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Best Famous Inspiration Poems

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

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by Alexander Pushkin | |

Imitation

 I saw the Death, and she was seating
By quiet entrance at my own home,
I saw the doors were opened in my tomb,
And there, and there my hope was a-flitting
I'll die, and traces of my past
In days of future will be never sighted,
Look of my eyes will never be delighted
By dear look, in my existence last.
Farewell the somber world, where, precipice above, My gloomy road was a-streaming, Where life for me was never cheering, Where I was loving, having not to love! The dazzling heavens' azure curtain, Beloved hills, the brook's enchanting dance, You, mourn -- the inspiration's chance, You, peaceful shades of wilderness, uncertain, And all -- farewell, farewell at once.


by Isaac Watts | |

Hymn 151

 Prophecy and inspiration.
'Twas by an order from the Lord The ancient prophets spoke his word; His Spirit did their tongues inspire, And warmed their hearts with heav'nly fire.
The works and wonders which they wrought Confirmed the messages they brought; The prophet's pen succeeds his breath, To save the holy words from death.
Great God, mine eyes with pleasure look On the dear volume of thy book; There my Redeemer's face I see, And read his name who died for me.
Let the false raptures of the mind Be lost, and vanish in the wind; Here I can fix my hope secure; This is thy word, and must endure.


by Robert William Service | |

Farewell To Verse

 In youth when oft my muse was dumb,
 My fancy nighly dead,
To make my inspiration come
 I stood upon my head;
And thus I let the blood down flow
 Into my cerebellum,
And published every Spring or so
 Slim tomes in vellum.
Alas! I am rheumatic now, Grey is my crown; I can no more with brooding brow Stand upside-down.
I fear I might in such a pose Burst brain blood-vessel; And that would be a woeful close To my rhyme wrestle.
If to write verse I must reverse I fear I'm stymied; In ink of prose I must immerse A pen de-rhymèd.
No more to spank the lyric lyre Like Keats or Browning, May I inspire the Sacred Fire My Upside-downing.


by Robert William Service | |

Spanish Women

 The Spanish women don't wear slacks
Because their hips are too enormous.
'Tis true each bulbous bosom lacks No inspiration that should warm us; But how our ardor seems to freeze When we behold their bulgy knees! Their starry eyes and dusky hair, Their dazzling teeth in smile so gracious, I love, but oh I wish they were Not so confoundedly curvacious.
I'm sure I would prefer them willowy, Instead of obviously pillowy.
It may be that they're plump because The caballeros like them that way; Since men are lean and Nature's laws Of contrast sway them to the fat way: For few their dames as much adore, as The señors love their sleek señoras.
Well, each according to his taste.
The dons prefer their women lardy, But me, I likes a tiny waist, And breast that fits a hand that's hardy: In short, my bottom money backs The baby who looks well in slacks.


by Robert William Service | |

My Masterpiece

 It's slim and trim and bound in blue;
Its leaves are crisp and edged with gold;
Its words are simple, stalwart too;
Its thoughts are tender, wise and bold.
Its pages scintillate with wit; Its pathos clutches at my throat: Oh, how I love each line of it! That Little Book I Never Wrote.
In dreams I see it praised and prized By all, from plowman unto peer; It's pencil-marked and memorized, It's loaned (and not returned, I fear); It's worn and torn and travel-tossed, And even dusky natives quote That classic that the world has lost, The Little Book I Never Wrote.
Poor ghost! For homes you've failed to cheer, For grieving hearts uncomforted, Don't haunt me now.
.
.
.
Alas! I fear The fire of Inspiration's dead.
A humdrum way I go to-night, From all I hoped and dreamed remote: Too late .
.
.
a better man must write That Little Book I Never Wrote.


by David Lehman | |

January 1

 Some people confuse inspiration with lightning
not me I know it comes from the lungs and air 
you breathe it in you breathe it out it circulates 
it's the breath of my being the wind across the face 
of the waters yes but it's also something that comes 
at my command like a turkey club sandwich 
with a cup of split pea soup or like tones 
from Benny Goodman's clarinet my clarinet 
the language that never fails to respond
some people think you need to be pure of heart
not true it comes to the pure and impure alike
the patient and impatient the lovers the onanists
and the virgins you just need to be able to listen
and talk at the same time and you'll hear it like
the long-delayed revelation at the end of the novel
which turns out to be something simple a traumatic
moment that fascinated us more when it was only
a fragment an old song a strange noise a mistake
of hearing a phone that wouldn't stop ringing


