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Best Famous Stress Poems

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

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See also: Best Member Poems

by Tupac Shakur | |

Untitled 2

With all this extra stressing the question I wonder is after death
After my last breath
When will I finally get to rest from this oppression?
They punish the people that's asking questions
And those that possess steal from the ones without possessions
The message I stress
To make you stop study your lessons
Don't settle for less
Even the genius asks his questions
Be grateful for blessings
Don't ever change, keep your essense
The power is in the people and politics we address
Always do your best
Don't let the pressure make you panic
And when you get stranded and things don't go the way you planned it
Dreaming of riches in the position of making a difference
Politicians is hypocrites
They don't want to listen
If I'm insane it's the fame
I ain't about to change
It ain't nothing like the game
It's just me against the world 


by Tupac Shakur | |

Untitled 1

Father forgive us for living
Why are all my homies stuck in prison?
Barely breathing, believing that this world is a prison
It's like a ghetto we can never leave
A broken rose giving bloom through the cracks of the concrete
So many things for us to see
Things to be
Our history so full of tragedy and misery
To all the homies who never made it home
The dead peers I shed tattooed tears for when I'm alone
Picture us inside a ghetto heaven
A place to rest finding peace through this land of stress
In my chest I feel pain come in sudden storms
A life full of rain in this game watch for land thorns
Our unborn never got to grow, never got to see what's next
In this world filled with countless threats
I beg God to find a way for our ghetto kids to breath
Show a sign make us all believe 


by Edgar Albert Guest | |

Thanksgiving

 (For John Bunker)

The roar of the world is in my ears.
Thank God for the roar of the world! Thank God for the mighty tide of fears Against me always hurled! Thank God for the bitter and ceaseless strife, And the sting of His chastening rod! Thank God for the stress and the pain of life, And Oh, thank God for God!


More great poems below...

by Emma Lazarus | |

Echoes

 THE MIGHT that shaped itself through storm and stress
In chaos, here is lulled in breathing sweet;
Under the long brown ridge in gentleness
 Its fierce old pulses beat.
Quiet and sad we go at eve; the fire That woke exultant in an earlier day Is dead; the memories of old desire Only in shadows play.
We liken love to this and that; our thought The echo of a deeper being seems: We kiss, because God once for beauty sought Within a world of dreams.


by Oscar Wilde | |

Queen Henrietta Maria

 (To Ellen Terry)

In the lone tent, waiting for victory,
She stands with eyes marred by the mists of pain,
Like some wan lily overdrenched with rain:
The clamorous clang of arms, the ensanguined sky,
War's ruin, and the wreck of chivalry
To her proud soul no common fear can bring:
Bravely she tarrieth for her Lord the King,
Her soul a-flame with passionate ecstasy.
O Hair of Gold! O Crimson Lips! O Face Made for the luring and the love of man! With thee I do forget the toil and stress, The loveless road that knows no resting place, Time's straitened pulse, the soul's dread weariness, My freedom, and my life republican!


by Robert William Service | |

Laziness

 Let laureates sing with rapturous swing
Of the wonder and glory of work;
Let pulpiteers preach and with passion impeach
The indolent wretches who shirk.
No doubt they are right: in the stress of the fight It's the slackers who go to the wall; So though it's my shame I perversely proclaim It's fine to do nothing at all.
It's fine to recline on the flat of one's spine, With never a thought in one's head: It's lovely to le staring up at the sky When others are earning their bread.
It's great to feel one with the soil and the sun, Drowned deep in the grasses so tall; Oh it's noble to sweat, pounds and dollars to get, But - it's grand to do nothing at all.
So sing to the praise of the fellows who laze Instead of lambasting the soil; The vagabonds gay who lounge by the way, Conscientious objectors to toil.
But lest you should think, by this spatter of ink, The Muses still hold me in thrall, I'll round out my rhyme, and (until the next time) Work like hell - doing nothing at all.


by Robert William Service | |

Learn To Like

 School yourself to savour most
Joys that have but little cost;
Prove the best of life is free,
Sun and stars and sky and sea;
Eager in your eyes to please,
Proffer meadows, brooks and trees;
Nature strives for your content,
Never charging you a cent.
Learn to love a garden gay, Flowers and fruit in rich array.
Care for dogs and singing birds, Have for children cheery words.
Find plain food and comfort are More than luxury by far.
Music, books and honest friends Outweigh golden dividends.
Love your work and do it well, Scorning not a leisure spell.
Hold the truest form of wealth Body fit and ruddy health.
Let your smile of happiness Rustic peace serenely stress: Home to love and heart to pray-- Thank your God for every day.


by Barry Tebb | |

THE PRISM

 Through the windows the sun’s light

Turns to amber, the moon’s to jade;

