman, "pity me!" she groan'd out; Loud blew the wind, unheard was her complaining, On went the horseman.
Worn out with anguish, toil and cold and hunger, Down sunk the Wanderer, sleep had seiz'd her senses; There, did the Traveller find her in the morning, GOD had releast her.


by Walter de la Mare | |

Alone

 Over the fence, the dead settle in
for a journey.
Nine o'clock.
You are alone for the first time today.
Boys asleep.
Husband out.
A beer bottle sweats in your hand, and sea lavender clogs the air with perfume.
Think of yourself.
Your arms rest with nothing to do after weeks spent attending to others.
Your thoughts turn to whether butter will last the week, how much longer the car can run on its partial tank of gas.


by James Lee Jobe | |

Eternity

  for C.
G.
Macdonald, 1956-2006 Charlie, sunrise is a three-legged mongrel dog, going deaf, already blind in one eye, answering to the unlikely name, 'Lucky.
' The sky, at gray-blue dawn, is a football field painted by smiling artists.
Each artist has 3 arms, 3 hands, 3 legs.
One leg drags behind, leaving a trail, leaving a mark.
The future resembles a cloudy dream where the ghosts of all your life try to tell you something, but what? Noon is a plate of mashed potatoes and gravy.
Midnight is an ugly chipped plate that you only use when you are alone.
Sunset is a wise cat who ignores you even when you are offering food; her conception of what life is, or isn't, far exceeds our own.
This moment is a desert at midnight, the hunting moon is full, and owls fly through a cloudless sky.
The past is a winding, green river valley deep between pine covered ridges; what can you make of that? Night is a secret plant growing inky black against the sky.
When this plant's life is over, then day returns like a drunken husband who stayed out until breakfast.
A smile is a quick glimpse at the pretty face of hope.
Hope's face is framed by the beautiful night sky.
Hope's face is framed by the gray-blue dawn.
This is your life, these seconds and years are the music for your only dance.
Charlie, This is the eternity that you get to know.


by Elinor Wylie | |

Blood Feud

 Once, when my husband was a child, there came
To his father's table, one who called him kin,
In sunbleached corduroys paler than his skin.
His look was grave and kind; he bore the name Of the dead singer of Senlac, and his smile.
Shyly and courteously he smiled and spoke; "I've been in the laurel since the winter broke; Four months, I reckon; yes, sir, quite a while.
" He'd killed a score of foemen in the past, In some blood feud, a dark and monstrous thing; To him it seemed his duty.
At the last His enemies found him by a forest spring, Which, as he died, lay bright beneath his head, A silver shield that slowly turned to red.


by Robert William Service | |

Old Crony

 Said she: 'Although my husband Jim
 Is with his home content,
I never should have married him,
 We are so different.
Oh yes, I know he loves me well, Our children he adores; But he's so dull, and I rebel Against a life that bores.
'Of course there is another man, Quite pennyless is he; And yet with hope and joy we plan A home beyond the sea.
Though I forfeit the name of wife And neighbours ostracise, Such happiness will crown our life Their censure we'll despise.
'But then what will my children think, Whose love is pure and true?' Said I: 'Your memory will stink If they should speak of you.
Your doting Jim will curse your name, And if you make a mess Of life, oh do not in your shame Dare hope for happiness.
' Well, still with Jim she lives serene, And has of kiddies three.
'Oh what a fool I might have been To leave my home,' says she.
'Of course Jim is a priceless bore, But he's so sweet to me .
.
.
Come darling won't you let me pour Another cup of tea?'


by Robert William Service | |

My House

 I have a house I've lived in long:
I can't recall my going in.
'Twere better bartered for a song Ere ruin, rot and rust begin.
When it was fresh and fine and fair, I used it with neglect, I fear; But now I husband it with care And cherish it form year to year.
Oh do not put it to the flame When I have gone, but let the dust, The honest earth from which it came, Reclaim it as is only juts.
For when at last I close the door, And turn the key and go away, I deed my house forever more To silence, sleep and slow decay.
My house is old beyond repair, And soon I must abandon it, A poor ghost, seeking everywhere To find a home as fine and fit; But if I win domain divine Wherein eternally to dwell, I'll not forget, O Body Mine! Life home of Me, I've loved you well.


by Robert William Service | |

Fidelity

 Being a shorty, as you see,
 A bare five footer,
The why my wife is true to me
 Is my six-shooter.
For every time a guy goes by Who looks like a lover, I polish it to catch his eye, And spin it over.
He notes its notches as I say: 'Believe me, Brother, If Junie ever goes astray, They'll be another.
' A husband has to have a gun And guts to pull it: Few fellows think a bit of fun Is worth a bullet.
For June would sit on any knee If it wore pants, Yet she is faithful unto me, As gossip grants.
And though I know some six-foot guy Would better suit her, Her virtue triumphs, thanks to my Six shooter.


