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Best Famous Sport Poems

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

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by Phillis Wheatley | |

A Rebus By I. B.

 I.
A BIRD delicious to the taste, On which an army once did feast, Sent by an hand unseen; A creature of the horned race, Which Britain's royal standards grace; A gem of vivid green; II.
A town of gaiety and sport, Where beaux and beauteous nymphs resort, And gallantry doth reign; A Dardan hero fam'd of old For youth and beauty, as we're told, And by a monarch slain; III.
A peer of popular applause, Who doth our violated laws, And grievances proclaim.
Th' initials show a vanquish'd town, That adds fresh glory and renown To old Britannia's fame.


by Algernon Charles Swinburne | |

The Many

 Greene, garlanded with February's few flowers
Ere March came in with Marlowe's rapturous rage;
Peele, from whose hand the sweet white locks of age
Took the mild chaplet woven of honored hours;
Nash, laughing hard; Lodge, flushed from lyric bowers;
And Lilly, a goldfinch in a twisted cage
Fed by some gay great lady's pettish page
Till short sweet songs gush clear like short spring showers;
Kid, whose grim sport still gamboled over graves;
And Chettle, in whose fresh funereal verse
Weeps Marian yet on Robin's wildwood hearse;
Cooke, whose light boat of song one soft breath saves,
Sighed from a maiden's amorous mouth averse;
Live likewise ye--Time takes not you for slaves.


by Mary Darby Robinson | |

Sonnet IX: Ye Who in Alleys Green

 Ye, who in alleys green and leafy bow'rs,
Sport, the rude children of fantastic birth;
Where frolic nymphs, and shaggy tribes of mirth,
In clam'rous revels waste the midnight hours;
Who, link'd in flaunting bands of mountain flow'rs,
Weave your wild mazes o'er the dewy earth,
Ere the fierce Lord of Lustre rushes forth,
And o'er the world his beamy radiance pours!
Oft has your clanking cymbal's madd'ning strain,
Loud ringing through the torch-illumin'd grove,
Lur'd my lov'd Phaon from the youthful train,
Through rugged dells, o'er craggy rocks to rove; 
Then how can she his vagrant heart detain,
Whose Lyre throbs only to the touch of Love!


by Mary Darby Robinson | |

Sonnet XXXI: Far Oer the Waves

 Far o'er the waves my lofty Bark shall glide,
Love's frequent sighs the flutt'ring sails shall swell,
While to my native home I bid farewell,
Hope's snowy hand the burnis'd helm shall guide!
Triton's shall sport admidst the yielding tide,
Myriads of Cupids round the prow shall dwell,
And Venus, thron'd within her opal shell,
Shall proudly o'er the glitt'ring billows ride!
Young Dolphins, dashing in the golden spray,
Shall with their scaly forms illume the deep
Ting'd with the purple flush of sinking day,
Whose flaming wreath shall crown the distant steep;
While on the breezy deck soft minstrels play,
And songs of love, the lover soothe to sleep!


by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | |

THE SAME EXPANDED.

 IF thou wouldst live unruffled by care,
Let not the past torment thee e'er;
If any loss thou hast to rue,
Act as though thou wert born anew;
Inquire the meaning of each day,
What each day means itself will say;
In thine own actions take thy pleasure,
What others do, thou'lt duly treasure;
Ne'er let thy breast with hate be supplied,
And to God the future confide.
----- IF wealth is gone--then something is gone! Quick, make up thy mind, And fresh wealth find.
If honour is gone--then much is gone! Seek glory to find, And people then will alter their mind.
If courage is gone--then all is gone! 'Twere better that thou hadst never been born.
----- HE who with life makes sport, Can prosper never; Who rules himself in nought, Is a slave ever.
MAY each honest effort be Crown'd with lasting constancy.
----- EACH road to the proper end Runs straight on, without a bend.
1825.


by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | |

SHE CANNOT END.

 WHEN unto thee I sent the page all white,

Instead of first thereon inscribing aught,

The space thou doubtless filledst up in sport.
And sent it me, to make my joy grow bright.
As soon as the blue cover met my sight, As well becomes a woman, quick as thought I tore it open, leaving hidden nought, And read the well-known words of pure delight: MY ONLY BEING! DEAREST HEART! SWEET CHILD! How kindly thou my yearning then didst still With gentle words, enthralling me to thee.
In truth methought I read thy whispers mild Wherewith thou lovingly my soul didst fill, E'en to myself for aye ennobling me.
1807?8.


by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | |

PREMATURE SPRING.

 DAYS full of rapture,

Are ye renew'd ?--
Smile in the sunlight

Mountain and wood?

