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Best Famous Places Poems

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

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by Edward Estlin (E E) Cummings | |

You Are Tired

You are tired 
(I think)
Of the always puzzle of living and doing;
And so am I.
Come with me then And we'll leave it far and far away- (Only you and I understand!) You have played (I think) And broke the toys you were fondest of And are a little tired now; Tired of things that break and- Just tired.
So am I.
But I come with a dream in my eyes tonight And knock with a rose at the hopeless gate of your heart- Open to me! For I will show you the places Nobody knows And if you like The perfect places of Sleep.
Ah come with me! I'll blow you that wonderful bubble the moon That floats forever and a day; I'll sing you the jacinth song Of the probable stars; I will attempt the unstartled steppes of dream Until I find the Only Flower Which shall keep (I think) your little heart While the moon comes out of the sea.


by Elizabeth Bishop | |

One Art

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.
Lose something every day.
Accept the fluster of lost door keys the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.
Then practice losing farther losing faster: places and names and where it was your meant to travel.
None of these will bring disaster.
I lost my mother's watch.
And look! my last or next-to-last of three loved housed went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.
I lose two cities lovely ones.
And vaster some realms I owned two rivers a continent.
I miss them but it wasn't a disaster.
--Even losing you (the joking voice a gesture I love) I shan't have lied.
It's evident the art of losing's not too hard to master though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.


by Philip Larkin | |

Homage To A Government

 Next year we are to bring all the soldiers home
For lack of money, and it is all right.
Places they guarded, or kept orderly, We want the money for ourselves at home Instead of working.
And this is all right.
It's hard to say who wanted it to happen, But now it's been decided nobody minds.
The places are a long way off, not here, Which is all right, and from what we hear The soldiers there only made trouble happen.
Next year we shall be easier in our minds.
Next year we shall be living in a country That brought its soldiers home for lack of money.
The statues will be standing in the same Tree-muffled squares, and look nearly the same.
Our children will not know it's a different country.
All we can hope to leave them now is money.


by Christina Rossetti | |

From Sunset to Star Rise

 Go from me, summer friends, and tarry not: 
I am no summer friend, but wintry cold, 
A silly sheep benighted from the fold, 
A sluggard with a thorn-choked garden plot.
Take counsel, sever from my lot your lot, Dwell in your pleasant places, hoard your gold; Lest you with me should shiver on the wold, Athirst and hungering on a barren spot.
For I have hedged me with a thorny hedge, I live alone, I look to die alone: Yet sometimes, when a wind sighs through the sedge, Ghosts of my buried years, and friends come back, My heart goes sighing after swallows flown On sometime summer's unreturning track.


by Gerard Manley Hopkins | |

As Kingfishers Catch Fire

 As kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies draw flame;
As tumbled over rim in roundy wells
Stones ring; like each tucked string tells, each hung bell's
Bow swung finds tongue to fling out broad its name;
Each mortal thing does one thing and the same:
Deals out that being indoors each one dwells;
Selves — goes itself; myself it speaks and spells,
Crying, What I do is me: for that I came.
I say more: the just man justices; Keeps grace: that keeps all his goings graces; Acts in God's eye what in God's eye he is — Christ.
For Christ plays in ten thousand places, Lovely in limbs, and lovely in eyes not his To the Father through the features of men's faces.


by Constantine P Cavafy | |

The Satrapy

 What a misfortune, although you are made
for fine and great works
this unjust fate of yours always
denies you encouragement and success;
that base customs should block you;
and pettiness and indifference.
And how terrible the day when you yield (the day when you give up and yield), and you leave on foot for Susa, and you go to the monarch Artaxerxes who favorably places you in his court, and offers you satrapies and the like.
And you accept them with despair these things that you do not want.
Your soul seeks other things, weeps for other things; the praise of the public and the Sophists, the hard-won and inestimable Well Done; the Agora, the Theater, and the Laurels.
How can Artaxerxes give you these, where will you find these in a satrapy; and what life can you live without these.


by Helen Hunt Jackson | |

A Calendar of Sonnets: November

 This is the treacherous month when autumn days 
With summer's voice come bearing summer's gifts.
Beguiled, the pale down-trodden aster lifts Her head and blooms again.
The soft, warm haze Makes moist once more the sere and dusty ways, And, creeping through where dead leaves lie in drifts, The violet returns.
Snow noiseless sifts Ere night, an icy shroud, which morning's rays Willidly shine upon and slowly melt, Too late to bid the violet live again.
The treachery, at last, too late, is plain; Bare are the places where the sweet flowers dwelt.
What joy sufficient hath November felt? What profit from the violet's day of pain?


