Submit Your Poems
Get Your Premium Membership



Best Famous Sports Poems

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

Search for the best famous Sports poems, articles about Sports poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Sports poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

See also:

Famous poems below this ad
Written by Petrarch | |

SONNET CXCI.

SONNET CXCI.

Aura, che quelle chiome bionde e crespe.

HE ENVIES THE BREEZE WHICH SPORTS WITH HER, THE STREAM THAT FLOWS TOWARDS HER.

Ye laughing gales, that sporting with my fair,
The silky tangles of her locks unbraid;
And down her breast their golden treasures spread;
Then in fresh mazes weave her curling hair,
You kiss those bright destructive eyes, that bear
The flaming darts by which my heart has bled;
My trembling heart! that oft has fondly stray'd
To seek the nymph, whose eyes such terrors wear.
Methinks she's found—but oh! 'tis fancy's cheat!
Methinks she's seen—but oh! 'tis love's deceit!
Methinks she's near—but truth cries "'tis not so!"
Go happy gale, and with my Laura dwell!
Go happy stream, and to my Laura tell
What envied joys in thy clear crystal flow!
Anon.
1777.
Thou gale, that movest, and disportest round
Those bright crisp'd locks, by them moved sweetly too,
That all their fine gold scatter'st to the view,
Then coil'st them up in beauteous braids fresh wound;
About those eyes thou playest, where abound
The am'rous swarms, whose stings my tears renew!
And I my treasure tremblingly pursue,
Like some scared thing that stumbles o'er the ground.
[Pg 203]Methinks I find her now, and now perceive
She's distant; now I soar, and now descend;
Now what I wish, now what is true believe.
Stay and enjoy, blest air, the living beam;
And thou, O rapid, and translucent stream,
Why can't I change my course, and thine attend?
Nott.


Written by Ben Jonson | |

Song To Celia

  

V.
— SONG.
— TO CELIA.
             


He at length our good will sever.
Spend not then his gifts in vain.
        5
Suns that set, may rise again:
But if once we lose this light,
'Tis with us perpetual night.
Why should we defer our joys ?
Fame and rumor are but toys.
         10
Cannot we delude the eyes
Of a few poor household spies ;
Or his easier ears buguile,
So removed by our wile ?
'Tis no sin love's fruit to steal,         15
But the sweet theft to reveal :
To be taken, to be seen,
These have crimes accounted been.


While we may, the sports of love ;
Time will not be ours for ever :
He at length our good will sever.
Spend not then his gifts in vain.
        5
Suns that set, may rise again:
But if once we lose this light,
'Tis with us perpetual night.
Why should we defer our joys ?
Fame and rumor are but toys.
         10
Cannot we delude the eyes
Of a few poor household spies ;
Or his easier ears buguile,
So removed by our wile ?
'Tis no sin love's fruit to steal,         15
But the sweet theft to reveal :
To be taken, to be seen,
These have crimes accounted been.


Written by Ben Jonson | |

To Groom Idiot


LVIII.
 ? TO GROOM IDIOT.
  
IDIOT, last night, I pray'd thee but forbear
To read my verses ;  now I must to hear :
For offering with thy smiles my wit to grace,
Thy ignorance still laughs in the wrong place.

And so my sharpness thou no less disjoints,
Than thou didst late my sense, losing my points.

So have I seen, at Christmas-sports, one lost,
And hood-wink'd, for a man embrace a post.



More great poems below...

Written by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | |

SELF-DECEIT.

 My neighbour's curtain, well I see,

Is moving to and fin.
No doubt she's list'ning eagerly, If I'm at home or no.
And if the jealous grudge I bore And openly confess'd, Is nourish'd by me as before, Within my inmost breast.
Alas! no fancies such as these E'er cross'd the dear child's thoughts.
I see 'tis but the ev'ning breeze That with the curtain sports.
1803.


