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Best Famous Money Poems

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

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Written by Edward Lear | |

The Owl and the Pussy-Cat

The Owl and the Pussy-Cat went to sea
  In a beautiful pea-green boat,
They took some honey, and plenty of money
  Wrapped up in a five-pound note.
The Owl looked up to the stars above, And sang to a small guitar, "O lovely Pussy, O Pussy, my love, What a beautiful Pussy you are, You are, You are! What a beautiful Pussy you are!" Pussy said to the Owl, "You elegant fowl! How charmingly sweet you sing! O let us be married! too long we have tarried: But what shall we do for a ring?" They sailed away, for a year and a day, To the land where the Bong-tree grows And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood With a ring at the end of his nose, His nose, His nose, With a ring at the end of his nose.
"Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling Your ring?" Said the Piggy, "I will.
" So they took it away, and were married next day By the Turkey who lives on the hill.
They dined on mince, and slices of quince, Which they ate with a runcible spoon; And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand, They danced by the light of the moon, The moon, The moon, They danced by the light of the moon.


Written by Stephen Vincent Benet | |

The City Revisited

 The grey gulls drift across the bay 
Softly and still as flakes of snow 
Against the thinning fog.
All day I sat and watched them come and go; And now at last the sun was set, Filling the waves with colored fire Till each seemed like a jewelled spire Thrust up from some drowned city.
Soon From peak and cliff and minaret The city's lights began to wink, Each like a friendly word.
The moon Began to broaden out her shield, Spurting with silver.
Straight before The brown hills lay like quiet beasts Stretched out beside a well-loved door, And filling earth and sky and field With the calm heaving of their breasts.
Nothing was gone, nothing was changed, The smallest wave was unestranged By all the long ache of the years Since last I saw them, blind with tears.
Their welcome like the hills stood fast: And I, I had come home at last.
So I laughed out with them aloud To think that now the sun was broad, And climbing up the iron sky, Where the raw streets stretched sullenly About another room I knew, In a mean house -- and soon there, too, The smith would burst the flimsy door And find me lying on the floor.
Just where I fell the other night, After that breaking wave of pain.
-- How they will storm and rage and fight, Servants and mistress, one and all, "No money for the funeral!" I broke my life there.
Let it stand At that.
The waters are a plain, Heaving and bright on either hand, A tremulous and lustral peace Which shall endure though all things cease, Filling my heart as water fills A cup.
There stand the quiet hills.
So, waiting for my wings to grow, I watch the gulls sail to and fro, Rising and falling, soft and swift, Drifting along as bubbles drift.
And, though I see the face of God Hereafter -- this day have I trod Nearer to Him than I shall tread Ever again.
The night is dead.
And there's the dawn, poured out like wine Along the dim horizon-line.
And from the city comes the chimes -- We have our heaven on earth -- sometimes!


Written by A R Ammons | |

Called Into Play

 Fall fell: so that's it for the leaf poetry:
some flurries have whitened the edges of roads

and lawns: time for that, the snow stuff: &
turkeys and old St.
Nick: where am I going to find something to write about I haven't already written away: I will have to stop short, look down, look up, look close, think, think, think: but in what range should I think: should I figure colors and outlines, given forms, say mailboxes, or should I try to plumb what is behind what and what behind that, deep down where the surface has lost its semblance: or should I think personally, such as, this week seems to have been crafted in hell: what: is something going on: something besides this diddledeediddle everyday matter-of-fact: I could draw up an ancient memory which would wipe this whole presence away: or I could fill out my dreams with high syntheses turned into concrete visionary forms: Lucre could lust for Luster: bad angels could roar out of perdition and kill the AIDS vaccine not quite perfected yet: the gods could get down on each other; the big gods could fly in from nebulae unknown: but I'm only me: I have 4 interests--money, poetry, sex, death: I guess I can jostle those.
.
.
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More great poems below...

