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Best Famous Pride Poems

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

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by Edward Estlin (E E) Cummings | |

Humanity i love you

Humanity i love you
because you would rather black the boots of
success than enquire whose soul dangles from his
watch-chain which would be embarrassing for both

parties and because you 
unflinchingly applaud all
songs containing the words country home and
mother when sung at the old howard

Humanity i love you because
when you're hard up you pawn your
intelligence to buy a drink and when
you're flush pride keeps 

you from the pawn shops and
because you are continually committing
nuisances but more
especially in your own house

Humanity i love you because you 
are perpetually putting the secret of
life in your pants and forgetting
it's there and sitting down

on it
and because you are 
forever making poems in the lap
of death Humanity

i hate you


by Richard Wilbur | |

Parable

 I read how Quixote in his random ride
Came to a crossing once, and lest he lose
The purity of chance, would not decide

Whither to fare, but wished his horse to choose.
For glory lay wherever turned the fable.
His head was light with pride, his horse's shoes Were heavy, and he headed for the stable.


by Gerard Manley Hopkins | |

The Windhover: To Christ Our Lord

 I caught this morning morning's minion, king-
 dom of daylight's dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding
 Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding
High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing
In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing,
 As a skate's heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl and gliding
 Rebuffed the big wind.
My heart in hiding Stirred for a bird,--the achieve of; the mastery of the thing! Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here Buckle! AND the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion Times told lovelier, more dangerous, O my chevalier! No wonder of it: shéer plód makes plough down sillion Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear, Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermillion.


by Gerard Manley Hopkins | |

The Habit Of Perfection

 Elected Silence, sing to me
And beat upon my whorlèd ear,
Pipe me to pastures still and be
The music that I care to hear.
Shape nothing, lips; be lovely-dumb: It is the shut, the curfew sent From there where all surrenders come Which only makes you eloquent.
Be shellèd, eyes, with double dark And find the uncreated light: This ruck and reel which you remark Coils, keeps, and teases simple sight.
Palate, the hutch of tasty lust, Desire not to be rinsed with wine: The can must be so sweet, the crust So fresh that come in fasts divine! Nostrils, your careless breath that spend Upon the stir and keep of pride, What relish shall the censers send Along the sanctuary side! O feel-of-primrose hands, O feet That want the yield of plushy sward, But you shall walk the golden street And you unhouse and house the Lord.
And, Poverty, be thou the bride And now the marriage feast begun, And lily-coloured clothes provide Your spouse not laboured-at nor spun.


by Gerard Manley Hopkins | |

The Sea And The Skylark

 On ear and ear two noises too old to end
 Trench—right, the tide that ramps against the shore;
 With a flood or a fall, low lull-off or all roar,
Frequenting there while moon shall wear and wend.
Left hand, off land, I hear the lark ascend, His rash-fresh re-winded new-skeinèd score In crisps of curl off wild winch whirl, and pour And pelt music, till none 's to spill nor spend.
How these two shame this shallow and frail town! How ring right out our sordid turbid time, Being pure! We, life's pride and cared-for crown, Have lost that cheer and charm of earth's past prime: Our make and making break, are breaking, down To man's last dust, drain fast towards man's first slime.


by Gerard Manley Hopkins | |

Morning Midday And Evening Sacrifice

 The dappled die-away
Cheek and wimpled lip,
The gold-wisp, the airy-grey
Eye, all in fellowship—
This, all this beauty blooming,
This, all this freshness fuming,
Give God while worth consuming.
Both thought and thew now bolder And told by Nature: Tower; Head, heart, hand, heel, and shoulder That beat and breathe in power— This pride of prime's enjoyment Take as for tool, not toy meant And hold at Christ's employment.
The vault and scope and schooling And mastery in the mind, In silk-ash kept from cooling, And ripest under rind— What life half lifts the latch of, What hell stalks towards the snatch of, Your offering, with despatch, of!