by Robert William Service | |

Breton Wife

 A Wintertide we had been wed
When Jan went off to sea;
And now the laurel rose is red
And I wait on the quay.
His berthing boat I watch with dread, For where, oh where is he? "Weep not, brave lass," the Skipper said; "Return to you he will; In hospital he lies abed In Rio in Brazil; But though I know he is not dead, I do not know his ill.
" The Seaman's Hospital I wrote, And soon there came reply.
The nurse's very words I quote: "Your husband will not die; But you must wait a weary boat - I cannot tell you why.
" The months of sun went snailing by.
I wrote by every mail, Yet ever came the same reply: "Your patience must not fail.
But though your good lad will not die, We cannot tell his ail.
" * * * * * * * * * Ten months have gone - he's back again, But aged by years a score, And tells me with a look of pain He'll never voyage more; And at the tide, with longing vain, He stares from out the door.
And in his sleep he turns from me And moans with bitter blame Of Spanish jades beyond the sea Who wrought him evil shame, So ever in him bleak will be The Ill That Has No Name.


by Robert William Service | |

The Widow

 I don't think men of eighty odd
 Should let a surgeon operate;
Better to pray for peace with God,
 And reconcile oneself to Fate:
At four-score years we really should
 Be quite prepared to go for good.
That's what I told my husband but He had a hearty lust for life, And so he let a surgeon cut Into his innards with a knife.
The sawbones swore: "The man's so fat His kidneys take some getting at.
" And then (according to a nurse), They heard him petulantly say: "Adipose tissue is curse: It's hard to pack them tripes away.
" At last he did; sewed up the skin, But left, some say, a swab within.
I do not doubt it could be so, For Lester did not long survive.
But for mishap, I think with woe My hubby might still be alive.
And while they praise the surgeon's skill, My home I've sold--to pay his bill.


by Robert William Service | |

Pedlar

 Pedlar's coming down the street,
Housewives beat a swift retreat.
Don't you answer to the bell; Heedless what she has to sell.
Just discreetly go inside.
We must hang a board, I fear: PEDLARS NOT PERMITTED HERE.
I'm trying to sell what nobody wants to buy; They turn me away, but still I try and try.
My arms are aching and my feet are sore; Heartsick and worn I drag from door to door.
I ring bells, meekly knock, hold out my tray, But no one answers, so I go away.
I am so weary; oh, I want to cry, Trying to sell what no one wants to buy.
I do not blame them.
Maybe in their place I'd slam the door shut in a pedlar's face.
I don not know; perhaps I'd raise their hopes By looking at their pens and envelopes, Their pins and needles, pencils, spools of thread, Cheap tawdry stuff, before I shake my head And go back to my cosy kitchen nook Without another thought or backward look.
I would not see their pain nor hear their sigh, Trying to sell what no one wants to buy.
I know I am a nuisance.
I can see They only buy because they pity me.
They may .
.
.
I've had a cottage of my own, A husband, children - now I am alone, Friendless in all the world.
The bitter years Have crushed me, robbed me of my dears.
All, all I've lost, my only wish to die, Selling my trash that no one wants to buy.
Pedlar's beating a retreat - Poor old thing, her face is sweet, her figure frail, her hair snow-white; Dogone it! Every door's shut tight.
.
.
.
"Say, Ma, how much for all you've got? Hell, here's ten bucks .
.
.
I'll take the lot.
Go, get yourself a proper feed, A little of the rest you need.
I've got a mother looks like you - I'd hate her doing what you do.
.
.
.
No, don't get sloppy, can the mush, Praying for me - all that slush; But please don't come again this way, Ten bucks is all I draw a day.
"


by Isaac Watts | |

Against Lying

 O 'tis a lovely thing for youth
To early walk in wisdom's way;
To fear a lie, to speak the truth,
That we may trust to all they say!

But liars we can never trust,
Even when they say what is true.
And he who does one fault at first And lies to hide it, makes it two.
Have we not known, nor heard, nor read How God does hate deceit and wrong? How Ananias was struck dead, Caught with a lie upon his tongue? So did his wife Sapphira die, When she came in, and grew so bold As to confirm that wicked lie, Which just before her husband told.
The Lord delights in them that speak The words of truth; but every liar Must have his portion in the lake That burns with brimstone and with fire.