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Best Famous Rose Poems

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

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by William Rose Benet | |

Mad Blake

 Blake saw a treeful of angels at Peckham Rye, 
And his hands could lay hold on the tiger's terrible heart.
Blake knew how deep is Hell, and Heaven how high, And could build the universe from one tiny part.
Blake heard the asides of God, as with furrowed brow He sifts the star-streams between the Then and the Now, In vast infant sagacity brooding, an infant's grace Shining serene on his simple, benignant face.
Blake was mad, they say, -- and Space's Pandora-box Loosed its wonders upon him -- devils, but angels indeed.
I, they say, am sane, but no key of mine unlocks One lock of one gate wherethrough Heaven's glory is freed.
And I stand and I hold my breath, daylong, yearlong, Out of comfort and easy dreaming evermore starting awake, -- Yearning beyond all sanity for some echo of that Song Of Songs that was sung to the soul of the madman, Blake!


by Isaac Rosenberg | |

In the Trenches

 I snatched two poppies 
From the parapet’s ledge, 
Two bright red poppies 
That winked on the ledge.
Behind my ear I stuck one through, One blood red poppy I gave to you.
The sandbags narrowed And screwed out our jest, And tore the poppy You had on your breast .
.
.
Down - a shell - O! Christ, I am choked .
.
.
safe .
.
.
dust blind, I See trench floor poppies Strewn.
Smashed you lie.


by Isaac Rosenberg | |

Louse Hunting

 Nudes -- stark and glistening,
Yelling in lurid glee.
Grinning faces And raging limbs Whirl over the floor one fire.
For a shirt verminously busy Yon soldier tore from his throat, with oaths Godhead might shrink at, but not the lice.
And soon the shirt was aflare Over the candle he'd lit while we lay.
Then we all sprang up and stript To hunt the verminous brood.
Soon like a demons' pantomine The place was raging.
See the silhouettes agape, See the glibbering shadows Mixed with the battled arms on the wall.
See gargantuan hooked fingers Pluck in supreme flesh To smutch supreme littleness.
See the merry limbs in hot Highland fling Because some wizard vermin Charmed from the quiet this revel When our ears were half lulled By the dark music Blown from Sleep's trumpet.


by Isaac Rosenberg | |

On Receiving News of the War

 Snow is a strange white word.
No ice or frost Has asked of bud or bird For Winter's cost.
Yet ice and frost and snow From earth to sky This Summer land doth know.
No man knows why.
In all men's hearts it is.
Some spirit old Hath turned with malign kiss Our lives to mould.
Red fangs have torn His face.
God's blood is shed.
He mourns from His lone place His children dead.
O! ancient crimson curse! Corrode, consume.
Give back this universe Its pristine bloom.


by Isaac Rosenberg | |

Returning We Hear the Larks

 Sombre the night is.
And though we have our lives, we know What sinister threat lies there.
Dragging these anguished limbs, we only know This poison-blasted track opens on our camp - On a little safe sleep.
But hark! joy - joy - strange joy.
Lo! heights of night ringing with unseen larks.
Music showering our upturned list’ning faces.
Death could drop from the dark As easily as song - But song only dropped, Like a blind man’s dreams on the sand By dangerous tides, Like a girl’s dark hair for she dreams no ruin lies there, Or her kisses where a serpent hides.


by Isaac Rosenberg | |

The Jew

 Moses, from whose loins I sprung,
Lit by a lamp in his blood
Ten immutable rules, a moon
For mutable lampless men.
The blonde, the bronze, the ruddy, With the same heaving blood, Keep tide to the moon of Moses.
Then why do they sneer at me?


by Isaac Rosenberg | |

Through These Pale Cold Days

 Through these pale cold days
What dark faces burn
Out of three thousand years,
And their wild eyes yearn,

While underneath their brows
Like waifs their spirits grope
For the pools of Hebron again--
For Lebanon's summer slope.
They leave these blond still days In dust behind their tread They see with living eyes How long they have been dead.