by Ella Wheeler Wilcox | |

Preaching Vs Practice

 It is easy to sit in the sunshine
And talk to the man in the shade; 
It is easy to float in a well-trimmed boat, 
And point out the places to wade.
But once we pass into the shadows, We murmur and fret and frown, And, our length from the bank, we shout for a plank, Or throw up our hands and go down.
It is easy to sit in your carriage, And counsel the man on foot, But get down and walk, and you'll change your talk, As you feel the peg in your boot.
It is easy to tell the toiler How best he can carry his pack, But no one can rate a burden's weight Until it has been on his back.
The up-curled mouth of pleasure, Can prate of sorrow's worth, But give it a sip, and a wryer lip, Was never made on earth.


by David Herbert Lawrence | |

Troth with the Dead

 The moon is broken in twain, and half a moon
Before me lies on the still, pale floor of the sky; 
The other half of the broken coin of troth 
Is buried away in the dark, where the still dead lie.
They buried her half in the grave when they laid her away; I had pushed it gently in among the thick of her hair Where it gathered towards the plait, on that very last day; And like a moon in secret it is shining there.
My half shines in the sky, for a general sign Of the troth with the dead I pledged myself to keep; Turning its broken edge to the dark, it shines indeed Like the sign of a lover who turns to the dark of sleep.
Against my heart the inviolate sleep breaks still In darkened waves whose breaking echoes o’er The wondering world of my wakeful day, till I’m lost In the midst of the places I knew so well before.


by Rainer Maria Rilke | |

The Sonnets To Orpheus: Book 2: I

 Breathing: you invisible poem! Complete
interchange of our own
essence with world-space.
You counterweight in which I rythmically happen.
Single wave-motion whose gradual sea I am: you, most inclusive of all our possible seas- space has grown warm.
How many regions in space have already been inside me.
There are winds that seem like my wandering son.
Do you recognize me, air, full of places I once absorbed? You who were the smooth bark, roundness, and leaf of my words.


by Rainer Maria Rilke | |

What Fields Are As Fragrant As Your Hands?

 What fields are as fragrant as your hands?
You feel how external fragrance stands
upon your stronger resistance.
Stars stand in images above.
Give me your mouth to soften, love; ah, your hair is all in idleness.
See, I want to surround you with yourself and the faded expectation lift from the edges of your eyebrows; I want, as with inner eyelids sheer, to close for you all places which appear by my tender caresses now.


by Lizette Woodworth Reese | |

Spicewood

 The spicewood burns along the gray, spent sky,
In moist unchimneyed places, in a wind,
That whips it all before, and all behind,
Into one thick, rude flame, now low, now high,
It is the first, the homeliest thing of all--
At sight of it, that lad that by it fares,
Whistles afresh his foolish, town-caught airs--
A thing so honey-colored, and so tall!

It is as though the young Year, ere he pass,
To the white riot of the cherry tree,
Would fain accustom us, or here, or there,
To his new sudden ways with bough and grass,
So starts with what is humble, plain to see,
And all familiar as a cup, a chair.


by John Gould Fletcher | |

Melancholy

 HENCE, all you vain delights,
 As short as are the nights
 Wherein you spend your folly!
There 's naught in this life sweet,
If men were wise to see't,
 But only melancholy--
 O sweetest melancholy!
Welcome, folded arms and fixed eyes,
A sight that piercing mortifies,
A look that 's fasten'd to the ground,
A tongue chain'd up without a sound!

