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Best Famous Lonely Poems

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

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by William Wordsworth | |

I Wandered Lonely As A Cloud

I wandered lonely as a cloud 
That floats on high o'er vales and hills, 
When all at once I saw a crowd, 
A host, of golden daffodils; 
Beside the lake, beneath the trees, 
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; but they Out-did the sparkling waves in glee: A poet could not but be gay, In such a jocund company: I gazed - and gazed - but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought: For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils.


by Allen Ginsberg | |

Wild Orphan

Blandly mother 
takes him strolling 
by railroad and by river 
-he's the son of the absconded 
hot rod angel- 
and he imagines cars 
and rides them in his dreams, 

so lonely growing up among 
the imaginary automobiles 
and dead souls of Tarrytown 

to create 
out of his own imagination 
the beauty of his wild 
forebears-a mythology 
he cannot inherit.
Will he later hallucinate his gods? Waking among mysteries with an insane gleam of recollection? The recognition- something so rare in his soul, met only in dreams -nostalgias of another life.
A question of the soul.
And the injured losing their injury in their innocence -a cock, a cross, an excellence of love.
And the father grieves in flophouse complexities of memory a thousand miles away, unknowing of the unexpected youthful stranger bumming toward his door.
- New York, April 13, 1952


by Siegfried Sassoon | |

Goblin Revel

IN gold and grey with fleering looks of sin 
I watch them come; by two by three by four 
Advancing slow with loutings they begin
Their woven measure widening from the door;
While music-men behind are straddling in 5
With flutes to brisk their feet across the floor ¡ª
And jangled dulcimers and fiddles thin
That taunt the twirling antic through once more.
They pause and hushed to whispers steal away.
With cunning glances; silent go their shoon 10 On creakless stairs; but far away the dogs Bark at some lonely farm: and haply they Have clambered back into the dusky moon That sinks beyond the marshes loud with frogs.


by Philip Larkin | |

The Importance Of Elsewhere

 Lonely in Ireland, since it was not home, 
Strangeness made sense.
The salt rebuff of speech, Insisting so on difference, made me welcome: Once that was recognised, we were in touch Their draughty streets, end-on to hills, the faint Archaic smell of dockland, like a stable, The herring-hawker's cry, dwindling, went To prove me separate, not unworkable.
Living in England has no such excuse: These are my customs and establishments It would be much more serious to refuse.
Here no elsewhere underwrites my existence.


by Philip Larkin | |

Solar

 Suspended lion face
Spilling at the centre
Of an unfurnished sky
How still you stand,
And how unaided
Single stalkless flower
You pour unrecompensed.
The eye sees you Simplified by distance Into an origin, Your petalled head of flames Continuously exploding.
Heat is the echo of your Gold.
Coined there among Lonely horizontals You exist openly.
Our needs hourly Climb and return like angels.
Unclosing like a hand, You give for ever.


by Wang Wei | |

Farewell to Hsin Chien at Hibiscus Pavilion

 A cold rain mingled with the river
at evening, when I entered Wu;
In the clear dawn I bid you farewell,
lonely as Ch'u Mountain.
My kinsfolk in Loyang, should they ask about me, Tell them: "My heart is a piece of ice in a jade cup!"


by Richard Wilbur | |

Having Misidentified A Wildflower

 A thrush, because I'd been wrong,
Burst rightly into song
In a world not vague, not lonely,
Not governed by me only.


by Gerard Manley Hopkins | |

To Seem The Stranger Lies My Lot My Life

 To seem the stranger lies my lot, my life
Among strangers.
Father and mother dear, Brothers and sisters are in Christ not near And he my peace my parting, sword and strife.
England, whose honour O all my heart woos, wife To my creating thought, would neither hear Me, were I pleading, plead nor do I: I wear- y of idle a being but by where wars are rife.
I am in Ireland now; now I am at a thírd Remove.
Not but in all removes I can Kind love both give and get.
Only what word Wisest my heart breeds dark heaven's baffling ban Bars or hell's spell thwarts.
This to hoard unheard, Heard unheeded, leaves me a lonely began.


