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Best Famous Language Poems

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

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by Ben Jonson | |

His Excuse for Loving

Let it not your wonder move, 
Less your laughter, that I love.
Though I now write fifty years, I have had, and have, my peers.
Poets, though divine, are men; Some have loved as old again.
And it is not always face, Clothes, or fortune gives the grace, Or the feature, or the youth; But the language and the truth, With the ardor and the passion, Gives the lover weight and fashion.
If you then would hear the story, First, prepare you to be sorry That you never knew till now Either whom to love or how; But be glad as soon with me When you hear that this is she Of whose beauty it was sung, She shall make the old man young, Keep the middle age at stay, And let nothing hide decay, Till she be the reason why All the world for love may die.


by Edgar Allan Poe | |

The One in Paradise

THOU wast that all to me love 
For which my soul did pine --
A green isle in the sea love 
A fountain and a shrine 
All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers 
And all the flowers were mine.
Ah dream too bright to last! Ah starry Hope! that didst arise But to be overcast! A voice from out the Future cries "On! on!" -- but o'er the Past (Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies Mute motionless aghast! For alas! alas! with me The light of Life is o'er! No more -- no more -- no more -- (Such language holds the solemn sea To the sands upon the shore) Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree Or the stricken eagle soar! And all my days are trances And all my nightly dreams Are where thy grey eye glances And where thy footstep gleams -- In what ethereal dances By what eternal streams.


by Galway Kinnell | |

Blackberry Eating

I love to go out in late September 
among the fat, overripe, icy black blackberries 
to eat blackberries for breakfast, 
the stalks are very prickly, a penalty 
they earn for knowing the black art 
of blackberry-making; and as I stand among them 
lifting the stalks to my mouth, the ripest berries 
fall almost unbidden to my tongue, 
as words sometimes do, certain peculiar words 
like strengths or squinched, 
many-lettered, one-syllabled lumps 
which I squeeze, squinch open, and splurge well 
in the silent, startled, icy, black language 
of blackberry-eating in late September.


by Philip Larkin | |

Like The Trains Beat

 Like the train's beat
Swift language flutters the lips
Of the Polish airgirl in the corner seat,
The swinging and narrowing sun
Lights her eyelashes, shapes
Her sharp vivacity of bone.
Hair, wild and controlled, runs back: And gestures like these English oaks Flash past the windows of her foreign talk.
The train runs on through wilderness Of cities.
Still the hammered miles Diversify behind her face.
And all humanity of interest Before her angled beauty falls, As whorling notes are pressed In a bird's throat, issuing meaningless Through written skies; a voice Watering a stony place.


by Constantine P Cavafy | |

Poseidonians

 The Poseidonians forgot the Greek language
after so many centuries of mingling
with Tyrrhenians, Latins, and other foreigners.
The only thing surviving from their ancestors was a Greek festival, with beautiful rites, with lyres and flutes, contests and wreaths.
And it was their habit toward the festival's end to tell each other about their ancient customs and once again to speak Greek names that only few of them still recognized.
And so their festival always had a melancholy ending because they remebered that they too were Greeks, they too once upon a time were citizens of Magna Graecia; and how low they'd fallen now, what they'd become, living and speaking like barbarians, cut off so disastrously from the Greek way of life.


by Walter Savage Landor | |

Death Stands Above Me Whispering Low

 Death stands above me, whispering low 
I know not what into my ear:
Of his strange language all I know 
Is, there is not a word of fear.


by Edwin Arlington Robinson | |

For a Dead Lady

 No more with overflowing light 
Shall fill the eyes that now are faded, 
Nor shall another's fringe with night 
Their woman-hidden world as they did.
No more shall quiver down the days The flowing wonder of her ways, Whereof no language may requite The shifting and the many-shaded.
The grace, divine, definitive, Clings only as a faint forestalling; The laugh that love could not forgive Is hushed, and answers to no calling; The forehead and the little ears Have gone where Saturn keeps the years; The breast where roses could not live Has done with rising and with falling.
The beauty, shattered by the laws That have creation in their keeping, No longer trembles at applause, Or over children that are sleeping; And we who delve in beauty's lore Know all that we have known before Of what inexorable cause Makes Time so vicious in his reaping.


