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Best Famous Pets Poems

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

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Written by W S Merwin | |

Green Fields

 By this part of the century few are left who believe
 in the animals for they are not there in the carved parts
of them served on plates and the pleas from the slatted trucks
 are sounds of shadows that possess no future
there is still game for the pleasure of killing
 and there are pets for the children but the lives that followed
courses of their own other than ours and older
 have been migrating before us some are already
far on the way and yet Peter with his gaunt cheeks
 and point of white beard the face of an aged Lawrence
Peter who had lived on from another time and country
 and who had seen so many things set out and vanish
still believed in heaven and said he had never once
 doubted it since his childhood on the farm in the days
of the horses he had not doubted it in the worst
 times of the Great War and afterward and he had come
to what he took to be a kind of earthly
 model of it as he wandered south in his sixties
by that time speaking the language well enough
 for them to make him out he took the smallest roads
into a world he thought was a thing of the past
 with wildflowers he scarcely remembered and neighbors
working together scything the morning meadows
 turning the hay before the noon meal bringing it in
by milking time husbandry and abundance
 all the virtues he admired and their reward bounteous
in the eyes of a foreigner and there he remained
 for the rest of his days seeing what he wanted to see
until the winter when he could no longer fork
 the earth in his garden and then he gave away
his house land everything and committed himself
 to a home to die in an old chateau where he lingered
for some time surrounded by those who had lost
 the use of body or mind and as he lay there he told me
that the wall by his bed opened almost every day
 and he saw what was really there and it was eternal life
as he recognized at once when he saw the gardens
 he had made and the green fields where he had been
a child and his mother was standing there then the wall would close
 and around him again were the last days of the world


Written by Andrew Barton Paterson | |

Jock

 There's a soldier that's been doing of his share 
In the fighting up and down and round about.
He's continually marching here and there, And he's fighting, morning in and morning out.
The Boer, you see, he generally runs; But sometimes, when he hides behind a rock, And we can't make no impression with the guns, Oh, then you'll hear the order, "Send for Jock!" Yes -- it's Jock -- Scotch Jock.
He's the fellow that can give or take a knock.
For he's hairy and he's hard, And his feet are by the yard, And his face is like the face what's on a clock.
But when the bullets fly you will mostly hear the cry -- "Send for Jock!" The Cavalry have gun and sword and lance; Before they choose their weapon, why, they're dead.
The Mounted Foot are hampered in advance By holding of their helmets on their head.
And, when the Boer has dug himself a trench And placed his Maxim gun behind a rock, These mounted heroes -- pets of Johnny French -- They have to sit and wait and send for Jock! Yes, the Jocks -- Scotch Jocks, With their music that'd terrify an ox! When the bullets kick the sand You can hear the sharp command -- "Forty-Second! At the double! Charge the rocks!" And the charge is like a hood When they warmed the Highland blood Of the Jocks!


Written by Elinor Wylie | |

Pretty Words

 Poets make pets of pretty, docile words:
I love smooth words, like gold-enamelled fish
Which circle slowly with a silken swish,
And tender ones, like downy-feathred birds:
Words shy and dappled, deep-eyed deer in herds,
Come to my hand, and playful if I wish,
Or purring softly at a silver dish,
Blue Persian kittens fed on cream and curds.
I love bright words, words up and singing early; Words that are luminous in the dark, and sing; Warm lazy words, white cattle under trees; I love words opalescent, cool, and pearly, Like midsummer moths, and honied words like bees, Gilded and sticky, with a little sting.


