Submit Poems
Get Your Premium Membership

Best Famous Jealousy Poems

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

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

See Also:
Written by Ralph Waldo Emerson | Create an image from this poem

Ode to Beauty

 EXULTING BEAUTY,­phantom of an hour, 
Whose magic spells enchain the heart, 
Ah ! what avails thy fascinating pow'r, 
Thy thrilling smile, thy witching art ? 
Thy lip, where balmy nectar glows; 
Thy cheek, where round the damask rose 
A thousand nameless Graces move, 
Thy mildly speaking azure eyes, 
Thy golden hair, where cunning Love 
In many a mazy ringlet lies? 
Soon as thy radiant form is seen, 
Thy native blush, thy timid mien, 
Thy hour is past ! thy charms are vain! 
ILL-NATURE haunts thee with her sallow train, 
Mean JEALOUSY deceives thy list'ning ear, 
And SLANDER stains thy cheek with many a bitter tear.
In calm retirement form'd to dwell, NATURE, thy handmaid fair and kind, For thee, a beauteous garland twin'd; The vale-nurs'd Lily's downcast bell Thy modest mien display'd, The snow-drop, April's meekest child, With myrtle blossoms undefil'd, Thy mild and spotless mind pourtray'd; Dear blushing maid, of cottage birth, 'Twas thine, o'er dewy meads to stray, While sparkling health, and frolic mirth Led on thy laughing Day.
Lur'd by the babbling tongue of FAME, Too soon, insidious FLATT'RY came; Flush'd VANITY her footsteps led, To charm thee from thy blest repose, While Fashion twin'd about thy head A wreath of wounding woes; See Dissipation smoothly glide, Cold Apathy, and puny Pride, Capricious Fortune, dull, and blind, O'er splendid Folly throws her veil, While Envy's meagre tribe assail Thy gentle form, and spotless mind.
Their spells prevail! no more those eyes Shoot undulating fires; On thy wan cheek, the young rose dies, Thy lip's deep tint expires; Dark Melancholy chills thy mind; Thy silent tear reveals thy woe; TIME strews with thorns thy mazy way, Where'er thy giddy footsteps stray, Thy thoughtless heart is doom'd to find An unrelenting foe.
'Tis thus, the infant Forest flow'r Bespangled o'er with glitt'ring dew, At breezy morn's refreshing hour, Glows with pure tints of varying hue, Beneath an aged oak's wide spreading shade, Where no rude winds, or beating storms invade.
Transplanted from its lonely bed, No more it scatters perfumes round, No more it rears its gentle head, Or brightly paints the mossy ground; For ah! the beauteous bud, too soon, Scorch'd by the burning eye of day; Shrinks from the sultry glare of noon, Droops its enamell'd brow, and blushing, dies away.
Written by Mary Elizabeth Coleridge | Create an image from this poem

The Other Side of a Mirror

 I sat before my glass one day, 
And conjured up a vision bare, 
Unlike the aspects glad and gay, 
That erst were found reflected there - 
The vision of a woman, wild 
With more than womanly despair.
Her hair stood back on either side A face bereft of loveliness.
It had no envy now to hide What once no man on earth could guess.
It formed the thorny aureole Of hard, unsanctified distress.
Her lips were open - not a sound Came though the parted lines of red, Whate'er it was, the hideous wound In silence and secret bled.
No sigh relieved her speechless woe, She had no voice to speak her dread.
And in her lurid eyes there shone The dying flame of life's desire, Made mad because its hope was gone, And kindled at the leaping fire Of jealousy and fierce revenge, And strength that could not change nor tire.
Shade of a shadow in the glass, O set the crystal surface free! Pass - as the fairer visions pass - Nor ever more return, to be The ghost of a distracted hour, That heard me whisper: - 'I am she!'
Written by Mary Darby Robinson | Create an image from this poem

