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Best Famous Son Poems

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

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by William Shakespeare | |

Sonnet 71

No longer mourn for me when I am dead
Then you shall hear the surly sullen bell
Give warning to the world that I am fled
From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell:
Nay, if you read this line, remember not
The hand that writ it; for I love you so
That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot
If thinking on me then should make you woe.
O, if, I say, you look upon this verse When I perhaps compounded am with clay, Do not so much as my poor name rehearse.
But let your love even with my life decay, Lest the wise world should look into your moan And mock you with me after I am gone


by Edgar Lee Masters | |

Doc Hill

I went up and down the streets
Here and there by day and night,
Through all hours of the night caring for the poor who were sick.
Do you know why? My wife hated me, my son went to the dogs.
And I turned to the people and poured out my love to them.
Sweet it was to see the crowds about the lawns on the day of my funeral, And hear them murmur their love and sorrow.
But oh, dear God, my soul trembled, scarcely able To hold to the railing of the new life When I saw Em Stanton behind the oak tree At the grave, Hiding herself, and her grief!


by Allen Ginsberg | |

Wild Orphan

Blandly mother 
takes him strolling 
by railroad and by river 
-he's the son of the absconded 
hot rod angel- 
and he imagines cars 
and rides them in his dreams, 

so lonely growing up among 
the imaginary automobiles 
and dead souls of Tarrytown 

to create 
out of his own imagination 
the beauty of his wild 
forebears-a mythology 
he cannot inherit.
Will he later hallucinate his gods? Waking among mysteries with an insane gleam of recollection? The recognition- something so rare in his soul, met only in dreams -nostalgias of another life.
A question of the soul.
And the injured losing their injury in their innocence -a cock, a cross, an excellence of love.
And the father grieves in flophouse complexities of memory a thousand miles away, unknowing of the unexpected youthful stranger bumming toward his door.
- New York, April 13, 1952


by Edward Estlin (E E) Cummings | |

proud of his scientific attitude

proud of his scientific attitude

and liked the prince of wales wife wants to die
but the doctors won't let her comman considers fr
ood
whom he pronounces young mistaken and
cradles in rubbery one somewhat hand
the paper destinies of nations sic
item a bounceless period unshy
the empty house is full O Yes of guk
rooms daughter item son a woopsing queer
colon hobby photography never has plumbed
the heights of prowst but respects artists if
they are sincere proud of his scientif
ic attitude and liked the king of)hear

ye!the godless are the dull and the dull are the
damned


by John Donne | |

A Hymn to God the Father

WILT Thou forgive that sin where I begun  
Which was my sin though it were done before? 
Wilt Thou forgive that sin through which I run  
And do run still though still I do deplore? 
When Thou hast done Thou hast not done; 5 
For I have more.
Wilt Thou forgive that sin which I have won Others to sin and made my sins their door? Wilt Thou forgive that sin which I did shun A year or two but wallow'd in a score? 10 When Thou hast done Thou hast not done; For I have more.
I have a sin of fear that when I've spun My last thread I shall perish on the shore; But swear by Thyself that at my death Thy Son 15 Shall shine as He shines now and heretofore: And having done that Thou hast done; I fear no more.


by Edward Estlin (E E) Cummings | |

all which isnt singing is mere talking

all which isn't singing is mere talking

and all talking's talking to oneself
(whether that oneself be sought or seeking
master or disciple sheep or wolf)

gush to it as diety or devil
-toss in sobs and reasons threats and smiles
name it cruel fair or blessed evil-
it is you (ne i)nobody else

drive dumb mankind dizzy with haranguing
-you are deafened every mother's son-
all is merely talk which isn't singing
and all talking's to oneself alone

but the very song of(as mountains
feel and lovers)singing is silence


by Wang Wei | |

A FARM-HOUSE ON THE WEI RIVER

In the slant of the sun on the country-side, 
Cattle and sheep trail home along the lane; 
And a rugged old man in a thatch door 
Leans on a staff and thinks of his son, the herdboy.
There are whirring pheasants? full wheat-ears, Silk-worms asleep, pared mulberry-leaves.
And the farmers, returning with hoes on their shoulders, Hail one another familiarly.
.
.
.
No wonder I long for the simple life And am sighing the old song, Oh, to go Back Again!