by G K Chesterton | |

To the Unknown Warrior

 You whom the kings saluted; who refused not
The one great pleasure of ignoble days,
Fame without name and glory without gossip,
Whom no biographer befouls with praise.
Who said of you "Defeated"? In the darkness The dug-out where the limelight never comes, Nor the big drum of Barnum's show can shatter That vibrant stillness after all the drums.
Though the time comes when every Yankee circus Can use our soldiers for its sandwich-men, When those that pay the piper call the tune, You will not dance.
You will not move again.
You will not march for Fatty Arbuckle, Though he have yet a favourable press, Tender as San Francisco to St.
Francis Or all the angels of Los Angeles.
They shall not storm the last unfallen fortress, The lonely castle where uncowed and free, Dwells the unknown and undefeated warrior That did alone defeat Publicity.


by William Henry Davies | |

In May

 Yes, I will spend the livelong day 
With Nature in this month of May; 
And sit beneath the trees, and share 
My bread with birds whose homes are there; 
While cows lie down to eat, and sheep 
Stand to their necks in grass so deep; 
While birds do sing with all their might, 
As though they felt the earth in flight.
This is the hour I dreamed of, when I sat surrounded by poor men; And thought of how the Arab sat Alone at evening, gazing at The stars that bubbled in clear skies; And of young dreamers, when their eyes Enjoyed methought a precious boon In the adventures of the Moon Whose light, behind the Clouds' dark bars, Searched for her stolen flocks of stars.
When I, hemmed in by wrecks of men, Thought of some lonely cottage then Full of sweet books; and miles of sea, With passing ships, in front of me; And having, on the other hand, A flowery, green, bird-singing land.


by William Henry Davies | |

The Kingfisher

 It was the Rainbow gave thee birth,
And left thee all her lovely hues;
And, as her mother’s name was Tears,
So runs it in my blood to choose
For haunts the lonely pools, and keep
In company with trees that weep.
Go you and, with such glorious hues, Live with proud peacocks in green parks; On lawns as smooth as shining glass, Let every feather show its marks; Get thee on boughs and clap thy wings Before the windows of proud kings.
Nay, lovely Bird, thou art not vain; Thou hast no proud, ambitious mind; I also love a quiet place That’s green, away from all mankind; A lonely pool, and let a tree Sigh with her bosom over me.


by William Henry Davies | |

The Villain

 While joy gave clouds the light of stars, 
That beamed wher'er they looked; 
And calves and lambs had tottering knees, 
Excited, while they sucked; 
While every bird enjoyed his song, 
Without one thought of harm or wrong-- 
I turned my head and saw the wind, 
Not far from where I stood, 
Dragging the corn by her golden hair, 
Into a dark and lonely wood.


by Stephen Vincent Benet | |

Lonely Burial

 There were not many at that lonely place, 
Where two scourged hills met in a little plain.
The wind cried loud in gusts, then low again.
Three pines strained darkly, runners in a race Unseen by any.
Toward the further woods A dim harsh noise of voices rose and ceased.
-- We were most silent in those solitudes -- Then, sudden as a flame, the black-robed priest, The clotted earth piled roughly up about The hacked red oblong of the new-made thing, Short words in swordlike Latin -- and a rout Of dreams most impotent, unwearying.
Then, like a blind door shut on a carouse, The terrible bareness of the soul's last house.


by William Lisle Bowles | |

Sonnet: At Dover Cliffs July 20th 1787

 On these white cliffs, that calm above the flood
Uplift their shadowing heads, and, at their feet,
Scarce hear the surge that has for ages beat,
Sure many a lonely wanderer has stood;
And whilst the lifted murmur met his ear,
And o'er the distant billows the still eve
Sailed slow, has thought of all his heart must leave
Tomorrow; of the friends he loved most dear;
Of social scenes, from which he wept to part;
But if, like me, he knew how fruitless all
The thoughts that would full fain the past recall,
Soon would he quell the risings of his heart,
And brave the wild winds and unhearing tide,
The world his country, and his God his guide.