Ode to Envy

 Deep in th' abyss where frantic horror bides, 
In thickest mists of vapours fell,
Where wily Serpents hissing glare
And the dark Demon of Revenge resides,
At midnight's murky hour
Thy origin began: 
Rapacious MALICE was thy sire;
Thy Dam the sullen witch, Despair;
Thy Nurse, insatiate Ire.
The FATES conspir'd their ills to twine, About thy heart's infected shrine; They gave thee each disastrous spell, Each desolating pow'r, To blast the fairest hopes of man.
Soon as thy fatal birth was known, From her unhallow'd throne With ghastly smile pale Hecate sprung; Thy hideous form the Sorc'ress press'd With kindred fondness to her breast; Her haggard eye Short forth a ray of transient joy, Whilst thro' th' infernal shades exulting clamours rung.
Above thy fellow fiends thy tyrant hand Grasp'd with resistless force supreme command: The dread terrific crowd Before thy iron sceptre bow'd.
Now, seated in thy ebon cave, Around thy throne relentless furies rave: A wreath of ever-wounding thorn Thy scowling brows encompass round, Thy heart by knawing Vultures torn, Thy meagre limbs with deathless scorpions bound.
Thy black associates, torpid IGNORANCE, And pining JEALOUSY­with eye askance, With savage rapture execute thy will, And strew the paths of life with every torturing ill Nor can the sainted dead escape thy rage; Thy vengeance haunts the silent grave, Thy taunts insult the ashes of the brave; While proud AMBITION weeps thy rancour to assuage.
The laurels round the POET's bust, Twin'd by the liberal hand of Taste, By thy malignant grasp defac'd, Fade to their native dust: Thy ever-watchful eye no labour tires, Beneath thy venom'd touch the angel TRUTH expires.
When in thy petrifying car Thy scaly dragons waft thy form, Then, swifter, deadlier far Than the keen lightning's lance, That wings its way across the yelling storm, Thy barbed shafts fly whizzing round, While every with'ring glance Inflicts a cureless wound.
Thy giant arm with pond'rous blow Hurls genius from her glorious height, Bends the fair front of Virtue low, And meanly pilfers every pure delight.
Thy hollow voice the sense appalls, Thy vigilance the mind enthralls; Rest hast thou none,­by night, by day, Thy jealous ardour seeks for prey­ Nought can restrain thy swift career; Thy smile derides the suff'rer's wrongs; Thy tongue the sland'rers tale prolongs; Thy thirst imbibes the victim's tear; Thy breast recoils from friendship's flame; Sick'ning thou hear'st the trump of Fame; Worth gives to thee, the direst pang; The Lover's rapture wounds thy heart, The proudest efforts of prolific art Shrink from thy poisonous fang.
In vain the Sculptor's lab'ring hand Calls fine proportion from the Parian stone; In vain the Minstrel's chords command The soft vibrations of seraphic tone; For swift thy violating arm Tears from perfection ev'ry charm; Nor rosy YOUTH, nor BEAUTY's smiles Thy unrelenting rage beguiles, Thy breath contaminates the fairest name, And binds the guiltless brow with ever-blist'ring shame.
Written by Alexander Pushkin | Create an image from this poem

I loved you..

 I loved you, and I probably still do,
And for a while the feeling may remain.
.
.
But let my love no longer trouble you, I do not wish to cause you any pain.
I loved you; and the hopelessness I knew, The jealousy, the shyness - though in vain - Made up a love so tender and so true As may God grant you to be loved again.
Translated by Genia Gurarie, 11/10/95 Copyright retained by Genia Gurarie.
email: egurarie@princeton.
edu http://www.
princeton.
edu/~egurarie/ For permission to reproduce, write personally to the translator.
Written by Walt Whitman | Create an image from this poem

