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Best Famous John Davidson Poems

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

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Written by John Davidson | |

Snow

 The room was suddenly rich and the great bay-window was 
Spawning snow and pink rose against it
Soundlessly collateral and incompatible: 
World is suddener than we fancy it.
World is crazier and more of it than we think, Incorrigibly plural.
I peel and portion A tangerine and spit the pips and feel The drunkenness of things being various.
And the fire flames with a bubbling sound for world Is more spiteful and gay than one supposes -- On the tongue on the eyes on the ears in the palms of one's hands-- There is more than glass between the snow and the huge roses.


Written by John Davidson | |

Snow

 In the gloom of whiteness, 
In the great silence of snow, 
A child was sighing 
And bitterly saying: "Oh, 
They have killed a white bird up there on her nest, 
The down is fluttering from her breast!" 
And still it fell through that dusky brightness 
On the child crying for the bird of the snow.


Written by John Davidson | |

War Song

 Remember the Glories of Brien the Brave


Remember the glories of Brien the brave, 
Though the days of the hero are o'er, 
Though lost to Mononia and cold to the grave, 
He returns to Kinkora no more.
That star of the field, which so often hath pour'd Its beam on the battle, is set; But enough of its glory remains on each sword, To light us to victory yet.
Mononia! when Nature embellish'd the tint Of thy fields, and thy mountains so fair, Did she ever intend that a tyrant should print The footstep of slavery there? No! Freedom, whose smile we shall never resign, Go, tell our invaders, the Danes, That 'tis sweeter to bleed for an age at thy shrine, Than to sleep but a moment in chains.
Forget not our wounded companions who stoood In the day of distress by our side; While the moss of the valley grew red with their blood, They stirr'd not, but conquer'd and died.
That sun which now blesses our arms with his light, Saw them fall upon Ossory's plain; -- Oh! let him not blush, when he leaves us to-night, To find that they fell there in vain.


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Written by John Davidson | |

Snow

 No breath of wind,
No gleam of sun – 
Still the white snow
Whirls softly down
Twig and bough
And blade and thorn
All in an icy
Quiet, forlorn.
Whispering, rustling, Through the air On still and stone, Roof, - everywhere, It heaps its powdery Crystal flakes, Of every tree A mountain makes; ‘Til pale and faint At shut of day Stoops from the West One wint’ry ray, And, feathered in fire Where ghosts the moon, A robin shrills His lonely tune.


Written by John Davidson | |

Battle

 The war of words is done;
The red-lipped cannon speak;
The battle has begun.
The web your speeches spun Tears and blood shall streak; The war of words is done.
Smoke enshrouds the sun; Earth staggers at the shriek Of battle new begun.
Poltroons and braggarts run: Woe to the poor, the meek! The war of words is done.
"And hope not now to shun The doom that dogs the weak," Thunders every gun; "Victory must be won.
" When the red-lipped cannon speak, The war of words is done, The slaughter has begun.


Written by John Davidson | |

Imagination

 There is a dish to hold the sea, 
A brazier to contain the sun, 
A compass for the galaxy, 
A voice to wake the dead and done! 

That minister of ministers, 
Imagination, gathers up 
The undiscovered Universe, 
Like jewels in a jasper cup.
Its flame can mingle north and south; Its accent with the thunder strive; The ruddy sentence of its mouth Can make the ancient dead alive.
The mart of power, the fount of will, The form and mould of every star, The source and bound of good and ill, The key of all the things that are, Imagination, new and strange In every age, can turn the year; Can shift the poles and lightly change The mood of men, the world's career.


Written by John Davidson | |

Snow

 Late December: my father and I
are going to New York, to the circus.
He holds me on his shoulders in the bitter wind: scraps of white paper blow over the railroad ties.
My father liked to stand like this, to hold me so he couldn't see me.
I remember staring straight ahead into the world my father saw; I was learning to absorb its emptiness, the heavy snow not falling, whirling around us.


Written by John Davidson | |

A Loafer

 I hang about the streets all day,
At night I hang about;
I sleep a little when I may,
But rise betimes the morning's scout;
For through the year I always hear
Afar, aloft, a ghostly shout.
My clothes are worn to threads and loops; My skin shows here and there ; About my face like seaweed droops My tangled beard, my tangled hair; From cavernous and shaggy brows My stony eyes untroubled stare.
I move from eastern wretchedness Through Fleet Street and the Strand; And as the pleasant people press I touch them softly with my hand, Perhaps I know that still I go Alive about a living land.
For far in front the clouds are riven I hear the ghostly cry, As if a still voice fell from heaven To where sea-whelmed the drowned folk lie In sepulchres no tempest stirs And only eyeless things pass by.
In Piccadilly spirits pass: Oh, eyes and cheeks that glow! Oh, strength and comeliness! Alas, The lustrous health is earth I know From shrinking eyes that recognise No brother in my rags and woe.
I know no handicraft, no art, But I have conquered fate; For I have chosen the better part, And neither hope, nor fear, nor hate.
With placid breath on pain and death, My certain alms, alone I wait.
And daily, nightly comes the call, The pale unechoing note, The faint "Aha!" sent from the wall Of heaven, but from no ruddy throat Of human breed or seraph's seed, A phantom voice that cries by rote.