by William Lisle Bowles | |

VI. Evening as slow thy placid shades descend...

 EVENING, as slow thy placid shades descend, 
Veiling with gentlest hush the landscape still, 
The lonely battlement, and farthest hill 
And wood; I think of those that have no friend; 
Who now perhaps, by melancholy led, 
From the broad blaze of day, where pleasure flaunts, 
Retiring, wander 'mid thy lonely haunts 
Unseen; and mark the tints that o'er thy bed 
Hang lovely, oft to musing fancy's eye 
Presenting fairy vales, where the tir'd mind 
Might rest, beyond the murmurs of mankind, 
Nor hear the hourly moans of misery.
Ah! beauteous views, that hope's fair gleams the while, Should smile like you, and perish as thy smile!


by William Lisle Bowles | |

X. On Dover Cliffs.

 ON these white cliffs, that calm above the flood 
Rear their o'er-shadowing heads, and at their feet 
Scarce hear the surge that has for ages beat, 
Sure many a lonely wanderer has stood; 
And, whilst the lifted murmur met his ear, 
And o'er the distant billows the still Eve 
Sail'd slow, has thought of all his heart must leave 
To-morrow -- of the friends he lov'd most dear, -- 
Of social scenes, from which he wept to part: -- 
But if, like me, he knew how fruitless all 
The thoughts, that would full fain the past recall, 
Soon would he quell the risings of his heart, 
And brave the wild winds and unhearing tide, 
The World his country, and his God his guide.


by Edwin Arlington Robinson | |

Supremacy

 There is a drear and lonely tract of hell 
From all the common gloom removed afar: 
A flat, sad land it is, where shadows are, 
Whose lorn estate my verse may never tell.
I walked among them and I knew them well: Men I had slandered on life's little star For churls and sluggards; and I knew the scar Upon their brows of woe ineffable.
But as I went majestic on my way, Into the dark they vanished, one by one, Till, with a shaft of God's eternal day, The dream of all my glory was undone,-- And, with a fool's importunate dismay, I heard the dead men singing in the sun.


by Edwin Arlington Robinson | |

The Story Of The Ashes And The Flame

 No matter why, nor whence, nor when she came,
There was her place.
No matter what men said, No matter what she was; living or dead, Faithful or not,he loved her all the same.
The story was as old as human shame, But ever since that lonely night she fled, With books to blind him, he had only read The story of the ashes and the flame.
There she was always coming pretty soon To fool him back, with penitent scared eyes That had in them the laughter of the moon For baffled lovers, and to make him think— Before she gave him time enough to wink— Her kisses were the keys to Paradise.


by Edwin Arlington Robinson | |

Ballad of Broken Flutes

 In dreams I crossed a barren land, 
A land of ruin, far away; 
Around me hung on every hand 
A deathful stillness of decay; 
And silent, as in bleak dismay 
That song should thus forsaken be, 
On that forgotten ground there lay 
The broken flutes of Arcady.
The forest that was all so grand When pipes and tabors had their sway Stood leafless now, a ghostly band Of skeletons in cold array.
A lonely surge of ancient spray Told of an unforgetful sea, But iron blows had hushed for aye The broken flutes of Arcady.
No more by summer breezes fanned, The place was desolate and gray; But still my dream was to command New life into that shrunken clay.
I tried it.
Yes, you scan to-day, With uncommiserating glee, The songs of one who strove to play The broken flutes of Arcady.
ENVOY So, Rock, I join the common fray, To fight where Mammon may decree; And leave, to crumble as they may, The broken flutes of Arcady.


by Edwin Arlington Robinson | |

George Crabbe

 Give him the darkest inch your shelf allows, 
Hide him in lonely garrets, if you will,— 
But his hard, human pulse is throbbing still 
With the sure strength that fearless truth endows.
In spite of all fine science disavows, Of his plain excellence and stubborn skill There yet remains what fashion cannot kill, Though years have thinned the laurel from his brows.
Whether or not we read him, we can feel From time to time the vigor of his name Against us like a finger for the shame And emptiness of what our souls reveal In books that are as altars where we kneel To consecrate the flicker, not the flame.