by Rainer Maria Rilke | |

Moving Forward

 The deep parts of my life pour onward,
as if the river shores were opening out.
It seems that things are more like me now, That I can see farther into paintings.
I feel closer to what language can't reach.
With my senses, as with birds, I climb into the windy heaven, out of the oak, in the ponds broken off from the sky my falling sinks, as if standing on fishes.


by Naomi Shihab Nye | |

Half-And-Half

 You can't be, says a Palestinian Christian
on the first feast day after Ramadan.
So, half-and-half and half-and-half.
He sells glass.
He knows about broken bits, chips.
If you love Jesus you can't love anyone else.
Says he.
At his stall of blue pitchers on the Via Dolorosa, he's sweeping.
The rubbed stones feel holy.
Dusting of powdered sugar across faces of date-stuffed mamool.
This morning we lit the slim white candles which bend over at the waist by noon.
For once the priests weren't fighting in the church for the best spots to stand.
As a boy, my father listened to them fight.
This is partly why he prays in no language but his own.
Why I press my lips to every exception.
A woman opens a window—here and here and here— placing a vase of blue flowers on an orange cloth.
I follow her.
She is making a soup from what she had left in the bowl, the shriveled garlic and bent bean.
She is leaving nothing out.


by C S Lewis | |

Re-adjustment

 I thought there would be a grave beauty, a sunset splendour
In being the last of one's kind: a topmost moment as one watched 
The huge wave curving over Atlantis, the shrouded barge 
Turning away with wounded Arthur, or Ilium burning.
Now I see that, all along, I was assuming a posterity Of gentle hearts: someone, however distant in the depths of time, Who could pick up our signal, who could understand a story.
There won't be.
Between the new Hembidae and us who are dying, already There rises a barrier across which no voice can ever carry, For devils are unmaking language.
We must let that alone forever.
Uproot your loves, one by one, with care, from the future, And trusting to no future, receive the massive thrust And surge of the many-dimensional timeless rays converging On this small, significant dew drop, the present that mirrors all.


by James Lee Jobe | |

Quietly

 Quiet! Today the earth tells me, be quiet.
Ssh! No talking now.
Our soul is listening to tiny things, almost silent.
This is a language that you feel.
Our soul, says the earth, hears every little sound.


by Razvan ?upa | |

pain is a foreign language

a romanian body knows how to sidestep decisions it feels
that in such cases it can no longer justify its comfortable suffering
for this with your entire body you must stay here until it’s very late
you can be a keychain or a gummed sticker
but one day the music of breathing will disappear
all on its own

or conversely

my hands ready to receive silence
like a sandwich I waited in the bus station
until I was on the verge of tears
the air had the freshness of new leaves
I’d prepared everything; men had taken their places
I just had to watch out for the arrow-swift hordes of evening
they were debating what part of me should be devoured first

they couldn’t believe it when I arose with easy strides
to take charge of matters
in my native language as on a skateboard

(translated from the Romanian by Adam J.
Sorkin with the poet, published in elimae, 10, 2010)


by Ben Jonson | |

To Playwright


XLIX.
 — TO PLAYWRIGHT.
  
PLAYWRIGHT me reads, and still my verses damns,
He says I want the tongue of epigrams ;
I have no salt, no bawdry he doth mean ;
For witty, in his language, is obscene.
Playwright, I loath to have thy manners known
In my chaste book ; I profess them in thine own.


by Margaret Atwood | |

The Moment

 The moment when, after many years
of hard work and a long voyage
you stand in the centre of your room,
house, half-acre, square mile, island, country,
knowing at last how you got there,
and say, I own this,

is the same moment when the trees unloose
their soft arms from around you,
the birds take back their language,
the cliffs fissure and collapse,
the air moves back from you like a wave
and you can't breathe.
No, they whisper.
You own nothing.
You were a visitor, time after time climbing the hill, planting the flag, proclaiming.
We never belonged to you.
You never found us.
It was always the other way round.