by Anne Kingsmill Finch | |

La Passion Vaincue

 On the Banks of the Severn a desperate Maid 
(Whom some Shepherd, neglecting his Vows, had betray'd,) 
Stood resolving to banish all Sense of the Pain, 
And pursue, thro' her Death, a Revenge on the Swain.
Since the Gods, and my Passion, at once he defies; Since his Vanity lives, whilst my Character dies; No more (did she say) will I trifle with Fate, But commit to the Waves both my Love and my Hate.
And now to comply with that furious Desire, Just ready to plunge, and alone to expire, Some Reflection on Death, and its Terrors untry'd, Some Scorn for the Shepherd, some Flashings of Pride At length pull'd her back, and she cry'd, Why this Strife, Since the Swains are so Many, and I've but One Life?


by Anne Kingsmill Finch | |

Moral Song

 Would we attain the happiest State, 
That is design'd us here; 
No Joy a Rapture must create, 
No Grief beget Despair.
No Injury fierce Anger raise, No Honour tempt to Pride; No vain Desires of empty Praise Must in the Soul abide.
No Charms of Youth, or Beauty move The constant, settl'd Breast: Who leaves a Passage free to Love, Shall let in, all the rest.
In such a Heart soft Peace will live, Where none of these abound; The greatest Blessing, Heav'n do's give, Or can on Earth be found.


by Anne Kingsmill Finch | |

The Bird and the Arras

 By neer resemblance see that Bird betray'd
Who takes the well wrought Arras for a shade
There hopes to pearch and with a chearfull Tune
O're-passe the scortchings of the sultry Noon.
But soon repuls'd by the obdurate scean How swift she turns but turns alas in vain That piece a Grove, this shews an ambient sky Where immitated Fowl their pinnions ply Seeming to mount in flight and aiming still more high.
All she outstrip's and with a moments pride Their understation silent does deride Till the dash'd Cealing strikes her to the ground No intercepting shrub to break the fall is found Recovering breath the window next she gaines Nor fears a stop from the transparent Panes.
But we degresse and leaue th' imprison'd wretch Now sinking low now on a loftyer stretch Flutt'ring in endless cercles of dismay Till some kind hand directs the certain way Which through the casement an escape affoards And leads to ample space the only Heav'n of Birds.


by G K Chesterton | |

A Hymn

 O God of earth and altar, 
Bow down and hear our cry, 
Our earthly rulers falter, 
Our people drift and die; 
The walls of gold entomb us, 
The swords of scorn divide, 
Take not thy thunder from us, 
But take away our pride.
From all that terror teaches, From lies of tongue and pen, From all the easy speeches That comfort cruel men, From sale and profanation Of honour and the sword, From sleep and from damnation, Deliver us, good Lord.
Tie in a living tether The prince and priest and thrall, Bind all our lives together, Smite us and save us all; In ire and exultation Aflame with faith, and free, Lift up a living nation, A single sword to thee.


by Walter Savage Landor | |

Ianthes Question

 ‘Do you remember me? or are you proud?’
Lightly advancing thro’ her star-trimm’d crowd,
Ianthe said, and look’d into my eyes.
‘A yes, a yes to both: for Memory Where you but once have been must ever be, And at your voice Pride from his throne must rise.


by Walter Savage Landor | |

Proud Word You Never Spoke

 Proud word you never spoke, but you will speak
Four not exempt from pride some future day.
Resting on one white hand a warm wet cheek, Over my open volume you will say, 'This man loved me'—then rise and trip away.


by Walter Savage Landor | |

Do you Remember me? or are you Proud?