by Philip Larkin | |

Mother Summer I

 My mother, who hates thunder storms, 
Holds up each summer day and shakes 
It out suspiciously, lest swarms 
Of grape-dark clouds are lurking there; 
But when the August weather breaks 
And rains begin, and brittle frost 
Sharpens the bird-abandoned air, 
Her worried summer look is lost, 

And I her son, though summer-born 
And summer-loving, none the less 
Am easier when the leaves are gone 
Too often summer days appear 
Emblems of perfect happiness 
I can't confront: I must await 
A time less bold, less rich, less clear: 
An autumn more appropriate.


by Jerome Rothenberg | |

A MISSAL LIKE A BONE

 Link by link
I can disown
no link.
(R.
Duncan) I search the passage someone sends & find a missal like a bone.
My hands are white with sweat.
I lay my burden down the ground below me shrinking.
The more my fingers ply these keys the more words daunt me.
I am what a haunt averts, what you who once spoke from my dream no longer tell.
The book is paradise.
An odor is a clue to what was lost.
I seek & speak son of a father with no home or heart.
I bantereed with a friend that there are speeds beyond the speed of light.
I spun around.
the calculus of two plus two, the mystery of false attachments, still persists.
I settled for a lesser light a circumstance found that my words rang true.


by Wang Wei | |

A Farmhouse on the Wei River

 In the slant of the sun on the country-side, 
Cattle and sheep trail home along the lane; 
And a rugged old man in a thatch door 
Leans on a staff and thinks of his son, the herdboy.
There are whirring pheasants, full wheat-ears, Silk-worms asleep, pared mulberry-leaves.
And the farmers, returning with hoes on their shoulders, Hail one another familiarly.
.
.
.
No wonder I long for the simple life And am sighing the old song, Oh, to go Back Again.


by Phillis Wheatley | |

To Captain H-----d of the 65th Regiment

 Say, muse divine, can hostile scenes delight
The warrior's bosom in the fields of fight?
Lo! here the christian and the hero join
With mutual grace to form the man divine.
In H-----D see with pleasure and surprise, Where valour kindles, and where virtue lies: Go, hero brave, still grace the post of fame, And add new glories to thine honour'd name, Still to the field, and still to virtue true: Britannia glories in no son like you.


by Richard Wilbur | |

Wedding Toast

 St.
John tells how, at Cana's wedding feast, The water-pots poured wine in such amount That by his sober count There were a hundred gallons at the least.
It made no earthly sense, unless to show How whatsoever love elects to bless Brims to a sweet excess That can without depletion overflow.
Which is to say that what love sees is true; That this world's fullness is not made but found.
Life hungers to abound And pour its plenty out for such as you.
Now, if your loves will lend an ear to mine, I toast you both, good son and dear new daughter.
May you not lack for water, And may that water smack of Cana's wine.


by Anne Kingsmill Finch | |

Verses

 Observe this Piece, which to our Sight does bring 
The fittest Posture for the Swedish King; 
(Encompass'd, as we think, with Armies round, 
Tho' not express'd within this narrow Bound) 
Who, whilst his warlike and extended Hand 
Directs the foremost Ranks to Charge or Stand, 
Reverts his Face, lest That, so Fair and Young, 
Should call in doubt the Orders of his Tongue: 
Whilst the excited, and embolden'd Rear 
Such Youth beholding, and such Features there, 
Devote their plainer Forms, and are asham'd to Fear.
Thus! ev'ry Action, ev'ry Grace of thine, O latest Son of Fame, Son of Gustavus Line! Affects thy Troops, with all that can inspire A blooming Sweetness, and a martial Fire, Fatal to none, but thy invading Foe.
So Lightnings, which to all their Brightness shew, Strike but the Man alone, who has provok'd the Blow


by Constantine P Cavafy | |

On An Italian Shore

 Kimos, son of Menedoros, a young Greek-Italian,
devotes his life to amusing himself,
like most young men in Greater Greece
brought up in the lap of luxury.
But today, in spite of his nature, he is preoccupied, dejected.
Near the shore he watched, deeply distressed, as they unload ships with booty taken from the Peloponnese.
G r e e k l o o t: b o o t y f r o m C o r i n t h.
Today certainly it is not right, it is not possible for the young Greek-Italian to want to amuse himself in any way.