Written by Anne Kingsmill Finch | |

A Pastoral Dialogue Between Two Shepherdesses

 [Silvia] Pretty Nymph! within this Shade, 
Whilst the Flocks to rest are laid,
Whilst the World dissolves in Heat,
Take this cool, and flow'ry Seat: 
And with pleasing Talk awhile
Let us two the Time beguile; 
Tho' thou here no Shepherd see, 
To encline his humble Knee, 
Or with melancholy Lays 
Sing thy dangerous Beauty's Praise.
[Dorinda] Nymph! with thee I here wou'd stay, But have heard, that on this Day, Near those Beeches, scarce in view, All the Swains some Mirth pursue: To whose meeting now I haste.
Solitude do's Life but waste.
[Silvia] Prithee, but a Moment stay.
[Dorinda] No! my Chaplet wou'd decay; Ev'ry drooping Flow'r wou'd mourn, And wrong the Face, they shou'd adorn.
[Silvia] I can tell thee, tho' so Fair, And dress'd with all that rural Care, Most of the admiring Swains Will be absent from the Plains.
Gay Sylvander in the Dance Meeting with a shrew'd Mischance, To his Cabin's now confin'd By Mopsus, who the Strain did bind: Damon through the Woods do's stray, Where his Kids have lost their way: Young Narcissus iv'ry Brow Rac'd by a malicious Bough, Keeps the girlish Boy from sight, Till Time shall do his Beauty right.
[Dorinda] Where's Alexis? [Silvia] –He, alas! Lies extended on the Grass; Tears his Garland, raves, despairs, Mirth and Harmony forswears; Since he was this Morning shown, That Delia must not be his Own.
[Dorinda] Foolish Swain! such Love to place.
[Silvia] On any but Dorinda's Face.
[Dorinda] Hasty Nymph! I said not so.
[Silvia] No–but I thy Meaning know.
Ev'ry Shepherd thou wou'd'st have Not thy Lover, but thy Slave; To encrease thy captive Train, Never to be lov'd again.
But, since all are now away, Prithee, but a Moment stay.
[Dorinda] No; the Strangers, from the Vale, Sure will not this Meeting fail; Graceful one, the other Fair.
He too, with the pensive Air, Told me, ere he came this way He was wont to look more Gay.
[Silvia] See! how Pride thy Heart inclines To think, for Thee that Shepherd pines; When those Words, that reach'd thy Ear, Chloe was design'd to hear; Chloe, who did near thee stand, And his more speaking Looks command.
[Dorinda] Now thy Envy makes me smile.
That indeed were worth his while: Chloe next thyself decay'd, And no more a courted Maid.
[Silvia] Next myself! Young Nymph, forbear.
Still the Swains allow me Fair, Tho' not what I was that Day, When Colon bore the Prize away; When– [Dorinda] –Oh, hold! that Tale will last, Till all the Evening Sports are past; Till no Streak of Light is seen, Nor Footstep prints the flow'ry Green.
What thou wert, I need not know, What I am, must haste to show.
Only this I now discern From the things, thou'd'st have me learn, That Woman-kind's peculiar Joys From past, or present Beauties rise.


Written by Anne Kingsmill Finch | |

Cupid And Folly

 CUPID, ere depriv'd of Sight, 
Young and apt for all Delight, 
Met with Folly on the way, 
As Idle and as fond of Play.
In gay Sports the time they pass; Now run, now wrestle on the Grass; Their painted Wings then nimbly ply, And ev'ry way for Mast'ry try: 'Till a Contest do's arise, Who has won th' appointed Prize.
Gentle Love refers the Case To the next, that comes in Place; Trusting to his flatt'ring Wiles, And softens the Dispute with Smiles.
But Folly, who no Temper knows, Words pursues with hotter Blows: 'Till the eyes of Love were lost, Which has such Pain to Mortals cost.
Venus hears his mournful Crys, And repeats 'em, in the Skys, To Jupiter in Council set, With Peers for the Occasion met; In her Arms the Boy she bears, Bathing him in falling Tears; And whilst his want of Eyes is shown, Secures the Judges by her Own.
Folly to the Board must come, And hear the Tryal and the Doom; Which Cytherea loudly prays May be as heavy as the Case: Which, when All was justly weigh'd, Cupid's Wings now useless made, That a staff, his Feet must guide, Which wou'd still be apt to slide; This Decree at last was read, That Love by Folly shou'd be lead.