I Sit and Look Out

 I SIT and look out upon all the sorrows of the world, and upon all oppression and shame; 
I hear secret convulsive sobs from young men, at anguish with themselves, remorseful after
 deeds
 done; 
I see, in low life, the mother misused by her children, dying, neglected, gaunt,
 desperate; 
I see the wife misused by her husband—I see the treacherous seducer of young women; 
I mark the ranklings of jealousy and unrequited love, attempted to be hid—I see these
 sights on
 the earth;
I see the workings of battle, pestilence, tyranny—I see martyrs and prisoners; 
I observe a famine at sea—I observe the sailors casting lots who shall be
 kill’d, to
 preserve the lives of the rest; 
I observe the slights and degradations cast by arrogant persons upon laborers, the poor,
 and
 upon
 negroes, and the like; 
All these—All the meanness and agony without end, I sitting, look out upon, 
See, hear, and am silent.
Written by William Blake | Create an image from this poem

Auguries Of Innocence

 To see a world in a grain of sand
And a heaven in a wild flower,
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand
And eternity in an hour.
A robin redbreast in a cage Puts all heaven in a rage.
A dove-house filled with doves and pigeons Shudders hell through all its regions.
A dog starved at his master's gate Predicts the ruin of the state.
A horse misused upon the road Calls to heaven for human blood.
Each outcry of the hunted hare A fibre from the brain does tear.
A skylark wounded in the wing, A cherubim does cease to sing.
The game-cock clipped and armed for fight Does the rising sun affright.
Every wolf's and lion's howl Raises from hell a human soul.
The wild deer wandering here and there Keeps the human soul from care.
The lamb misused breeds public strife, And yet forgives the butcher's knife.
The bat that flits at close of eve Has left the brain that won't believe.
The owl that calls upon the night Speaks the unbeliever's fright.
He who shall hurt the little wren Shall never be beloved by men.
He who the ox to wrath has moved Shall never be by woman loved.
The wanton boy that kills the fly Shall feel the spider's enmity.
He who torments the chafer's sprite Weaves a bower in endless night.
The caterpillar on the leaf Repeats to thee thy mother's grief.
Kill not the moth nor butterfly, For the Last Judgment draweth nigh.
He who shall train the horse to war Shall never pass the polar bar.
The beggar's dog and widow's cat, Feed them, and thou wilt grow fat.
The gnat that sings his summer's song Poison gets from Slander's tongue.
The poison of the snake and newt Is the sweat of Envy's foot.
The poison of the honey-bee Is the artist's jealousy.
The prince's robes and beggar's rags Are toadstools on the miser's bags.
A truth that's told with bad intent Beats all the lies you can invent.
It is right it should be so: Man was made for joy and woe; And when this we rightly know Through the world we safely go.
Joy and woe are woven fine, A clothing for the soul divine.
Under every grief and pine Runs a joy with silken twine.
The babe is more than swaddling bands, Throughout all these human lands; Tools were made and born were hands, Every farmer understands.
Every tear from every eye Becomes a babe in eternity; This is caught by females bright And returned to its own delight.
The bleat, the bark, bellow, and roar Are waves that beat on heaven's shore.
The babe that weeps the rod beneath Writes Revenge! in realms of death.
The beggar's rags fluttering in air Does to rags the heavens tear.
The soldier armed with sword and gun Palsied strikes the summer's sun.
The poor man's farthing is worth more Than all the gold on Afric's shore.
One mite wrung from the labourer's hands Shall buy and sell the miser's lands, Or if protected from on high Does that whole nation sell and buy.
He who mocks the infant's faith Shall be mocked in age and death.
He who shall teach the child to doubt The rotting grave shall ne'er get out.
He who respects the infant's faith Triumphs over hell and death.
The child's toys and the old man's reasons Are the fruits of the two seasons.
The questioner who sits so sly Shall never know how to reply.
He who replies to words of doubt Doth put the light of knowledge out.
The strongest poison ever known Came from Caesar's laurel crown.
Nought can deform the human race Like to the armour's iron brace.
When gold and gems adorn the plough To peaceful arts shall Envy bow.
A riddle or the cricket's cry Is to doubt a fit reply.
The emmet's inch and eagle's mile Make lame philosophy to smile.
He who doubts from what he sees Will ne'er believe, do what you please.
If the sun and moon should doubt, They'd immediately go out.
To be in a passion you good may do, But no good if a passion is in you.
The whore and gambler, by the state Licensed, build that nation's fate.
The harlot's cry from street to street Shall weave old England's winding sheet.
The winner's shout, the loser's curse, Dance before dead England's hearse.
Every night and every morn Some to misery are born.
Every morn and every night Some are born to sweet delight.
Some are born to sweet delight, Some are born to endless night.
We are led to believe a lie When we see not through the eye Which was born in a night to perish in a night, When the soul slept in beams of light.
God appears, and God is light To those poor souls who dwell in night, But does a human form display To those who dwell in realms of day.
Written by William Blake | Create an image from this poem

