Submit Your Poems
Get Your Premium Membership



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.

Search for the best famous Husband poems, articles about Husband poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Husband poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

See also:

Famous poems below this ad
Written 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.


Written 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.


Written 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...

Written by William Cullen Bryant | |

The Snow-Shower

STAND here by my side and turn, I pray, 
On the lake below thy gentle eyes; 
The clouds hang over it, heavy and gray, 
And dark and silent the water lies; 
And out of that frozen mist the snow 5 
In wavering flakes begins to flow; 
Flake after flake 
They sink in the dark and silent lake.
See how in a living swarm they come From the chambers beyond that misty veil; 10 Some hover awhile in air, and some Rush prone from the sky like summer hail.
All, dropping swiftly or settling slow, Meet and are still in the depths below; Flake after flake 15 Dissolved in the dark and silent lake.
Here delicate snow-stars, out of the cloud, Come floating downward in airy play, Like spangles dropped from the glistening crowd That whiten by night the milky-way; 20 There broader and burlier masses fall; The sullen water buries them all¡ª Flake after flake All drowned in the dark and silent lake.
And some, as on tender wings they glide 25 From their chilly birth-cloud, dim and gray, Are joined in their fall, and, side by side, Come clinging along their unsteady way; As friend with friend, or husband with wife, Makes hand in hand the passage of life; 30 Each mated flake Soon sinks in the dark and silent lake.
Lo! while we are gazing, in swifter haste Stream down the snows, till the air is white, As, myriads by myriads madly chased, 35 They fling themselves from their shadowy height.
The fair, frail creatures of middle sky, What speed they make, with their grave so nigh; Flake after flake, To lie in the dark and silent lake! 40 I see in thy gentle eyes a tear; They turn to me in sorrowful thought; Thou thinkest of friends, the good and dear, Who were for a time and now are not; Like these fair children of cloud and frost, 45 That glisten a moment and then are lost, Flake after flake¡ª All lost in the dark and silent lake.
Yet look again, for the clouds divide; A gleam of blue on the water lies; 50 And far away, on the mountain-side, A sunbeam falls from the opening skies.
But the hurrying host that flew between The cloud and the water, no more is seen; Flake after flake, 55 At rest in the dark and silent lake.


Written 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.


Written 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 


Written 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.


Written by John Crowe Ransom | |

Captain Carpenter

 Captain Carpenter rose up in his prime 
Put on his pistols and went riding out 
But had got wellnigh nowhere at that time 
Till he fell in with ladies in a rout.
It was a pretty lady and all her train That played with him so sweetly but before An hour she'd taken a sword with all her main And twined him of his nose for evermore.
Captain Carpenter mounted up one day And rode straightway into a stranger rogue That looked unchristian but be that as may The Captain did not wait upon prologue.
But drew upon him out of his great heart The other swung against him with a club And cracked his two legs at the shinny part And let him roll and stick like any tub.
Captain Carpenter rode many a time From male and female took he sundry harms He met the wife of Satan crying "I'm The she-wolf bids you shall bear no more arms.
Their strokes and counters whistled in the wind I wish he had delivered half his blows But where she should have made off like a hind The bitch bit off his arms at the elbows.
And Captain Carpenter parted with his ears To a black devil that used him in this wise O Jesus ere his threescore and ten years Another had plucked out his sweet blue eyes.
Captain Carpenter got up on his roan And sallied from the gate in hell's despite I heard him asking in the grimmest tone If any enemy yet there was to fight? "To any adversary it is fame If he risk to be wounded by my tongue Or burnt in two beneath my red heart's flame Such are the perils he is cast among.
"But if he can he has a pretty choice From an anatomy with little to lose Whether he cut my tongue and take my voice Or whether it be my round red heart he choose.
" It was the neatest knave that ever was seen Stepping in perfume from his lady's bower Who at this word put in his merry mien And fell on Captain Carpenter like a tower.
I would not knock old fellows in the dust But there lay Captain Carpenter on his back His weapons were the old heart in his bust And a blade shook between rotten teeth alack.
The rogue in scarlet and grey soon knew his mind.
He wished to get his trophy and depart With gentle apology and touch refined He pierced him and produced the Captain's heart.
God's mercy rest on Captain Carpenter now (a, I thought him Sirs an honest gentleman Citizen husband soldier and scholar enow Let jangling kites eat of him if they can.
But God's deep curses follow after those That shore him of his goodly nose and ears His legs and strong arms at the two elbows And eyes that had not watered seventy years.
The curse of hell upon the sleek upstart That got the Captain finally on his back And took the red red vitals of his heart And made the kites to whet their beaks clack clack.


Written 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.


Written 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.


Written 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.
]


Written 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.
.
.


Written 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.


Written 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.


Written 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