Written by Sir Walter Raleigh | |

The Artist

 The Artist and his Luckless Wife 
They lead a horrid haunted life, 
Surrounded by the things he's made 
That are not wanted by the trade.
The world is very fair to see; The Artist will not let it be; He fiddles with the works of God, And makes them look uncommon odd.
The Artist is an awful man, He does not do the things he can; He does the things he cannot do, And we attend the private view.
The Artist uses honest paint To represent things as they ain't, He then asks money for the time It took to perpetrate the crime.


Written by Arthur Hugh Clough | |

There Is No God the Wicked Sayeth

 "There is no God," the wicked saith,
"And truly it's a blessing,
For what He might have done with us
It's better only guessing.
" "There is no God," a youngster thinks, "or really, if there may be, He surely did not mean a man Always to be a baby.
" "There is no God, or if there is," The tradesman thinks, "'twere funny If He should take it ill in me To make a little money.
" "Whether there be," the rich man says, "It matters very little, For I and mine, thank somebody, Are not in want of victual.
" Some others, also, to themselves, Who scarce so much as doubt it, Think there is none, when they are well, And do not think about it.
But country folks who live beneath The shadow of the steeple; The parson and the parson's wife, And mostly married people; Youths green and happy in first love, So thankful for illusion; And men caught out in what the world Calls guilt, in first confusion; And almost everyone when age, Disease, or sorrows strike him, Inclines to think there is a God, Or something very like Him.


Written by Edna St Vincent Millay | |

The Bean-Stalk

 Ho, Giant! This is I!
I have built me a bean-stalk into your sky!
La,—but it's lovely, up so high!

This is how I came,—I put
Here my knee, there my foot,
Up and up, from shoot to shoot—
And the blessed bean-stalk thinning
Like the mischief all the time,
Till it took me rocking, spinning,
In a dizzy, sunny circle,
Making angles with the root,
Far and out above the cackle
Of the city I was born in,
Till the little dirty city
In the light so sheer and sunny
Shone as dazzling bright and pretty
As the money that you find
In a dream of finding money—
What a wind! What a morning!—

Till the tiny, shiny city,
When I shot a glance below,
Shaken with a giddy laughter,
Sick and blissfully afraid,
Was a dew-drop on a blade,
And a pair of moments after
Was the whirling guess I made,—
And the wind was like a whip

Cracking past my icy ears,
And my hair stood out behind,
And my eyes were full of tears,
Wide-open and cold,
More tears than they could hold,
The wind was blowing so,
And my teeth were in a row,
Dry and grinning,
And I felt my foot slip,
And I scratched the wind and whined,
And I clutched the stalk and jabbered,
With my eyes shut blind,—
What a wind! What a wind!

Your broad sky, Giant,
Is the shelf of a cupboard;
I make bean-stalks, I'm
A builder, like yourself,
But bean-stalks is my trade,
I couldn't make a shelf,
Don't know how they're made,
Now, a bean-stalk is more pliant—
La, what a climb!


Written by Edna St Vincent Millay | |

Fontaine Je Ne Boirai Pas De Ton Eau!

 I know I might have lived in such a way
As to have suffered only pain:
Loving not man nor dog;
Not money, even; feeling
Toothache perhaps, but never more than an hour away
From skill and novocaine;
Making no contacts, dealing with life through Agents, drinking
 one cocktail, betting two dollars, wearing raincoats in the
 rain.
Betrayed at length by no one but the fog Whispering to the wing of the plane.
"Fountain," I have cried to that unbubbling well, "I will not drink of thy water!" Yet I thirst For a mouthful of—not to swallow, only to rinse my mouth in —peace.
And while the eyes of the past condemn, The eyes of the present narrow into assignation.
And— worst— The young are so old, they are born with their fingers crossed; I shall get no help from them.