My Pretty Rose Tree

 A flower was offered to me;
Such a flower as May never bore.
But I said I've a Pretty Rose-tree.
And I passed the sweet flower o'er.
Then I went to my Pretty Rose-tree: To tend her by day and by night.
But my Rose turnd away with jealousy: And her thorns were my only delight.
Written by Anne Kingsmill Finch | Create an image from this poem

Jealousy

 VAIN Love, why do'st thou boast of Wings, 
That cannot help thee to retire! 
When such quick Flames Suspicion brings, 
As do the Heart about thee fire.
Still Swift to come, but when to go Thou shou'd'st be more–Alas! how Slow.
Lord of the World must surely be But thy bare Title at the most; Since Jealousy is Lord of Thee, And makes such Havock on thy Coast, As do's thy pleasant Land deface, Yet binds thee faster to the Place.
Written by William Blake | Create an image from this poem

Earths Answer

 Earth raised up her head.
From the darkness dread & drear, Her light fled: Stony dread! And her locks cover'd with grey despair.
Prison'd on watery shore Starry Jealousy does keep my den Cold and hoar Weeping o'er I hear the father of the ancient men Selfish father of men Cruel jealous selfish fear Can delight Chain'd in night The virgins of youth and morning bear.
Does spring hide its joy When buds and blossoms grow? Does the sower? Sow by night? Or the ploughman in darkness plough? Break this heavy chain.
That does freeze my bones around Selfish! vain! Eternal bane! That free Love with bondage bound.
Written by Sylvia Plath | Create an image from this poem

The Swarm

 Somebody is shooting at something in our town --
A dull pom, pom in the Sunday street.
Jealousy can open the blood, It can make black roses.
Who are the shooting at? It is you the knives are out for At Waterloo, Waterloo, Napoleon, The hump of Elba on your short back, And the snow, marshaling its brilliant cutlery Mass after mass, saying Shh! Shh! These are chess people you play with, Still figures of ivory.
The mud squirms with throats, Stepping stones for French bootsoles.
The gilt and pink domes of Russia melt and float off In the furnace of greed.
Clouds, clouds.
So the swarm balls and deserts Seventy feet up, in a black pine tree.
It must be shot down.
Pom! Pom! So dumb it thinks bullets are thunder.
It thinks they are the voice of God Condoning the beak, the claw, the grin of the dog Yellow-haunched, a pack-dog, Grinning over its bone of ivory Like the pack, the pack, like everybody.
The bees have got so far.
Seventy feet high! Russia, Poland and Germany! The mild hills, the same old magenta Fields shrunk to a penny Spun into a river, the river crossed.
The bees argue, in their black ball, A flying hedgehog, all prickles.
The man with gray hands stands under the honeycomb Of their dream, the hived station Where trains, faithful to their steel arcs, Leave and arrive, and there is no end to the country.
Pom! Pom! They fall Dismembered, to a tod of ivy.
So much for the charioteers, the outriders, the Grand Army! A red tatter, Napoleon! The last badge of victory.
The swarm is knocked into a cocked straw hat.
Elba, Elba, bleb on the sea! The white busts of marshals, admirals, generals Worming themselves into niches.
How instructive this is! The dumb, banded bodies Walking the plank draped with Mother France's upholstery Into a new mausoleum, An ivory palace, a crotch pine.
The man with gray hands smiles -- The smile of a man of business, intensely practical.
They are not hands at all But asbestos receptacles.
Pom! Pom! 'They would have killed me.
' Stings big as drawing pins! It seems bees have a notion of honor, A black intractable mind.
Napoleon is pleased, he is pleased with everything.
O Europe! O ton of honey!
Written by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow | Create an image from this poem