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Written by Randall Jarrell | |

Losses

 It was not dying: everybody died.
It was not dying: we had died before In the routine crashes-- and our fields Called up the papers, wrote home to our folks, And the rates rose, all because of us.
We died on the wrong page of the almanac, Scattered on mountains fifty miles away; Diving on haystacks, fighting with a friend, We blazed up on the lines we never saw.
We died like aunts or pets or foreigners.
(When we left high school nothing else had died For us to figure we had died like.
) In our new planes, with our new crews, we bombed The ranges by the desert or the shore, Fired at towed targets, waited for our scores-- And turned into replacements and worke up One morning, over England, operational.
It wasn't different: but if we died It was not an accident but a mistake (But an easy one for anyone to make.
) We read our mail and counted up our missions-- In bombers named for girls, we burned The cities we had learned about in school-- Till our lives wore out; our bodies lay among The people we had killed and never seen.
When we lasted long enough they gave us medals; When we died they said, "Our casualties were low.
" The said, "Here are the maps"; we burned the cities.
It was not dying --no, not ever dying; But the night I died I dreamed that I was dead, And the cities said to me: "Why are you dying? We are satisfied, if you are; but why did I die?"


Written by Vachel Lindsay | |

Why I Voted the Socialist Ticket

 I am unjust, but I can strive for justice.
My life's unkind, but I can vote for kindness.
I, the unloving, say life should be lovely.
I, that am blind, cry out against my blindness.
Man is a curious brute — he pets his fancies — Fighting mankind, to win sweet luxury.
So he will be, tho' law be clear as crystal, Tho' all men plan to live in harmony.
Come, let us vote against our human nature, Crying to God in all the polling places To heal our everlasting sinfulness And make us sages with transfigured faces.


Written by Vachel Lindsay | |

The Gamblers

 Life's a jail where men have common lot.
Gaunt the one who has, and who has not.
All our treasures neither less nor more, Bread alone comes thro' the guarded door.
Cards are foolish in this jail, I think, Yet they play for shoes, for drabs and drink.
She, my lawless, sharp-tongued gypsy maid Will not scorn with me this jail-bird trade, Pets some fox-eyed boy who turns the trick, Tho' he win a button or a stick, Pencil, garter, ribbon, corset-lace — His the glory, mine is the disgrace.
Sweet, I'd rather lose than win despite Love of hearty words and maids polite.
"Love's a gamble," say you.
I deny.
Love's a gift.
I love you till I die.
Gamblers fight like rats.
I will not play.
All I ever had I gave away.
All I ever coveted was peace Such as comes if we have jail release.
Cards are puzzles, tho' the prize be gold, Cards help not the bread that tastes of mold, Cards dye not your hair to black more deep, Cards make not the children cease to weep.
Scorned, I sit with half shut eyes all day — Watch the cataract of sunshine play Down the wall, and dance upon the floor.
Sun, come down and break the dungeon door! Of such gold dust could I make a key, — Turn the bolt — how soon we would be free! Over borders we would hurry on Safe by sunrise farms, and springs of dawn, Wash our wounds and jail stains there at last, Azure rivers flowing, flowing past.
God has great estates just past the line, Green farms for all, and meat and corn and wine.