Written by Edna St Vincent Millay | |

Recuerdo

 WE were very tired, we were very merry­
We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry.
It was bare and bright, and smelled like a stable­ But we looked into a fire, we leaned across a table, We lay on a hill-top underneath the moon; And the whistles kept blowing, and the dawn came soon.
We were very tired, we were very merry­ We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry; And you ate an apple, and I ate a pear, From a dozen of each we had bought somewhere; And the sky went wan, and the wind came cold, And the sun rose dripping, a bucketful of gold.
We were very tired, we were very merry, We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry.
We hailed, "Good morrow, mother!" to a shawl-covered head, And bought a morning paper, which neither of us read; And she wept, "God bless you!" for the apples and pears, And we gave her all our money but our subway fares.


Written by Ben Jonson | |

On a Robbery


VIII.
 ? ON A ROBBERY.
  
RIDWAY robb'd DUNCOTE of three hundred pound,
    Ridway was ta'en, arraign'd, condemn'd to die ;
But, for this money, was a courtier found,
    Begg'd Ridway's pardon :  Duncote now doth cry,
Robb'd both of money, and the law's relief,
    ? The courtier is become the greater thief.
?


Written by Ben Jonson | |

On Lieutenant Shift


XII.
 ? ON LIEUTENANT SHIFT.
  
SHIFT, here in town, not meanest among squires,
That haunt Pickt-hatch, Marsh-Lambeth, and White-friars,
Keeps himself, with half a man, and defrays
The charge of that state, with this charm, god pays.

By that one spell he lives, eats, drinks, arrays
Himself :  his whole revenue is, god pays.

The quarter-day is come ; the hostess says,
She must have money : he returns, god pays.

The tailor brings a suit home : he it says,
Look's o'er the bill, likes it : and says, god pays.

He steals to ordinaries ; there he plays
At dice his borrow'd money : which, god pays.

Then takes up fresh commodities, for days ;
Signs to new bonds ; forfeits ; and cries, god pays.

That lost, he keeps his chamber, reads essays,
Takes physic, tears the papers : still god pays.

Or else by water goes, and so to plays ;
Calls for his stool, adorns the stage : god pays.

To every cause he meets, this voice he brays :
His only answer is to all, god pays.

Not his poor cockatrice but he betrays
Thus ; and for his lechery, scores, god pays.

But see !  the old bawd hath serv'd him in his trim,
Lent him a pocky whore.
?She hath paid him.


[ AJ Notes:
   l.
9    He it says, he it assays, i.
e.
, tries it on.
   l.
11  Steals to ordinaries, goes to taverns.
   l.
16  Physic, medicine.
   l.
23  In his trim, in his own fashion, i.
e.
, she has given him
           a taste of his own medicine.
   l.
24  Pocky, diseased.
]


Written by Tupac Shakur | |

Nothing Can Come Between Us

Lets not talk of money
let us 4 get the world
4 a moment lets just reveal
in our eternal comadery
in my heart i know
there will never be a day
that i don't remember
the times we shared
u were a friend
when i was at my lowest
and being a friend to me
was not easy or fashionable
regardless of how popular
I became u remain
my unconditional friend
unconditional in it's truest sense
did u think i would forget
did u for 1 moment dream
that I would ignore u
if so remember this from here 2 forever
nothing can come between us 


Written by T S (Thomas Stearns) Eliot | |

Burbank with a Baedeker: Bleistein with a Cigar

 Tra-la-la-la-la-la-laire—nil nisi divinum stabile est; caetera fumus—the gondola
stopped, the old palace was there, how charming its grey and pink—goats and
monkeys, with such hair too!—so the countess passed on until she came through the
little park, where Niobe presented her with a cabinet, and so departed.
BURBANK crossed a little bridge Descending at a small hotel; Princess Volupine arrived, They were together, and he fell.
Defunctive music under sea Passed seaward with the passing bell Slowly: the God Hercules Had left him, that had loved him well.
The horses, under the axletree Beat up the dawn from Istria With even feet.
Her shuttered barge Burned on the water all the day.
But this or such was Bleistein’s way: A saggy bending of the knees And elbows, with the palms turned out, Chicago Semite Viennese.
A lustreless protrusive eye Stares from the protozoic slime At a perspective of Canaletto.
The smoky candle end of time Declines.
On the Rialto once.
The rats are underneath the piles.
The jew is underneath the lot.
Money in furs.
The boatman smiles, Princess Volupine extends A meagre, blue-nailed, phthisic hand To climb the waterstair.
Lights, lights, She entertains Sir Ferdinand Klein.
Who clipped the lion’s wings And flea’d his rump and pared his claws? Thought Burbank, meditating on Time’s ruins, and the seven laws.