Fountain-heads and pathless groves,
Places which pale passion loves!
Moonlight walks, when all the fowls
Are warmly housed, save bats and owls!
 A midnight bell, a parting groan--
 These are the sounds we feed upon:
Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley,
Nothing 's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy.


by John Gould Fletcher | |

Hence All You Vain Delights from the Nice Valour

 Hence, all you vain delights,
As short as are the nights
Wherein you spend your folly:
There's nought in this life sweet,
If man were wise to see't,
But only melancholy,
O sweetest melancholy!
Welcome, folded arms, and fixed eyes,
A sigh that piercing mortifies,
A look that's fastened to the ground,
A tongue chained up without a sound;
Fountain-heads, and pathless groves,
Places which pale passion loves;
Moonlight walks, when all the fowls
Are warmly housed, save bats and owls;
A midnight bell, a parting groan:
These are the sounds we feed upon;
Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley,
Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy.


by James Henry Leigh Hunt | |

May and the Poets

 There is May in books forever; 
May will part from Spenser never; 
May's in Milton, May's in Prior, 
May's in Chaucer, Thomson, Dyer; 
May's in all the Italian books:-- 
She has old and modern nooks, 
Where she sleeps with nymphs and elves, 
In happy places they call shelves, 
And will rise and dress your rooms 
With a drapery thick with blooms.
Come, ye rains, then if ye will, May's at home, and with me still; But come rather, thou, good weather, And find us in the fields together.


by A S J Tessimond | |

Not Love Perhaps

 This is not Love, perhaps, 
Love that lays down its life, 
that many waters cannot quench, 
nor the floods drown, 
But something written in lighter ink, 
said in a lower tone, something, perhaps, especially our own.
A need, at times, to be together and talk, And then the finding we can walk More firmly through dark narrow places, And meet more easily nightmare faces; A need to reach out, sometimes, hand to hand, And then find Earth less like an alien land; A need for alliance to defeat The whisperers at the corner of the street.
A need for inns on roads, islands in seas, Halts for discoveries to be shared, Maps checked, notes compared; A need, at times, of each for each, Direct as the need of throat and tongue for speech.


by J R R Tolkien | |

Sing All Ye People!

 Sing now, ye people of the Tower of Anor,
For the Realm of Sauron is ended for ever,
And the Dark Tower is thrown down.
Sing and rejoice, ye people of the Tower of Guard, For your watch hath not been in vain, And the Black Gate is broken, And your King hath passed through, And he is victorious.
Sing and be glad, all ye children of the West, For your King shall come again, And he shall dwell amoung you All the days of your life.
And the Tree that was withered shall be renewed, And he shall plant it in the high places, And the City shall be blessed.
Sing all ye people!


by J R R Tolkien | |

Theoden

 From dark Dunharrow in the dim morning
With thane and captain rode Thengel's son:
To Edoras he came, the ancient halls
Of the Mark-wardens mist-enshrouded;
Golden timbers were in gloom mantled.
Farewell he bade to his free people, Hearth and high-seat, and the hallowed places, Where long he had feasted ere the light faded.
Forth rode the king, fear behind him, Fate before him.
Fealty kept he; Oaths he had taken, all fulfilled them.
Forth rode Theoden.
Five nights and days East and onward rode the Eolingas.
Through Folde and Fenmarch and the Firienwood, Six thousand spears to Sunlending, Mundberg the mighty under Mindolluin, Sea-kings city in the South-kingdom Foe-beleaguered, fire-encircled.
Doom drove them on.
Darkness took them, Horse and horseman; hoofbeats afar Sank into silence: so the songs tell us.


by A E Housman | |

In Valleys of Springs and Rivers

 "Clunton and Clunbury,
Clungunford and Clun,
Are the quietest places
Under the sun.
" In valleys of springs and rivers, By Ony and Teme and Clun, The country for easy livers, The quietest under the sun, We still had sorrows to lighten, One could not be always glad, And lads knew trouble at Knighton When I was a Knighton lad.
By bridges that Thames runs under, In London, the town built ill, 'Tis sure small matter for wonder If sorrow is with one still.
And if as a lad grows older The troubles he bears are more, He carries his griefs on a shoulder That handselled them long before.
Where shall one halt to deliver This luggage I'd lief set down? Not Thames, not Teme is the river, Nor London nor Knighton the town: 'Tis a long way further than Knighton, A quieter place than Clun, Where doomsday may thunder and lighten And little 'twill matter to one.


by R S Thomas | |

A Blackbird Singing

 It seems wrong that out of this bird,
Black, bold, a suggestion of dark 
Places about it, there yet should come
Such rich music, as though the notes'
Ore were changed to a rare metal
At one touch of that bright bill.
You have heard it often, alone at your desk In a green April, your mind drawn Away from its work by sweet disturbance Of the mild evening outside your room.
A slow singer, but loading each phrase With history's overtones, love, joy And grief learned by his dark tribe In other orchards and passed on Instinctively as they are now, But fresh always with new tears.