Written by Robert Burns | |

27. The Death and Dying Words of Poor Mailie

 AS Mailie, an’ her lambs thegither,
Was ae day nibbling on the tether,
Upon her cloot she coost a hitch,
An’ owre she warsl’d in the ditch:
There, groaning, dying, she did lie,
When Hughoc he cam doytin by.
Wi’ glowrin een, and lifted han’s Poor Hughoc like a statue stan’s; He saw her days were near-hand ended, But, wae’s my heart! he could na mend it! He gaped wide, but naething spak, At langth poor Mailie silence brak.
“O thou, whase lamentable face Appears to mourn my woefu’ case! My dying words attentive hear, An’ bear them to my Master dear.
“Tell him, if e’er again he keep As muckle gear as buy a sheep— O, bid him never tie them mair, Wi’ wicked strings o’ hemp or hair! But ca’ them out to park or hill, An’ let them wander at their will: So may his flock increase, an’ grow To scores o’ lambs, an’ packs o’ woo’! “Tell him, he was a Master kin’, An’ aye was guid to me an’ mine; An’ now my dying charge I gie him, My helpless lambs, I trust them wi’ him.
“O, bid him save their harmless lives, Frae dogs, an’ tods, an’ butcher’s knives! But gie them guid cow-milk their fill, Till they be fit to fend themsel’; An’ tent them duly, e’en an’ morn, Wi’ taets o’ hay an’ ripps o’ corn.
“An’ may they never learn the gaets, Of ither vile, wanrestfu’ pets— To slink thro’ slaps, an’ reave an’ steal At stacks o’ pease, or stocks o’ kail! So may they, like their great forbears, For mony a year come thro the shears: So wives will gie them bits o’ bread, An’ bairns greet for them when they’re dead.
“My poor toop-lamb, my son an’ heir, O, bid him breed him up wi’ care! An’ if he live to be a beast, To pit some havins in his breast! “An’ warn him—what I winna name— To stay content wi’ yowes at hame; An’ no to rin an’ wear his cloots, Like ither menseless, graceless brutes.
“An’ neist, my yowie, silly thing, Gude keep thee frae a tether string! O, may thou ne’er forgather up, Wi’ ony blastit, moorland toop; But aye keep mind to moop an’ mell, Wi’ sheep o’ credit like thysel’! “And now, my bairns, wi’ my last breath, I lea’e my blessin wi’ you baith: An’ when you think upo’ your mither, Mind to be kind to ane anither.
“Now, honest Hughoc, dinna fail, To tell my master a’ my tale; An’ bid him burn this cursed tether, An’ for thy pains thou’se get my blather.
” This said, poor Mailie turn’d her head, And clos’d her een amang the dead!


Written by Rudyard Kipling | |

Screw-Guns

 Smokin' my pipe on the mountings, sniffin' the mornin' cool,
I walks in my old brown gaiters along o' my old brown mule,
With seventy gunners be'ind me, an' never a beggar forgets
It's only the pick of the Army that handles the dear little pets -- 'Tss! 'Tss!
 For you all love the screw-guns -- the screw-guns they all love you!
 So when we call round with a few guns, o' course you will know what to do -- hoo! hoo!
 Jest send in your Chief an' surrender -- it's worse if you fights or you runs:
 You can go where you please, you can skid up the trees, but you don't get away from the guns!

They sends us along where the roads are, but mostly we goes where they ain't:
We'd climb up the side of a sign-board an' trust to the stick o' the paint:
We've chivied the Naga an' Looshai, we've give the Afreedeeman fits,
For we fancies ourselves at two thousand, we guns that are built in two bits -- 'Tss! 'Tss!
 For you all love the screw-guns .
.
.
If a man doesn't work, why, we drills 'im an' teaches 'im 'ow to behave; If a beggar can't march, why, we kills 'im an' rattles 'im into 'is grave.
You've got to stand up to our business an' spring without snatchin' or fuss.
D'you say that you sweat with the field-guns? By God, you must lather with us -- 'Tss! 'Tss! For you all love the screw-guns .
.
.
The eagles is screamin' around us, the river's a-moanin' below, We're clear o' the pine an' the oak-scrub, we're out on the rocks an' the snow, An' the wind is as thin as a whip-lash what carries away to the plains The rattle an' stamp o' the lead-mules -- the jinglety-jink o' the chains -- 'Tss! 'Tss! For you all love the screw-guns .
.
.
There's a wheel on the Horns o' the Mornin', an' a wheel on the edge o' the Pit, An' a drop into nothin' beneath you as straight as a beggar can spit: With the sweat runnin' out o' your shirt-sleeves, an' the sun off the snow in your face, An' 'arf o' the men on the drag-ropes to hold the old gun in 'er place -- 'Tss! 'Tss! For you all love the screw-guns .
.
.
Smokin' my pipe on the mountings, sniffin' the mornin' cool, I climbs in my old brown gaiters along o' my old brown mule.
The monkey can say what our road was -- the wild-goat 'e knows where we passed.
Stand easy, you long-eared old darlin's! Out drag-ropes! With shrapnel! Hold fast -- 'Tss! 'Tss! For you all love the screw-guns -- the screw-guns they all love you! So when we take tea with a few guns, o' course you will know what to do -- hoo! hoo! Jest send in your Chief an' surrender -- it's worse if you fights or you runs: You may hide in the caves, they'll be only your graves, but you can't get away from the guns!