by Isaac Rosenberg | |

Break of Day in the Trenches

 The darkness crumbles away 
It is the same old druid Time as ever, 
Only a live thing leaps my hand, 
A queer sardonic rat, 
As I pull the parapet's poppy
To stick behind my ear.
Droll rat, they would shoot you if they knew Your cosmopolitan sympathies, Now you have touched this English hand You will do the same to a German Soon, no doubt, if it be your pleasure To cross the sleeping green between.
It seems you inwardly grin as you pass Strong eyes, fine limbs, haughty athletes, Less chanced than you for life, Bonds to the whims of murder, Sprawled in the bowels of the earth, The torn fields of France.
What do you see in our eyes At the shrieking iron and flame Hurled through still heavens? What quaver -what heart aghast? Poppies whose roots are in men's veins Drop, and are ever dropping; But mine in my ear is safe, Just a little white with the dust.


by Ambrose Bierce | |

Freedom

 Freedom, as every schoolboy knows,
Once shrieked as Kosciusko fell;
On every wind, indeed, that blows
I hear her yell.
She screams whenever monarchs meet, And parliaments as well, To bind the chains about her feet And toll her knell.
And when the sovereign people cast The votes they cannot spell, Upon the pestilential blast Her clamors swell.
For all to whom the power's given To sway or to compel, Among themselves apportion Heaven And give her Hell.


by Ambrose Bierce | |

Piety

 The pig is taught by sermons and epistles
To think the God of Swine has snout and bristles.


by Ambrose Bierce | |

Rimer

 The rimer quenches his unheeded fires,
The sound surceases and the sense expires.
Then the domestic dog, to east and west, Expounds the passions burning in his breast.
The rising moon o'er that enchanted land Pauses to hear and yearns to understand.


by Ambrose Bierce | |

Alone

 In contact, lo! the flint and steel,
By sharp and flame, the thought reveal
That he the metal, she the stone,
Had cherished secretly alone.
Booley Fito.


by Ambrose Bierce | |

Decalogue

 Thou shalt no God but me adore:
'Twere too expensive to have more.
No images nor idols make For Roger Ingersoll to break.
Take not God's name in vain: select A time when it will have effect.
Work not on Sabbath days at all, But go to see the teams play ball.
Honor thy parents.
That creates For life insurance lower rates.
Kill not, abet not those who kill; Thou shalt not pay thy butcher's bill.
Kiss not thy neighbor's wife, unless Thine own thy neighbor doth caress.
Don't steal; thou'lt never thus compete Successfully in business.
Cheat.
Bear not false witness--that is low-- But "hear 'tis rumored so and so.
" Covet thou naught that thou hast got By hook or crook, or somehow, got.


by Ambrose Bierce | |

Elegy

 The cur foretells the knell of parting day;
The loafing herd winds slowly o'er the lea;
The wise man homewards plods; I only stay
To fiddle-faddle in a minor key.


by Ambrose Bierce | |

Weather

 Once I dipt into the future far as human eye could see,
And I saw the Chief Forecaster, dead as any one can be--
Dead and damned and shut in Hades as a liar from his birth,
With a record of unreason seldome paralleled on earth.
While I looked he reared him solemnly, that incandescent youth, From the coals that he'd preferred to the advantages of truth.
He cast his eyes about him and above him; then he wrote On a slab of thin asbestos what I venture here to quote-- For I read it in the rose-light of the everlasting glow: "Cloudy; variable winds, with local showers; cooler; snow.
"


by Ambrose Bierce | |

An Inscription

 A conqueror as provident as brave,
He robbed the cradle to supply the grave.
His reign laid quantities of human dust: He fell upon the just and the unjust.


by Ambrose Bierce | |

To the Bartholdi Statue

 O Liberty, God-gifted--
Young and immortal maid--
In your high hand uplifted,
The torch declares your trade.
Its crimson menace, flaming Upon the sea and shore, Is, trumpet-like, proclaiming That Law shall be no more.
Austere incendiary, We're blinking in the light; Where is your customary Grenade of dynamite? Where are your staves and switches For men of gentle birth? Your mask and dirk for riches? Your chains for wit and worth? Perhaps, you've brought the halters You used in the old days, When round religion's altars You stabled Cromwell's bays? Behind you, unsuspected, Have you the axe, fair wench, Wherewith you once collected A poll-tax for the French? America salutes you-- Preparing to 'disgorge.
' Take everything that suits you, And marry Henry George.


by Ambrose Bierce | |

With a Book

 Words shouting, singing, smiling, frowning--
Sense lacking.
Ah, nothing, more obscure than Browning, Save blacking.