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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.

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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.


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!


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!


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.


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.



by | |

Come My Celia

 Come, my Celia, let us prove
While we may, the sports of love;
Time will not be ours forever;
He at length our good will sever.
Spend not then his gifts in vain.
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.
Cannot we delude the eyes Of a few poor household spies, Or his easier ears beguile, So removed by our wile? 'Tis no sin love's fruit to steal; But the sweet theft to reveal.
To be taken, to be seen, These have crimes accounted been.


by | |

Song To Celia - I

 Come, my Celia, let us prove
While we may the sports of love;
Time will not be ours forever,
He at length our good will sever.
Spend not then his gifts in vain; 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 rumour are but toys.
Cannot we delude the eyes Of a few poor household spies? Or his easier ears beguile, So removed by our wile? 'Tis no sin love's fruits to steal; But the sweet theft to reveal, To be taken, to be seen, These have crimes accounted been.


by Donald Hall | |

An old life

 Snow fell in the night.
At five-fifteen I woke to a bluish mounded softness where the Honda was.
Cat fed and coffee made, I broomed snow off the car and drove to the Kearsarge Mini-Mart before Amy opened to yank my Globe out of the bundle.
Back, I set my cup of coffee beside Jane, still half-asleep, murmuring stuporous thanks in the aquamarine morning.
Then I sat in my blue chair with blueberry bagels and strong black coffee reading news, the obits, the comics, and the sports.
Carrying my cup twenty feet, I sat myself at the desk for this day's lifelong engagement with the one task and desire.


by Edmund Spenser | |

Poem 20

 BVt let stil Silence trew night watches keepe,
That sacred peace may in assurance rayne,
And tymely sleep, when it is tyme to sleepe,
May poure his limbs forth on your pleasant playne,
The whiles an hundred little winged loues,
Like diuers fethered doues,
Shall fly and flutter round about your bed,
And in the secret darke, that none reproues,
Their prety stealthes shal worke, & snares shal spread
To filch away sweet snatches of delight,
Conceald through couert night.
Ye sonnes of Venus, play your sports at will, For greedy pleasure, carelesse of your toyes, Thinks more vpon her paradise of ioyes, Then what ye do, albe it good or ill.
All night therefore attend your merry play, For it will soone be day: Now none doth hinder you, that say or sing, Ne will the woods now answer, nor your Eccho ring.


by Robert Southey | |

Inscription 06 - For A Monument In The New For

 This is the place where William's kingly power
Did from their poor and peaceful homes expel,
Unfriended, desolate, and shelterless,
The habitants of all the fertile track
Far as these wilds extend.
He levell'd down Their little cottages, he bade their fields Lie barren, so that o'er the forest waste He might most royally pursue his sports! If that thine heart be human, Passenger! Sure it will swell within thee, and thy lips Will mutter curses on him.
Think thou then What cities flame, what hosts unsepulchred Pollute the passing wind, when raging Power Drives on his blood-hounds to the chase of Man; And as thy thoughts anticipate that day When God shall judge aright, in charity Pray for the wicked rulers of mankind.


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


by William Blake | |

The Echoing Green

 The Sun does arise,
And make happy the skies.
The merry bells ring, To welcome the Spring.
The sky-lark and thrush, The birds of the bush, Sing louder around, To the bells cheerful sound.
While our sports shall be seen On the Echoing Green.
Old John, with white hair Does laugh away care, Sitting under the oak, Among the old folk.
They laugh at our play, And soon they all say, Such such were the joys When we all girls & boys.
In our youth time were seen, On the Echoing Green.
Till the little ones weary No more can be merry The sun does descend, And our sports have an end: Round the laps of their mothers.
Many sisters and brothers, Like birds in their nest.
Are ready for rest; And sport no more seen, On the darkening Green.