Streams richer laden

Flow through the dale,
Are these the meadows?

Is this the vale?

Coolness cerulean!

Heaven and height!
Fish crowd the ocean,

Golden and bright.
Birds of gay plumage Sport in the grove, Heavenly numbers Singing above.
Under the verdure's Vigorous bloom, Bees, softly bumming, Juices consume.
Gentle disturbance Quivers in air, Sleep-causing fragrance, Motion so fair.
Soon with more power Rises the breeze, Then in a moment Dies in the trees.
But to the bosom Comes it again.
Aid me, ye Muses, Bliss to sustain! Say what has happen'd Since yester e'en? Oh, ye fair sisters, Her I have seen! 1802.


by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | |

MISCHIEVOUS JOY.

 AS a butterfly renew'd,

When in life I breath'd my last,

To the spots my flight I wing,

Scenes of heav'nly rapture past,

Over meadows, to the spring,
Round the hill, and through the wood.
Soon a tender pair I spy, And I look down from my seat On the beauteous maiden's head-- When embodied there I meet All I lost as soon as dead, Happy as before am I.
Him she clasps with silent smile, And his mouth the hour improves, Sent by kindly Deities; First from breast to mouth it roves, Then from mouth to hands it flies, And I round him sport the while.
And she sees me hov'ring near; Trembling at her lovers rapture, Up she springs--I fly away, "Dearest! let's the insect capture Come! I long to make my prey Yonder pretty little dear!" 1767-9.


by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | |

NEXT YEARS SPRING.

 THE bed of flowers

Loosens amain,
The beauteous snowdrops

Droop o'er the plain.
The crocus opens Its glowing bud, Like emeralds others, Others, like blood.
With saucy gesture Primroses flare, And roguish violets, Hidden with care; And whatsoever There stirs and strives, The Spring's contented, If works and thrives.
'Mongst all the blossoms That fairest are, My sweetheart's sweetness Is sweetest far; Upon me ever Her glances light, My song they waken, My words make bright, An ever open And blooming mind, In sport, unsullied, In earnest, kind.
Though roses and lilies By Summer are brought, Against my sweetheart Prevails he nought.
1816.


by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | |

THE BOUNDARIES OF HUMANITY.

 WHEN the primeval
All-holy Father
Sows with a tranquil hand
From clouds, as they roll,
Bliss-spreading lightnings
Over the earth,
Then do I kiss the last
Hem of his garment,
While by a childlike awe
Fiil'd is my breast.
For with immortals Ne'er may a mortal Measure himself.
If he soar upwards And if he touch With his forehead the stars, Nowhere will rest then His insecure feet, And with him sport Tempest and cloud.
Though with firm sinewy Limbs he may stand On the enduring Well-grounded earth, All he is ever Able to do, Is to resemble The oak or the vine.
Wherein do gods Differ from mortals? In that the former See endless billows Heaving before them; Us doth the billow Lift up and swallow, So that we perish.
Small is the ring Enclosing our life, And whole generations Link themselves firmly On to existence's Chain never-ending.
1789.


by Ellis Parker Butler | |

Bird Nesting

 O wonderful! In sport we climbed the tree,
Eager and laughing, as in all our play,
To see the eggs where, in the nest, they lay,
But silent fell before the mystery.
For, one brief moment there, we understood By sudden sympathy too fine for words That we were sisters to the brooding birds And part, with them, in God’s great motherhood.


by Sir John Suckling | |

I prithee spare me gentle boy

 I prithee spare me gentle boy,
Press me no more for that slight toy,
That foolish trifle of an heart;
I swear it will not do its part,
Though thou dost thine, employ'st thy pow'r and art.
For through long custom it has known The little secrets, and is grown Sullen and wise, will have its will, And like old hawks pursues that still That makes least sport, flies only where't can kill.
Some youth that has not made his story, Will think perchance the pain's the glory, And mannerly sit out love's feast; I shall be carving of the best, Rudely call for the last course 'fore the rest.
And oh when once that course is past, How short a time the feast doth last; Men rise away and scarce say grace, Or civilly once thank the face That did invite, but seek another place.


by | |

The Cat And The Fiddle

 

    Hey, diddle, diddle!
    The cat and the fiddle,
The cow jumped over the moon;
    The little dog laughed
    To see such sport,
And the dish ran away with the spoon.