Written by Margaret Atwood | |

You Take My Hand

 You take my hand and
I'm suddenly in a bad movie,
it goes on and on and 
why am I fascinated

We waltz in slow motion
through an air stale with aphrodisms
we meet behind the endless ptted palms
you climb through the wrong windows

Other people are leaving
but I always stay till the end
I paid my money, I
want to see what happens.
In chance bathtubs I have to peel you off me in the form of smoke and melted celluloid Have to face it I'm finally an addict, the smell of popcorn and worn plush lingers for weeks


Written by Margaret Atwood | |

Helen of Troy Does Countertop Dancing

 The world is full of women
who'd tell me I should be ashamed of myself
if they had the chance.
Quit dancing.
Get some self-respect and a day job.
Right.
And minimum wage, and varicose veins, just standing in one place for eight hours behind a glass counter bundled up to the neck, instead of naked as a meat sandwich.
Selling gloves, or something.
Instead of what I do sell.
You have to have talent to peddle a thing so nebulous and without material form.
Exploited, they'd say.
Yes, any way you cut it, but I've a choice of how, and I'll take the money.
I do give value.
Like preachers, I sell vision, like perfume ads, desire or its facsimile.
Like jokes or war, it's all in the timing.
I sell men back their worse suspicions: that everything's for sale, and piecemeal.
They gaze at me and see a chain-saw murder just before it happens, when thigh, ass, inkblot, crevice, tit, and nipple are still connected.
Such hatred leaps in them, my beery worshippers! That, or a bleary hopeless love.
Seeing the rows of heads and upturned eyes, imploring but ready to snap at my ankles, I understand floods and earthquakes, and the urge to step on ants.
I keep the beat, and dance for them because they can't.
The music smells like foxes, crisp as heated metal searing the nostrils or humid as August, hazy and languorous as a looted city the day after, when all the rape's been done already, and the killing, and the survivors wander around looking for garbage to eat, and there's only a bleak exhaustion.
Speaking of which, it's the smiling tires me out the most.
This, and the pretence that I can't hear them.
And I can't, because I'm after all a foreigner to them.
The speech here is all warty gutturals, obvious as a slab of ham, but I come from the province of the gods where meanings are lilting and oblique.
I don't let on to everyone, but lean close, and I'll whisper: My mother was raped by a holy swan.
You believe that? You can take me out to dinner.
That's what we tell all the husbands.
There sure are a lot of dangerous birds around.
Not that anyone here but you would understand.
The rest of them would like to watch me and feel nothing.
Reduce me to components as in a clock factory or abattoir.
Crush out the mystery.
Wall me up alive in my own body.
They'd like to see through me, but nothing is more opaque than absolute transparency.
Look--my feet don't hit the marble! Like breath or a balloon, I'm rising, I hover six inches in the air in my blazing swan-egg of light.
You think I'm not a goddess? Try me.
This is a torch song.
Touch me and you'll burn.


Written by Charles Causley | |

What Has Happened To Lulu?

What has happened to Lulu, mother?
What has happened to Lu?
There’s nothing in her bed but an old rag-doll
And by its side a shoe.
Why is her window wide, mother, The curtain flapping free, And only a circle on the dusty shelf Where her money box used to be? Why do you turn your head, mother, And why do tear drops fall? And why do you crumple that note on the fire And say it is nothing at all? I woke to voices late last night, I heard an engine roar.
Why do you tell me the things I heard Were a dream and nothing more? I heard someone cry, mother, In anger or in pain, But now I ask you why, mother, You say it was a gust of rain.
Why do you wonder around as though You don’t know what to do? What has happened to Lulu, mother? What has happened to Lu?