by William Blake | |

Love and Harmony

 Love and harmony combine,
And round our souls entwine
While thy branches mix with mine,
And our roots together join.
Joys upon our branches sit, Chirping loud and singing sweet; Like gentle streams beneath our feet Innocence and virtue meet.
Thou the golden fruit dost bear, I am clad in flowers fair; Thy sweet boughs perfume the air, And the turtle buildeth there.
There she sits and feeds her young, Sweet I hear her mournful song; And thy lovely leaves among, There is love, I hear his tongue.
There his charming nest doth lay, There he sleeps the night away; There he sports along the day, And doth among our branches play.


by William Blake | |

How Sweet I Roamd

 How sweet I roam'd from field to field,
And tasted all the summer's pride
'Til the prince of love beheld
Who in the sunny beams did glide!

He shew'd me lilies for my hair
And blushing roses for my brow;
He led me through his garden fair,
Where all his golden pleasures grow.
With sweet May dews my wings were wet, And Phoebus fir'd my vocal rage He caught me in his silken net, And shut me in his golden cage.
He loves to sit and hear me sing, Then, laughing, sports and plays with me; Then stretches out my golden wing, And mocks my loss of liberty.


by William Blake | |

Milton: But in the Wine-presses the Human Grapes Sing not nor Dance

 But in the Wine-presses the human grapes sing not nor dance: 
They howl and writhe in shoals of torment, in fierce flames consuming,
In chains of iron and in dungeons circled with ceaseless fires,
In pits and dens and shades of death, in shapes of torment and woe:
The plates and screws and racks and saws and cords and fires and cisterns
The cruel joys of Luvah's Daughters, lacerating with knives
And whips their victims, and the deadly sport of Luvah's Sons.
They dance around the dying and they drink the howl and groan, They catch the shrieks in cups of gold, they hand them to one another: These are the sports of love, and these the sweet delights of amorous play, Tears of the grape, the death sweat of the cluster, the last sigh Of the mild youth who listens to the luring songs of Luvah.


by Thomas Hardy | |

The Levelled Churchyard

 "O passenger, pray list and catch 
 Our sighs and piteous groans, 
Half stifled in this jumbled patch 
 Of wrenched memorial stones! 

"We late-lamented, resting here, 
 Are mixed to human jam, 
And each to each exclaims in fear, 
 'I know not which I am!' 

"The wicked people have annexed 
 The verses on the good; 
A roaring drunkard sports the text 
 Teetotal Tommy should! 

"Where we are huddled none can trace, 
 And if our names remain, 
They pave some path or p-ing place 
 Where we have never lain! 

"There's not a modest maiden elf 
 But dreads the final Trumpet, 
Lest half of her should rise herself, 
 And half some local strumpet! 

"From restorations of Thy fane, 
 From smoothings of Thy sward, 
From zealous Churchmen's pick and plane 
 Deliver us O Lord! Amen!"


by Charlotte Bronte | |

Life

 As late I journey'd o'er the extensive plain
Where native Otter sports his scanty stream,
Musing in torpid woe a Sister's pain,
The glorious prospect woke me from the dream.
At every step it widen'd to my sight - Wood, Meadow, verdant Hill, and dreary Steep, Following in quick succession of delight, - Till all - at once - did my eye ravish'd sweep! May this (I cried) my course through Life portray! New scenes of Wisdom may each step display, And Knowledge open as my days advance! Till what time Death shall pour the undarken'd ray, My eye shall dart thro' infinite expanse, And thought suspended lie in Rapture's blissful trance.


by Michael Drayton | |

Sonnet XXII: With Fools and Children

 To Folly

With fools and children, good discretion bears; 
Then, honest people, bear with Love and me, 
Nor older yet, nor wiser made by years, 
Amongst the rest of fools and children be; 
Love, still a baby, plays with gauds and toys, 
And, like a wanton, sports with every feather, 
And idiots still are running after boys, 
Then fools and children fitt'st to go together.
He still as young as when he first was born, No wiser I than when as young as he; You that behold us, laugh us not to scorn; Give Nature thanks you are not such as we.
Yet fools and children sometimes tell in play Some, wise in show, more fools indeed than they.