Hiawathas Childhood

 Downward through the evening twilight, 
In the days that are forgotten, 
In the unremembered ages, 
From the full moon fell Nokomis, 
Fell the beautiful Nokomis, 
She a wife, but not a mother.
She was sporting with her women, Swinging in a swing of grape-vines, When her rival the rejected, Full of jealousy and hatred, Cut the leafy swing asunder, Cut in twain the twisted grape-vines, And Nokomis fell affrighted Downward through the evening twilight, On the Muskoday, the meadow, On the prairie full of blossoms.
"See! a star falls!" said the people; "From the sky a star is falling!" There among the ferns and mosses, There among the prairie lilies, On the Muskoday, the meadow, In the moonlight and the starlight, Fair Nokomis bore a daughter.
And she called her name Wenonah, As the first-born of her daughters.
And the daughter of Nokomis Grew up like the prairie lilies, Grew a tall and slender maiden, With the beauty of the moonlight, With the beauty of the starlight.
And Nokomis warned her often, Saying oft, and oft repeating, "Oh, beware of Mudjekeewis, Of the West-Wind, Mudjekeewis; Listen not to what he tells you; Lie not down upon the meadow, Stoop not down among the lilies, Lest the West-Wind come and harm you!" But she heeded not the warning, Heeded not those words of wisdom, And the West-Wind came at evening, Walking lightly o'er the prairie, Whispering to the leaves and blossoms, Bending low the flowers and grasses, Found the beautiful Wenonah, Lying there among the lilies, Wooed her with his words of sweetness, Wooed her with his soft caresses, Till she bore a son in sorrow, Bore a son of love and sorrow.
Thus was born my Hiawatha, Thus was born the child of wonder; But the daughter of Nokomis, Hiawatha's gentle mother, In her anguish died deserted By the West-Wind, false and faithless, By the heartless Mudjekeewis.
For her daughter long and loudly Wailed and wept the sad Nokomis; "Oh that I were dead!" she murmured, "Oh that I were dead, as thou art! No more work, and no more weeping, Wahonowin! Wahonowin!" By the shores of Gitche Gumee, By the shining Big-Sea-Water, Stood the wigwam of Nokomis, Daughter of the Moon, Nokomis.
Dark behind it rose the forest, Rose the black and gloomy pine-trees, Rose the firs with cones upon them; Bright before it beat the water, Beat the clear and sunny water, Beat the shining Big-Sea-Water.
There the wrinkled old Nokomis Nursed the little Hiawatha, Rocked him in his linden cradle, Bedded soft in moss and rushes, Safely bound with reindeer sinews; Stilled his fretful wail by saying, "Hush! the Naked Bear will hear thee!" Lulled him into slumber, singing, "Ewa-yea! my little owlet! Who is this, that lights the wigwam? With his great eyes lights the wigwam? Ewa-yea! my little owlet!" Many things Nokomis taught him Of the stars that shine in heaven; Showed him Ishkoodah, the comet, Ishkoodah, with fiery tresses; Showed the Death-Dance of the spirits, Warriors with their plumes and war-clubs, Flaring far away to northward In the frosty nights of Winter; Showed the broad white road in heaven, Pathway of the ghosts, the shadows, Running straight across the heavens, Crowded with the ghosts, the shadows.
At the door on summer evenings Sat the little Hiawatha; Heard the whispering of the pine-trees, Heard the lapping of the waters, Sounds of music, words of wonder; 'Minne-wawa!" said the Pine-trees, Mudway-aushka!" said the water.
Saw the fire-fly, Wah-wah-taysee, Flitting through the dusk of evening, With the twinkle of its candle Lighting up the brakes and bushes, And he sang the song of children, Sang the song Nokomis taught him: "Wah-wah-taysee, little fire-fly, Little, flitting, white-fire insect, Little, dancing, white-fire creature, Light me with your little candle, Ere upon my bed I lay me, Ere in sleep I close my eyelids!" Saw the moon rise from the water Rippling, rounding from the water, Saw the flecks and shadows on it, Whispered, "What is that, Nokomis?" And the good Nokomis answered: "Once a warrior, very angry, Seized his grandmother, and threw her Up into the sky at midnight; Right against the moon he threw her; 'T is her body that you see there.