by Margaret Atwood | |

The Rest

 The rest of us watch from beyond the fence
as the woman moves with her jagged stride
into her pain as if into a slow race.
We see her body in motion but hear no sounds, or we hear sounds but no language; or we know it is not a language we know yet.
We can see her clearly but for her it is running in black smoke.
The cluster of cells in her swelling like porridge boiling, and bursting, like grapes, we think.
Or we think of explosions in mud; but we know nothing.
All around us the trees and the grasses light up with forgiveness, so green and at this time of the year healthy.
We would like to call something out to her.
Some form of cheering.
There is pain but no arrival at anything.


by Odysseus Elytis | |

GIFT SILVER POEM

Translation from Greek: Marios Dikaiakos

I know that all this is worthless and that the language
I speak doesn't have an alphabet

Since the sun and the waves are a syllabic script
which can be deciphered only in the years of sorrow and exile

And the motherland a fresco with successive overlays
frankish or slavic which, should you try to restore,
you are immediately sent to prison and
held responsible

To a crowd of foreign Powers always through
the intervention of your own

As it happens for the disasters

But let's imagine that in an old days' threshing-floor
which might be in an apartment-complex children
are playing and whoever loses

Should, according to the rules, tell the others
and give them a truth

Then everyone ends up holding in his
hand a small

Gift, silver poem.


by Edna St Vincent Millay | |

Intention To Escape From Him

 Edna St.
Vincent Millay - Intention To Escape From Him I think I will learn some beautiful language, useless for commercial Purposes, work hard at that.
I think I will learn the Latin name of every songbird, not only in America but wherever they sing.
(Shun meditation, though; invite the controversial: Is the world flat? Do bats eat cats?) By digging hard I might deflect that river, my mind, that uncontrollable thing, Turgid and yellow, srong to overflow its banks in spring, carrying away bridges A bed of pebbles now, through which there trickles one clear narrow stream, following a course henceforth nefast— Dig, dig; and if I come to ledges, blast.


by Marianne Moore | |

Rosemary

 Beauty and Beauty's son and rosemary - 
Venus and Love, her son, to speak plainly -
born of the sea supposedly, 
at Christmas each, in company, 
braids a garland of festivity.
Not always rosemary - since the flight to Egypt, blooming indifferently.
With lancelike leaf, green but silver underneath, its flowers - white originally - turned blue.
The herb of memory, imitating the blue robe of Mary, is not too legendary to flower both as symbol and as pungency.
Springing from stones beside the sea, the height of Christ when he was thirty-three, it feeds on dew and to the bee "hath a dumb language"; is in reality a kind of Christmas tree.


by Dejan Stojanovic | |

Dictionary of Sounds

Born from the natural attraction
Of vowels and consonants
Alliterating or merging into a fugue

Of sounds flowing 
From the fountain of language.
Meanings embodied In blasts of thunder, chirping, blowing; Sounds becoming meanings In, for, and of themselves; A huge dictionary of sounds Craving to be recognized and translated Either into language or into understanding.


by | |

A Celebration of Charis: I. His Excuse for Loving

 Let it not your wonder move,
Less your laughter, that I love.
Though I now write fifty years, I have had, and have, my peers; Poets, though divine, are men, Some have lov'd as old again.
And it is not always face, Clothes, or fortune, gives the grace; Or the feature, or the youth.
But the language and the truth, With the ardour and the passion, Gives the lover weight and fashion.
If you then will read the story, First prepare you to be sorry That you never knew till now Either whom to love or how; But be glad, as soon with me, When you know that this is she Of whose beauty it was sung; She shall make the old man young, Keep the middle age at stay, And let nothing high decay, Till she be the reason why All the world for love may die.