Written by Ella Wheeler Wilcox | |

So Long In Coming

 When shall I hear the thrushes sing, 
And see their graceful, round throats swelling? 
When shall I watch the bluebirds bring
The straws and twiglets for their dwelling? 
When shall I hear among the trees
The little martial partridge drumming? 
Oh! Hasten! Sights and sounds that please –
The summer is so long in coming.
The winds are talking with the sun; I hope they will combine together And melt the snow-drifts, one by one, And bring again the golden weather.
Oh, haste, make haste, dear sun and wind, I long to hear the brown bee humming; I seek for blooms I cannot find, The summer is so long in coming.
The winter has been cold, so cold; Its winds are harsh, and bleak, and dreary, And all its sports are stale and old; We wait for something now more cheery.
Come up, O summer, from the south, And bring the harps your hands are thrumming.
We pine for kisses from your mouth! Oh! Do not be so long in coming.


Written by Friedrich von Schiller | |

The Dance

 See how, like lightest waves at play, the airy dancers fleet;
And scarcely feels the floor the wings of those harmonious feet.
Ob, are they flying shadows from their native forms set free? Or phantoms in the fairy ring that summer moonbeams see? As, by the gentle zephyr blown, some light mist flees in air, As skiffs that skim adown the tide, when silver waves are fair, So sports the docile footstep to the heave of that sweet measure, As music wafts the form aloft at its melodious pleasure, Now breaking through the woven chain of the entangled dance, From where the ranks the thickest press, a bolder pair advance, The path they leave behind them lost--wide open the path beyond, The way unfolds or closes up as by a magic wand.
See now, they vanish from the gaze in wild confusion blended; All, in sweet chaos whirled again, that gentle world is ended! No!--disentangled glides the knot, the gay disorder ranges-- The only system ruling here, a grace that ever changes.
For ay destroyed--for ay renewed, whirls on that fair creation; And yet one peaceful law can still pervade in each mutation.
And what can to the reeling maze breathe harmony and vigor, And give an order and repose to every gliding figure? That each a ruler to himself doth but himself obey, Yet through the hurrying course still keeps his own appointed way.
What, would'st thou know? It is in truth the mighty power of tune, A power that every step obeys, as tides obey the moon; That threadeth with a golden clue the intricate employment, Curbs bounding strength to tranquil grace, and tames the wild enjoyment.
And comes the world's wide harmony in vain upon thine ears? The stream of music borne aloft from yonder choral spheres? And feel'st thou not the measure which eternal Nature keeps? The whirling dance forever held in yonder azure deeps? The suns that wheel in varying maze?--That music thou discernest? No! Thou canst honor that in sport which thou forgettest in earnest.


Written by Friedrich von Schiller | |

To A Moralist

 Are the sports of our youth so displeasing?
Is love but the folly you say?
Benumbed with the winter, and freezing,
You scold at the revels of May.
For you once a nymph had her charms, And Oh! when the waltz you were wreathing, All Olympus embraced in your arms-- All its nectar in Julia's breathing.
If Jove at that moment had hurled The earth in some other rotation, Along with your Julia whirled, You had felt not the shock of creation.
Learn this--that philosophy beats Sure time with the pulse,--quick or slow As the blood from the heyday retreats,-- But it cannot make gods of us--No! It is well icy reason should thaw In the warm blood of mirth now and then, The gods for themselves have a law Which they never intended for men.
The spirit is bound by the ties Of its gaoler, the flesh;--if I can Not reach as an angel the skies, Let me feel on the earth as a man!


Written by Mary Darby Robinson | |

Sonnet XXXII: Blest As the Gods

 Blest as the Gods! Sicilian Maid is he,
The youth whose soul thy yielding graces charm;
Who bound, O! thraldom sweet! by beauty's arm,
In idle dalliance fondly sports with thee!
Blest as the Gods! that iv'ry throne to see,
Throbbing with transports, tender, timid, warm!
While round thy fragrant lips zephyrs swarm!
As op'ning buds attract the wand'ring Bee!
Yet, short is youthful passion's fervid hour;
Soon, shall another clasp the beauteous boy;
Soon, shall a rival prove, in that gay bow'r,
The pleasing torture of excessive joy!
The Bee flies sicken'd from the sweetest flow'r;
The lightning's shaft, but dazzles to destroy!