" Saw the rainbow in the heaven, In the eastern sky, the rainbow, Whispered, "What is that, Nokomis?" And the good Nokomis answered: "'T is the heaven of flowers you see there; All the wild-flowers of the forest, All the lilies of the prairie, When on earth they fade and perish, Blossom in that heaven above us.
" When he heard the owls at midnight, Hooting, laughing in the forest, 'What is that?" he cried in terror, "What is that," he said, "Nokomis?" And the good Nokomis answered: "That is but the owl and owlet, Talking in their native language, Talking, scolding at each other.
" Then the little Hiawatha Learned of every bird its language, Learned their names and all their secrets, How they built their nests in Summer, Where they hid themselves in Winter, Talked with them whene'er he met them, Called them "Hiawatha's Chickens.
" Of all beasts he learned the language, Learned their names and all their secrets, How the beavers built their lodges, Where the squirrels hid their acorns, How the reindeer ran so swiftly, Why the rabbit was so timid, Talked with them whene'er he met them, Called them "Hiawatha's Brothers.
" Then Iagoo, the great boaster, He the marvellous story-teller, He the traveller and the talker, He the friend of old Nokomis, Made a bow for Hiawatha; From a branch of ash he made it, From an oak-bough made the arrows, Tipped with flint, and winged with feathers, And the cord he made of deer-skin.
Then he said to Hiawatha: "Go, my son, into the forest, Where the red deer herd together, Kill for us a famous roebuck, Kill for us a deer with antlers!" Forth into the forest straightway All alone walked Hiawatha Proudly, with his bow and arrows; And the birds sang round him, o'er him, "Do not shoot us, Hiawatha!" Sang the robin, the Opechee, Sang the bluebird, the Owaissa, "Do not shoot us, Hiawatha!" Up the oak-tree, close beside him, Sprang the squirrel, Adjidaumo, In and out among the branches, Coughed and chattered from the oak-tree, Laughed, and said between his laughing, "Do not shoot me, Hiawatha!" And the rabbit from his pathway Leaped aside, and at a distance Sat erect upon his haunches, Half in fear and half in frolic, Saying to the little hunter, "Do not shoot me, Hiawatha!" But he heeded not, nor heard them, For his thoughts were with the red deer; On their tracks his eyes were fastened, Leading downward to the river, To the ford across the river, And as one in slumber walked he.
Hidden in the alder-bushes, There he waited till the deer came, Till he saw two antlers lifted, Saw two eyes look from the thicket, Saw two nostrils point to windward, And a deer came down the pathway, Flecked with leafy light and shadow.
And his heart within him fluttered, Trembled like the leaves above him, Like the birch-leaf palpitated, As the deer came down the pathway.
Then, upon one knee uprising, Hiawatha aimed an arrow; Scarce a twig moved with his motion, Scarce a leaf was stirred or rustled, But the wary roebuck started, Stamped with all his hoofs together, Listened with one foot uplifted, Leaped as if to meet the arrow; Ah! the singing, fatal arrow, Like a wasp it buzzed and stung him! Dead he lay there in the forest, By the ford across the river; Beat his timid heart no longer, But the heart of Hiawatha Throbbed and shouted and exulted, As he bore the red deer homeward, And Iagoo and Nokomis Hailed his coming with applauses.
From the red deer's hide Nokomis Made a cloak for Hiawatha, From the red deer's flesh Nokomis Made a banquet to his honor.
All the village came and feasted, All the guests praised Hiawatha, Called him Strong-Heart, Soan-ge-taha! Called him Loon-Heart, Mahn-go-taysee!
Written by Robert Graves | Create an image from this poem