by Constantine P Cavafy | |

Supplication

 The sea took a sailor to its depths.
-- His mother, unsuspecting, goes and lights a tall candle before the Virgin Mary for his speedy return and for fine weather -- and always she turns her ear to the wind.
But while she prays and implores, the icon listens, solemn and sad, knowing that the son she expects will no longer return.


by Walter Savage Landor | |

On Catullus

 Tell me not what too well I know
About the bard of Sirmio.
Yes, in Thalia’s son Such stains there are—as when a Grace Sprinkles another’s laughing face With nectar, and runs on.


by Ella Wheeler Wilcox | |

By-And-Bye

 ‘By-and-bye, ’ the maiden sighed – ‘by-and-bye
He will claim me for his bride, 
Hope is strong and time is fleet; 
Youth is fair, and love is sweet, 
Clouds will pass that fleck my sky, 
He will come back by-and-bye.
’ ‘By-and-bye, ’ the soldier said – ‘by-and-bye, After I have fought and bled, I shall go home from the wars, Crowned with glory, seamed with scars, Joy will flash from some one’s eye When she greets me by-and-bye- by-and-bye.
’ ‘By-and-bye, ’ the mother cried – ‘by-and-bye, Strong and sturdy at my side, Like a staff supporting me, Will my bonnie baby be.
Break my rest, then, wail and cry – Thou’lt repay me by-and-bye - by-and-bye.
’ Fleeting years of time have sped – hurried by – Still the maiden is unwed: All unknown soldier lies, Buried under alien skies; And the son, with blood-shot eye, Saw his mother starve and die.
God in heaven! dost Thou on high Keep the promised ‘by-and-bye’ - by-and-bye?


by Friedrich von Schiller | |

Naenia

 Even the beauteous must die! This vanquishes men and immortals;
But of the Stygian god moves not the bosom of steel.
Once and once only could love prevail on the ruler of shadows, And on the threshold, e'en then, sternly his gift he recalled.
Venus could never heal the wounds of the beauteous stripling, That the terrible boar made in his delicate skin; Nor could his mother immortal preserve the hero so godlike, When at the west gate of Troy, falling, his fate he fulfilled.
But she arose from the ocean with all the daughters of Nereus, And o'er her glorified son raised the loud accents of woe.
See! where all the gods and goddesses yonder are weeping, That the beauteous must fade, and that the perfect must die.
Even a woe-song to be in the mouth of the loved ones is glorious, For what is vulgar descends mutely to Orcus' dark shades.


by Algernon Charles Swinburne | |

Christopher Marlowe

 Crowned, girdled, garbed and shod with light and fire,
Son first-born of the morning, sovereign star!
Soul nearest ours of all, that wert most far,
Most far off in the abysm of time, thy lyre
Hung highest above the dawn-enkindled quire
Where all ye sang together, all that are,
And all the starry songs behind thy car
Rang sequence, all our souls acclaim thee sire.
"If all the pens that ever poets held Had fed the feeling of their masters' thoughts," And as with rush of hurtling chariots The flight of all their spirits were impelled Toward one great end, thy glory--nay, not then, Not yet might'st thou be praised enough of men.


by Henry Van Dyke | |

Sicily December 1908

 O garden isle, beloved by Sun and Sea, --
Whose bluest billows kiss thy curving bays,
Whose amorous light enfolds thee in warm rays
That fill with fruit each dark-leaved orange-tree, --
What hidden hatred hath the Earth for thee? 
Behold, again, in these dark, dreadful days, 
She trembles with her wrath, and swiftly lays 
Thy beauty waste in wreck and agony! 

Is Nature, then, a strife of jealous powers,
And man the plaything of unconscious fate?
Not so, my troubled heart! God reigns above
And man is greatest in his darkest hours:
Walking amid the cities desolate,
The Son of God appears in human love.