by David Lehman | |

July 10

 The sky was a midnight blue
velvet cloth draping
a birdcage and no moon
but the breeze was whistling
and the sound of a car
on Valentine Place was
the rush of a waterfall
on the phone in New York City
and that's when the muse
turned up with curly brown locks
she was a poet, too, and wanted
me to give her an assignment
she was willing to trade
fifteen minutes of inspiration
in return for a phone call
from Frank O'Hara in heaven
sipping espresso and Irish whiskey
and then a morning swim
we had so much energy those days
we needed to burn some up
before we could paint


by Robert Francis | |

Glass

 O Man! what Inspiration was thy Guide, 
Who taught thee Light and Air thus to divide; 
To let in all the useful Beams of Day, 
Yet force, as subtil Winds, without thy Shash to stay; 
T'extract from Embers by a strange Device, 
Then polish fair these Flakes of solid Ice; 
Which, silver'd o'er, redouble all in place, 
And give thee back thy well or ill-complexion'd Face.
To Vessels blown exceed the gloomy Bowl, Which did the Wine's full excellence controul, These shew the Body, whilst you taste the Soul.
Its colour sparkles Motion, lets thee see, Tho' yet th' Excess the Preacher warns to flee, Lest Men at length as clearly spy through Thee.


by Gerard Manley Hopkins | |

To R. B.

 The fine delight that fathers thought; the strong
Spur, live and lancing like the blowpipe flame,
Breathes once and, quenchèd faster than it came,
Leaves yet the mind a mother of immortal song.
Nine months she then, nay years, nine years she long Within her wears, bears, cares and moulds the same: The widow of an insight lost she lives, with aim Now known and hand at work now never wrong.
Sweet fire the sire of muse, my soul needs this; I want the one rapture of an inspiration.
O then if in my lagging lines you miss The roll, the rise, the carol, the creation, My winter world, that scarcely breathes that bliss Now, yields you, with some sighs, our explanation.


by Ella Wheeler Wilcox | |

Inspiration

 Not like a daring, bold, aggressive boy, 
Is inspiration, eager to pursue, 
But rather like a maiden, fond, yet coy, 
Who gives herself to him who best doth woo.
Once she may smile, or thrice, thy soul to fire, In passing by, but when she turns her face, Thou must persist and seek her with desire, If thou wouldst win the favor of her grace.
And if, like some winged bird she cleaves the air, And leaves thee spent and stricken on the earth, Still must thou strive to follow even there, That she may know thy valor and thy worth.
Then shall she come unveiling all her charms, Giving thee joy for pain, and smiles for tears; Then shalt thou clasp her with possessing arms, The while she murmurs music in thine ears.
But ere her kiss has faded from thy cheek, She shall flee from thee over hill and glade, So must thou seek and ever seek and seek For each new conquest of this phantom maid.


by Paul Laurence Dunbar | |

Common Things

 I like to hear of wealth and gold, 
And El Doradoes in their glory; 
I like for silks and satins bold 
To sweep and rustle through a story.
The nightingale is sweet of song; The rare exotic smells divinely; And knightly men who stride along, The role heroic carry finely.
But then, upon the other hand, Our minds have got a way of running To things that aren't quite so grand, Which, maybe, we are best in shunning.
For some of us still like to see The poor man in his dwelling narrow, The hollyhock, the bumblebee, The meadow lark, and chirping sparrow.
We like the man who soars and sings With high and lofty inspiration; But he who sings of common things Shall always share our admiration.


by Dejan Stojanovic | |

Bright Moments

There can be no forced inspiration, 
But there can be mergers with the world

There can be a flowing of feelings
Quiet, yet overwhelming

Flying outside to unite
Flying inside to find

The melody of the moment
When the yellow corona appears on the horizon

And blue light appears over the mountain
And the world becomes mellow

Hospitable and generous, 
And you fly into the heart of the mountain

To find an egg of an unborn bird
Able to break out and fly as a newborn eagle 


by Sir Walter Raleigh | |

Song of Myself

 I was a Poet! 
But I did not know it,
Neither did my Mother,
Nor my Sister nor my Brother.
The Rich were not aware of it; The Poor took no care of it.
The Reverend Mr.
Drewitt Never knew it.
The High did not suspect it; The Low could not detect it.
Aunt Sue Said it was obviously untrue.
Uncle Ned Said I was off my head: (This from a Colonial Was really a good testimonial.
) Still everybody seemed to think That genius owes a good deal to drink.
So that is how I am not a poet now, And why My inspiration has run dry.
It is no sort of use To cultivate the Muse If vulgar people Can't tell a village pump from a church steeple.
I am merely apologizing For the lack of the surprising In what I write To-night.
I am quite well-meaning, But a lot of things are always intervening Between What I mean And what it is said I had in my head.
It is all very puzzling.
Uncle Ned Says Poets need muzzling.
He might Be right.
Good-night!