Symptoms of Love

 Love is universal migraine,
A bright stain on the vision
Blotting out reason.
Symptoms of true love Are leanness, jealousy, Laggard dawns; Are omens and nightmares - Listening for a knock, Waiting for a sign: For a touch of her fingers In a darkened room, For a searching look.
Take courage, lover! Could you endure such pain At any hand but hers?
Written by Emily Dickinson | Create an image from this poem

There is a flower that Bees prefer

 There is a flower that Bees prefer --
And Butterflies -- desire --
To gain the Purple Democrat
The Humming Bird -- aspire --

And Whatsoever Insect pass --
A Honey bear away
Proportioned to his several dearth
And her -- capacity --

Her face be rounder than the Moon
And ruddier than the Gown
Or Orchis in the Pasture --
Or Rhododendron -- worn --

She doth not wait for June --
Before the World be Green --
Her sturdy little Countenance
Against the Wind -- be seen --

Contending with the Grass --
Near Kinsman to Herself --
For Privilege of Sod and Sun --
Sweet Litigants for Life --

And when the Hills be full --
And newer fashions blow --
Doth not retract a single spice
For pang of jealousy --

Her Public -- be the Noon --
Her Providence -- the Sun --
Her Progress -- by the Bee -- proclaimed --
In sovereign -- Swerveless Tune --

The Bravest -- of the Host --
Surrendering -- the last --
Nor even of Defeat -- aware --
What cancelled by the Frost --
Written by Henry Van Dyke | Create an image from this poem