Written by Marge Piercy | |

What Are Big Girls Made Of?

 The construction of a woman:
a woman is not made of flesh 
of bone and sinew 
belly and breasts, elbows and liver and toe.
She is manufactured like a sports sedan.
She is retooled, refitted and redesigned every decade.
Cecile had been seduction itself in college.
She wriggled through bars like a satin eel, her hips and ass promising, her mouth pursed in the dark red lipstick of desire.
She visited in '68 still wearing skirts tight to the knees, dark red lipstick, while I danced through Manhattan in mini skirt, lipstick pale as apricot milk, hair loose as a horse's mane.
Oh dear, I thought in my superiority of the moment, whatever has happened to poor Cecile? She was out of fashion, out of the game, disqualified, disdained, dis- membered from the club of desire.
Look at pictures in French fashion magazines of the 18th century: century of the ultimate lady fantasy wrought of silk and corseting.
Paniers bring her hips out three feet each way, while the waist is pinched and the belly flattened under wood.
The breasts are stuffed up and out offered like apples in a bowl.
The tiny foot is encased in a slipper never meant for walking.
On top is a grandiose headache: hair like a museum piece, daily ornamented with ribbons, vases, grottoes, mountains, frigates in full sail, balloons, baboons, the fancy of a hairdresser turned loose.
The hats were rococo wedding cakes that would dim the Las Vegas strip.
Here is a woman forced into shape rigid exoskeleton torturing flesh: a woman made of pain.
How superior we are now: see the modern woman thin as a blade of scissors.
She runs on a treadmill every morning, fits herself into machines of weights and pulleys to heave and grunt, an image in her mind she can never approximate, a body of rosy glass that never wrinkles, never grows, never fades.
She sits at the table closing her eyes to food hungry, always hungry: a woman made of pain.
A cat or dog approaches another, they sniff noses.
They sniff asses.
They bristle or lick.
They fall in love as often as we do, as passionately.
But they fall in love or lust with furry flesh, not hoop skirts or push up bras rib removal or liposuction.
It is not for male or female dogs that poodles are clipped to topiary hedges.
If only we could like each other raw.
If only we could love ourselves like healthy babies burbling in our arms.
If only we were not programmed and reprogrammed to need what is sold us.
Why should we want to live inside ads? Why should we want to scourge our softness to straight lines like a Mondrian painting? Why should we punish each other with scorn as if to have a large ass were worse than being greedy or mean? When will women not be compelled to view their bodies as science projects, gardens to be weeded, dogs to be trained? When will a woman cease to be made of pain?


Written by Roger McGough | |

Let Me Die a Youngmans Death

 Let me die a youngman's death
not a clean and inbetween
the sheets holywater death
not a famous-last-words
peaceful out of breath death

When I'm 73
and in constant good tumour
may I be mown down at dawn
by a bright red sports car
on my way home
from an allnight party

Or when I'm 91
with silver hair
and sitting in a barber's chair
may rival gangsters
with hamfisted tommyguns burst in
and give me a short back and insides

Or when I'm 104
and banned from the Cavern
may my mistress
catching me in bed with her daughter
and fearing for her son
cut me up into little pieces
and throw away every piece but one

Let me die a youngman's death
not a free from sin tiptoe in
candle wax and waning death
not a curtains drawn by angels borne
'what a nice way to go' death


Written by Thomas Moore | |

Farewell! -- But Whenever You Welcome the Hour

 Farewell! but whenever you welcome the hour 
That awakens the night-song of mirth in your bower, 
Then think of the friend who once welcomed it too, 
And forgot his own griefs to be happy with you.
His griefs may return, not a hope may remain Of the few that have brighten'd his pathway of pain, But he ne'er will forget the short vision, that threw Its enchantment around him, while lingering with you.
And still on that evening, when pleasure fills up To the highest top sparkle each heart and each cup, Where'er my path lies, be it gloomy or bright, My soul, happy friends, shall be with you that night; Shall join in your revels, your sports, and your wiles, And return to me, beaming all o'er with your smiles -- Too blest, if it tells me that, 'mid the gay cheer, Some kind voice has murmur'd, "I wish he were here!" Let Fate do her worst, there are relics of joy, Bright dreams of the past, which she cannot destroy; Which come in the night-time of sorrow and care, And bring back the features that joy used to wear.
Long, long be my heart with such memories fill'd! Like the vase, in which roses have once been distill'd -- You may break, you may shatter the vase, if you will, But the scent of the roses will hang round it still.