 "Do you remember me? or are you proud?"
Lightly advancing thro' her star-trimm'd crowd,
Ianthe said, and lookt into my eyes,
"A yes, a yes, to both: for Memory
Where you but once have been must ever be,
And at your voice Pride from his throne must rise.
"


by William Lisle Bowles | |

V. To the River Tweed.

 O TWEED! a stranger, that with wand'ring feet 
O'er hill and dale has journey'd many a mile, 
(If so his weary thoughts he might beguile) 
Delighted turns thy beauteous scenes to greet.
The waving branches that romantick bend O'er thy tall banks, a soothing charm bestow; The murmurs of thy wand'ring wave below Seem to his ear the pity of a friend.
Delightful stream! tho' now along thy shore, When spring returns in all her wonted pride, The shepherd's distant pipe is heard no more, Yet here with pensive peace could I abide, Far from the stormy world's tumultuous roar, To muse upon thy banks at eventide.


by William Lisle Bowles | |

In Age

 And art thou he, now "fallen on evil days," 
And changed indeed! Yet what do this sunk cheek, 
These thinner locks, and that calm forehead speak! 
A spirit reckless of man's blame or praise,-- 
A spirit, when thine eyes to the noon's blaze 
Their dark orbs roll in vain, in suffering meek, 
As in the sight of God intent to seek, 
Mid solitude or age, or through the ways 
Of hard adversity, the approving look 
Of its great Master; whilst the conscious pride 
Of wisdom, patient and content to brook 
All ills to that sole Master's task applied, 
Shall show before high heaven the unaltered mind, 
Milton, though thou art poor, and old, and blind!


by Edwin Arlington Robinson | |

The Flying Dutchman

 Unyielding in the pride of his defiance, 
Afloat with none to serve or to command, 
Lord of himself at last, and all by Science, 
He seeks the Vanished Land.
Alone, by the one light of his one thought, He steers to find the shore from which he came, Fearless of in what coil he may be caught On seas that have no name.
Into the night he sails, and after night There is a dawning, thought there be no sun; Wherefore, with nothing but himself in sight, Unsighted, he sails on.
At last there is a lifting of the cloud Between the flood before him and the sky; And then--though he may curse the Power aloud That has no power to die-- He steers himself away from what is haunted By the old ghost of what has been before,-- Abandoning, as always, and undaunted, One fog-walled island more.


by Edwin Arlington Robinson | |

An Old Story

 Strange that I did not know him then.
That friend of mine! I did not even show him then One friendly sign; But cursed him for the ways he had To make me see My envy of the praise he had For praising me.
I would have rid the earth of him Once, in my pride.
.
.
I never knew the worth of him Until he died.


by Edwin Arlington Robinson | |

The Corridor

 It may have been the pride in me for aught 
I know, or just a patronizing whim; 
But call it freak of fancy, or what not, 
I cannot hide the hungry face of him.
I keep a scant half-dozen words he said, And every now and then I lose his name; He may be living or he may be dead, But I must have him with me all the same.
I knew it and I knew it all along,-- And felt it once or twice, or thought I did; But only as a glad man feels a song That sounds around a stranger's coffin lid.
I knew it, and he knew it, I believe, But silence held us alien to the end; And I have now no magic to retrieve That year, to stop that hunger for a friend.


by George William Russell | |

Forgiveness

 My heart was heavy, for its trust had been 
Abused, its kindness answered with foul wrong; 
So, turning gloomily from my fellow-men, 
One summer Sabbath day I strolled among 
The green mounds of the village burial-place; 
Where, pondering how all human love and hate 
Find one sad level; and how, soon or late, 
Wronged and wrongdoer, each with meekened face, 
And cold hands folded over a still heart, 
Pass the green threshold of our common grave, 
Whither all footsteps tend, whence none depart, 
Awed for myself, and pitying my race, 
Our common sorrow, like a mighty wave, 
Swept all my pride away, and trembling I forgave!


by George William Russell | |

Inspiration

 LIGHTEST of dancers, with no thought
Thy glimmering feet beat on my heart,
Gayest of singers, with no care
Waking to beauty the still air,
More than the labours of our art,
More than our wisdom can impart,
Thine idle ecstasy hath taught.
Lost long in solemn ponderings, With the blind shepherd mind for guide, The uncreated joy in you Hath lifted up my heart unto The morning stars in their first pride, And the angelic joys that glide High upon heaven-uplifted wings.