The Foolish Fir-Tree

 A tale that the poet Rückert told
To German children, in days of old;
Disguised in a random, rollicking rhyme
Like a merry mummer of ancient time,
And sent, in its English dress, to please
The little folk of the Christmas trees.
A little fir grew in the midst of the wood Contented and happy, as young trees should.
His body was straight and his boughs were clean; And summer and winter the bountiful sheen Of his needles bedecked him, from top to root, In a beautiful, all-the-year, evergreen suit.
But a trouble came into his heart one day, When he saw that the other trees were gay In the wonderful raiment that summer weaves Of manifold shapes and kinds of leaves: He looked at his needles so stiff and small, And thought that his dress was the poorest of all.
Then jealousy clouded the little tree's mind, And he said to himself, "It was not very kind "To give such an ugly old dress to a tree! "If the fays of the forest would only ask me, "I'd tell them how I should like to be dressed,— "In a garment of gold, to bedazzle the rest!" So he fell asleep, but his dreams were bad.
When he woke in the morning, his heart was glad; For every leaf that his boughs could hold Was made of the brightest beaten gold.
I tell you, children, the tree was proud; He was something above the common crowd; And he tinkled his leaves, as if he would say To a pedlar who happened to pass that way, "Just look at me! don't you think I am fine? "And wouldn't you like such a dress as mine?" "Oh, yes!" said the man, "and I really guess I must fill my pack with your beautiful dress.
" So he picked the golden leaves with care, And left the little tree shivering there.
"Oh, why did I wish for golden leaves?" The fir-tree said, "I forgot that thieves "Would be sure to rob me in passing by.
"If the fairies would give me another try, "I'd wish for something that cost much less, "And be satisfied with glass for my dress!" Then he fell asleep; and, just as before, The fairies granted his wish once more.
When the night was gone, and the sun rose clear, The tree was a crystal chandelier; And it seemed, as he stood in the morning light, That his branches were covered with jewels bright.
"Aha!" said the tree.
"This is something great!" And he held himself up, very proud and straight; But a rude young wind through the forest dashed, In a reckless temper, and quickly smashed The delicate leaves.
With a clashing sound They broke into pieces and fell on the ground, Like a silvery, shimmering shower of hail, And the tree stood naked and bare to the gale.
Then his heart was sad; and he cried, "Alas "For my beautiful leaves of shining glass! "Perhaps I have made another mistake "In choosing a dress so easy to break.
"If the fairies only would hear me again "I'd ask them for something both pretty and plain: "It wouldn't cost much to grant my request,— "In leaves of green lettuce I'd like to be dressed!" By this time the fairies were laughing, I know; But they gave him his wish in a second; and so With leaves of green lettuce, all tender and sweet, The tree was arrayed, from his head to his feet.
"I knew it!" he cried, "I was sure I could find "The sort of a suit that would be to my mind.
"There's none of the trees has a prettier dress, "And none as attractive as I am, I guess.
" But a goat, who was taking an afternoon walk, By chance overheard the fir-tree's talk.
So he came up close for a nearer view;— "My salad!" he bleated, "I think so too! "You're the most attractive kind of a tree, "And I want your leaves for my five-o'clock tea.
" So he ate them all without saying grace, And walked away with a grin on his face; While the little tree stood in the twilight dim, With never a leaf on a single limb.
Then he sighed and groaned; but his voice was weak— He was so ashamed that he could not speak.
He knew at last that he had been a fool, To think of breaking the forest rule, And choosing a dress himself to please, Because he envied the other trees.
But it couldn't be helped, it was now too late, He must make up his mind to a leafless fate! So he let himself sink in a slumber deep, But he moaned and he tossed in his troubled sleep, Till the morning touched him with joyful beam, And he woke to find it was all a dream.
For there in his evergreen dress he stood, A pointed fir in the midst of the wood! His branches were sweet with the balsam smell, His needles were green when the white snow fell.
And always contented and happy was he,— The very best kind of a Christmas tree.
Written by Rupert Brooke | Create an image from this poem

Jealousy

 When I see you, who were so wise and cool,
Gazing with silly sickness on that fool
You've given your love to, your adoring hands
Touch his so intimately that each understands,
I know, most hidden things; and when I know
Your holiest dreams yield to the stupid bow
Of his red lips, and that the empty grace
Of those strong legs and arms, that rosy face,
Has beaten your heart to such a flame of love,
That you have given him every touch and move,
Wrinkle and secret of you, all your life,
-- Oh! then I know I'm waiting, lover-wife,
For the great time when love is at a close,
And all its fruit's to watch the thickening nose
And sweaty neck and dulling face and eye,
That are yours, and you, most surely, till you die!
Day after day you'll sit with him and note
The greasier tie, the dingy wrinkling coat;
As prettiness turns to pomp, and strength to fat,
And love, love, love to habit!
And after that,
When all that's fine in man is at an end,
And you, that loved young life and clean, must tend
A foul sick fumbling dribbling body and old,
When his rare lips hang flabby and can't hold
Slobber, and you're enduring that worst thing,
Senility's queasy furtive love-making,
And searching those dear eyes for human meaning,
Propping the bald and helpless head, and cleaning
A scrap that life's flung by, and love's forgotten, --
Then you'll be tired; and passion dead and rotten;
And he'll be dirty, dirty!
O lithe and free
And lightfoot, that the poor heart cries to see,
That's how I'll see your man and you! --

But you
-- Oh, when THAT time comes, you'll be dirty too!