Written by Michael Ondaatje | |

To A Sad Daughter

 All night long the hockey pictures
gaze down at you
sleeping in your tracksuit.
Belligerent goalies are your ideal.
Threats of being traded cuts and wounds --all this pleases you.
O my god! you say at breakfast reading the sports page over the Alpen as another player breaks his ankle or assaults the coach.
When I thought of daughters I wasn't expecting this but I like this more.
I like all your faults even your purple moods when you retreat from everyone to sit in bed under a quilt.
And when I say 'like' I mean of course 'love' but that embarrasses you.
You who feel superior to black and white movies (coaxed for hours to see Casablanca) though you were moved by Creature from the Black Lagoon.
One day I'll come swimming beside your ship or someone will and if you hear the siren listen to it.
For if you close your ears only nothing happens.
You will never change.
I don't care if you risk your life to angry goalies creatures with webbed feet.
You can enter their caves and castles their glass laboratories.
Just don't be fooled by anyone but yourself.
This is the first lecture I've given you.
You're 'sweet sixteen' you said.
I'd rather be your closest friend than your father.
I'm not good at advice you know that, but ride the ceremonies until they grow dark.
Sometimes you are so busy discovering your friends I ache with loss --but that is greed.
And sometimes I've gone into my purple world and lost you.
One afternoon I stepped into your room.
You were sitting at the desk where I now write this.
Forsythia outside the window and sun spilled over you like a thick yellow miracle as if another planet was coaxing you out of the house --all those possible worlds!-- and you, meanwhile, busy with mathematics.
I cannot look at forsythia now without loss, or joy for you.
You step delicately into the wild world and your real prize will be the frantic search.
Want everything.
If you break break going out not in.
How you live your life I don't care but I'll sell my arms for you, hold your secrets forever.
If I speak of death which you fear now, greatly, it is without answers.
except that each one we know is in our blood.
Don't recall graves.
Memory is permanent.
Remember the afternoon's yellow suburban annunciation.
Your goalie in his frightening mask dreams perhaps of gentleness.


Written by James Thomson | |

Hymn on Solitude

 Hail, mildly pleasing solitude,
Companion of the wise and good;
But, from whose holy, piercing eye,
The herd of fools, and villains fly.
Oh! how I love with thee to walk, And listen to thy whisper'd talk, Which innocence, and truth imparts, And melts the most obdurate hearts.
A thousand shapes you wear with ease, And still in every shape you please.
Now wrapt in some mysterious dream, A lone philosopher you seem; Now quick from hill to vale you fly, And now you sweep the vaulted sky; A shepherd next, you haunt the plain, And warble forth your oaten strain; A lover now, with all the grace Of that sweet passion in your face: Then, calm'd to friendship, you assume The gentle-looking Hertford's bloom, As, with her Musidora, she, (Her Musidora fond of thee) Amid the long withdrawing vale, Awakes the rival'd nightingale.
Thine is the balmy breath of morn, Just as the dew-bent rose is born; And while meridian fervours beat, Thine is the woodland dumb retreat; But chief, when evening scenes decay, And the faint landskip swims away, Thine is the doubtful soft decline, And that best hour of musing thine.
Descending angels bless thy train, The virtues of the sage, and swain; Plain Innocence in white array'd, Before thee lifts her fearless head: Religion's beams around thee shine, And cheer thy glooms with light divine: About thee sports sweet Liberty; And rapt Urania sings to thee.
Oh, let me pierce thy secret cell! And in thy deep recesses dwell! Perhaps from Norwood's oak-clad hill, When meditation has her fill, I just may cast my careless eyes Where London's spiry turrets rise, Think of its crimes, its cares, its pain, Then shield me in the woods again.