by Robert Seymour Bridges | |

To Thos. Floyd

 How fares it, friend, since I by Fate annoy'd 
Left the old home in need of livelier play 
For body and mind? How fare, this many a day, 
The stubborn thews and ageless heart of Floyd? 
If not too well with country sport employ'd, 
Visit my flock, the breezy hill that they 
Choose for their fold; and see, for thence you may, 
From rising walls all roofless yet and void, 
The lovely city, thronging tower and spire, 
The mind of the wide landscape, dreaming deep, 
Grey-silvery in the vale; a shrine where keep 
Memorian hopes their pale celestial fire: 
Like man's immortal conscience of desire, 
The spirit that watcheth in me ev'n in my sleep.


by Ben Jonson | |

To Fine Lady Would-Be


LXII.
 ? TO FINE LADY WOULD-BE.
  
Fine madam WOULD-BE, wherefore should you fear,
That love to make so well, a child to bear ?
The world reputes you barren :  but I know
Your pothecary, and his drug, says no.

Is it the pain affrights ?  that's soon forgot.

Or your complexion's loss ?  you have a pot,
That can restore that.
  Will it hurt your feature ?
To make amends, you are thought a wholesome creature.

What should the cause be ?  oh, you live at court ;
And there's both loss of time, and loss of sport,
In a great belly :  Write then on thy womb,
? Of the not born, yet buried, here's the tomb.
?


by Charles Kingsley | |

Young and Old

 1 When all the world is young, lad,
2 And all the trees are green;
3 And every goose a swan, lad,
4 And every lass a queen;
5 Then hey for boot and horse, lad,
6 And round the world away!
7 Young blood must have its course, lad,
8 And every dog his day.
9 When all the world is old, lad, 10 And all the trees are brown; 11 And all the sport is stale, lad, 12 And all the wheels run down; 13 Creep home, and take your place there, 14 The spent and maimed among; 15 God grant you find one face there, 16 You loved when all was young.


by Mercy Otis Warren | |

Your pardon first I crave

Your pardon first I crave for this intrusion.
The topic's such it looks like a delusion; And next your candour, for I swear and vow, Such an attempt I never made till now.
But constant laughing at the Desp'rate fate, The bastard sons of Mars endur'd of late, Induc'd me thus to minute down the notion, Which put my risibles in such commotion.
By yankees frighted too! oh, dire to say! Why yankees sure at red-coats faint away! Oh, yes—They thought so too—for lack-a-day, Their gen'ral turned the blockade to a play: Poor vain poltroons—with justice we'll retort, And call them blockheads for their idle sport.


by George Herbert | |

The Quip

 The merry world did on a day
With his train-bands and mates agree
To meet together where I lay,
And all in sport to jeer at me.
First, Beauty crept into a rose, Which when I plucked not, "Sir," said she, "Tell me, I pray, whose hands are those?" But thou shalt answer, Lord, for me.
Then Money came, and chinking still, "What tune is this, poor man?" said he, "I heard in music you had skill.
" But thou shalt answer, Lord, for me.
Then came brave Glory puffing by In silks that whistled—who but he? He scarce allowed me half an eye.
But thou shalt answer, Lord, for me.
Then came quick Wit and Conversation, And he would needs a comfort be, And, to be short, make an oration.
But thou shalt answer, Lord, for me.
Yet when the hour of thy design To answer these fine things shall come, Speak not at large: say, I am thine; And then they have their answer home.


by Vachel Lindsay | |

What the Ghost of the Gambler Said

 WHERE now the huts are empty, 
Where never a camp-fire glows, 
In an abandoned cañon, 
A Gambler's Ghost arose.
He muttered there, "The moon's a sack Of dust.
" His voice rose thin: "I wish I knew the miner-man.
I'd play, and play to win.
In every game in Cripple-creek Of old, when stakes were high, I held my own.
Now I would play For that sack in the sky.
The sport would not be ended there.
'Twould rather be begun.
I'd bet my moon against his stars, And gamble for the sun.


by Sarojini Naidu | |

The Royal Tombs Of Golconda

 I MUSE among these silent fanes 
Whose spacious darkness guards your dust; 
Around me sleep the hoary plains 
That hold your ancient wars in trust.
I pause, my dreaming spirit hears, Across the wind's unquiet tides, The glimmering music of your spears, The laughter of your royal brides.
In vain, O Kings, doth time aspire To make your names oblivion's sport, While yonder hill wears like a tier The ruined grandeur of your fort.
Though centuries falter and decline, Your proven strongholds shall remain Embodied memories of your line, Incarnate legends of your reign.
O Queens, in vain old Fate decreed Your flower-like bodies to the tomb; Death is in truth the vital seed Of your imperishable bloom Each new-born year the bulbuls sing Their songs of your renascent loves; Your beauty wakens with the spring To kindle these pomegranate groves.