Written by John Davidson | |

Song of a Train

 A monster taught 
To come to hand 
Amain, 
As swift as thought 
Across the land 
The train.
The song it sings Has an iron sound; Its iron wings Like wheels go round.
Crash under bridges, Flash over ridges, And vault the downs; The road is straight -- Nor stile, nor gate; For milestones -- towns! Voluminous, vanishing, white, The steam plume trails; Parallel streaks of light, THe polished rails.
Oh, who can follow? The little swallow, The trout of the sky: But the sun Is outrun, And Time passed by.
O'er bosky dens, By marsh and mead, Forest and fens Embodied speed Is clanked and hurled; O'er rivers and runnels; And into the earth And out again In death and birth That know no pain, For the whole round world Is a warren of railway tunnels.
Hark! hark! hark! It screams and cleaves the dark; And the subterranean night Is gilt with smoky light.
Then out again apace It runs its thundering race, The monster taught To come to hand Amain, That swift as thought Speeds through the land The train.


Written by John Davidson | |

The Last Rose

 'O WHICH is the last rose?' 
A blossom of no name.
At midnight the snow came; At daybreak a vast rose, In darkness unfurl'd, O'er-petall'd the world.
Its odourless pallor Blossom'd forlorn, Till radiant valour Establish'd the morn-- Till the night Was undone In her fight With the sun.
The brave orb in state rose, And crimson he shone first; While from the high vine Of heaven the dawn burst, Staining the great rose From sky-line to sky-line.
The red rose of morn A white rose at noon turn'd; But at sunset reborn All red again soon burn'd.
Then the pale rose of noonday Rebloom'd in the night, And spectrally white In the light Of the moon lay.
But the vast rose Was scentless, And this is the reason: When the blast rose Relentless, And brought in due season The snow rose, the last rose Congeal'd in its breath, Then came with it treason; The traitor was Death.
In lee-valleys crowded, The sheep and the birds Were frozen and shrouded In flights and in herds.
In highways And byways The young and the old Were tortured and madden'd And kill'd by the cold.
But many were gladden'd By the beautiful last rose, The blossom of no name That came when the snow came, In darkness unfurl'd-- The wonderful vast rose That fill'd all the world.


Written by John Davidson | |

In Romney Marsh

 As I went down to Dymchurch Wall,
I heard the South sing o'er the land
I saw the yellow sunlight fall
On knolls where Norman churches stand.
And ringing shrilly, taut and lithe, Within the wind a core of sound, The wire from Romney town to Hythe Along its airy journey wound.
A veil of purple vapour flowed And trailed its fringe along the Straits; The upper air like sapphire glowed: And roses filled Heaven's central gates.
Masts in the offing wagged their tops; The swinging waves pealed on the shore; The saffron beach, all diamond drops And beads of surge, prolonged the roar.
As I came up from Dymchurch Wall, I saw above the Downs' low crest The crimson brands of sunset fall, Flicker and fade from out the West.
Night sank: like flakes of silver fire The stars in one great shower came down; Shrill blew the wind; and shrill the wire Rang out from Hythe to Romney town.
The darkly shining salt sea drops Streamed as the waves clashed on the shore; The beach, with all its organ stops Pealing again, prolonged the roar.


Written by John Davidson | |

Snow

 'Who affirms that crystals are alive?'
I affirm it, let who will deny:
Crystals are engendered, wax and thrive,
Wane and wither; I have seen them die.
Trust me, masters, crystals have their day, Eager to attain the perfect norm, Lit with purpose, potent to display Facet, angle, colour, beauty, form.
Water-crystals need for flower and root Sixty clear degrees, no less, no more; Snow, so fickle, still in this acute Angle thinks, and learns no other lore: Such its life, and such its pleasure is, Such its art and traffic, such its gain, Evermore in new conjunctions this Admirable angle to maintain.
Crystalcraft in every flower and flake Snow exhibits, of the welkin free: Crystalline are crystals for the sake, All and singular, of crystalry.
Yet does every crystal of the snow Individualize, a seedling sown Broadcast, but instinct with power to grow Beautiful in beauty of its own.
Every flake with all its prongs and dints Burns ecstatic as a new-lit star: Men are not more diverse, finger prints More dissimilar than snow-flakes are.
Worlds of men and snow endure, increase, Woven of power and passion to defy Time and travail: only races cease, Individual men and crystals die.


Written by John Davidson | |

War Song

 In anguish we uplift 
A new unhallowed song: 
The race is to the swift; 
The battle to the strong.
Of old it was ordained That we, in packs like curs, Some thirty million trained And licensed murderers, In crime should live and act, If cunning folk say sooth Who flay the naked fact And carve the heart of truth.
The rulers cry aloud, "We cannot cancel war, The end and bloody shroud Of wrongs the worst abhor, And order's swaddling band: Know that relentless strife Remains by sea and land The holiest law of life.
From fear in every guise, From sloth, from lust of pelf, By war's great sacrifice The world redeems itself.
War is the source, the theme Of art; the goal, the bent And brilliant academe Of noble sentiment; The augury, the dawn Of golden times of grace; The true catholicon, And blood-bath of the race.
" We thirty million trained And licensed murderers, Like zanies rigged, and chained By drill and scourge and curse In shackles of despair We know not how to break -- What do we victims care For art, what interest take In things unseen, unheard? Some diplomat no doubt Will launch a heedless word, And lurking war leap out! We spell-bound armies then, Huge brutes in dumb distress, Machines compact of men Who once had consciences, Must trample harvests down -- Vineyard, and corn and oil; Dismantle town by town, Hamlet and homestead spoil On each appointed path, Till lust of havoc light A blood-red blaze of wrath In every frenzied sight.
In many a mountain pass, Or meadow green and fresh, Mass shall encounter mass Of shuddering human flesh; Opposing ordnance roar Across the swaths of slain, And blood in torrents pour In vain -- always in vain, For war breeds war again! The shameful dream is past, The subtle maze untrod: We recognise at last That war is not of God.