All night long I lie awake, wondering

How much your stunned heart can take.
That moment’s ‘sudden interminable splendour’, Our love kept up through the years of stress, Strange dark-haired creature, the light over the water Burns and beckons through our emptiness.


by Gerard Manley Hopkins | |

Brothers

 How lovely the elder brother's
Life all laced in the other's,
Lóve-laced!—what once I well
Witnessed; so fortune fell.
When Shrovetide, two years gone, Our boys' plays brought on Part was picked for John, Young Jóhn: then fear, then joy Ran revel in the elder boy.
Their night was come now; all Our company thronged the hall; Henry, by the wall, Beckoned me beside him: I came where called, and eyed him By meanwhiles; making my play Turn most on tender byplay.
For, wrung all on love's rack, My lad, and lost in Jack, Smiled, blushed, and bit his lip; Or drove, with a diver's dip, Clutched hands down through clasped knees— Truth's tokens tricks like these, Old telltales, with what stress He hung on the imp's success.
Now the other was bráss-bóld: Hé had no work to hold His heart up at the strain; Nay, roguish ran the vein.
Two tedious acts were past; Jack's call and cue at last; When Henry, heart-forsook, Dropped eyes and dared not look.
Eh, how áll rúng! Young dog, he did give tongue! But Harry—in his hands he has flung His tear-tricked cheeks of flame For fond love and for shame.
Ah Nature, framed in fault, There 's comfort then, there 's salt; Nature, bad, base, and blind, Dearly thou canst be kind; There dearly thén, deárly, I'll cry thou canst be kind.


by Gerard Manley Hopkins | |

Thee God I Come from

 Thee, God, I come from, to thee go, 
All day long I like fountain flow 
From thy hand out, swayed about 
Mote-like in thy mighty glow.
What I know of thee I bless, As acknowledging thy stress On my being and as seeing Something of thy holiness.
Once I turned from thee and hid, Bound on what thou hadst forbid; Sow the wind I would; I sinned: I repent of what I did.
Bad I am, but yet thy child.
Father, be thou reconciled.
Spare thou me, since I see With thy might that thou art mild.
I have life before me still And thy purpose to fulfil; Yea a debt to pay thee yet: Help me, sir, and so I will.
But thou bidst, and just thou art, Me shew mercy from my heart Towards my brother, every other Man my mate and counterpart.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.


by Gerard Manley Hopkins | |

Harry Ploughman

 Hard as hurdle arms, with a broth of goldish flue
Breathed round; the rack of ribs; the scooped flank; lank
Rope-over thigh; knee-nave; and barrelled shank—
 Head and foot, shoulder and shank—
By a grey eye's heed steered well, one crew, fall to;
Stand at stress.
Each limb's barrowy brawn, his thew That onewhere curded, onewhere sucked or sank— Soared or sank—, Though as a beechbole firm, finds his, as at a roll-call, rank And features, in flesh, what deed he each must do— His sinew-service where do.
He leans to it, Harry bends, look.
Back, elbow, and liquid waist In him, all quail to the wallowing o' the plough: 's cheek crimsons; curls Wag or crossbridle, in a wind lifted, windlaced— See his wind- lilylocks -laced; Churlsgrace, too, child of Amansstrength, how it hangs or hurls Them—broad in bluff hide his frowning feet lashed! raced With, along them, cragiron under and cold furls— With-a-fountain's shining-shot furls.


by Andrew Barton Paterson | |

The Man from Goondiwindi Q.

 I 

This is the sunburnt bushman who 
Came down from Goondiwindi, Q.
II This is the Push from Waterloo That spotted the sunburnt bushman who Came down from Goondiwindi, Q.
III These are the wealthy uncles -- two, Part of the Push from Waterloo That spotted the sunburnt bushman who Came down from Goondiwindi, Q.
IV This is the game, by no means new, Played by the wealthy uncles -- two, Part of the Push from Waterloo That spotted the sunburnt bushman who Came down from Goondiwindi, Q.
V This is the trooper dressed in blue, Who busted the game by no means new, Played by the wealthy uncles -- two, Part of the Push from Waterloo That spotted the sunburnt bushman who Came down from Goondiwindi, Q.
VI This is the magistrate who knew Not only the trooper dressed in blue, But also the game by no means new, And likewise the wealthy uncles -- two, And ditto the Push from Waterloo That spotted the sunburnt bushman who Came down from Goondiwindi, Q.
VII This is the tale that has oft gone through On western plains where the skies are blue, Till the native bear and the kangaroo Have heard of the magistrate who knew Not only the trooper dressed in blue, But also the game by no means new, And likewise the wealthy uncles -- two, And ditto the Push from Waterloo That spotted the sunburnt bushman who Came down from Goondiwindi, Q.
The Evening News, 17 Dec 1904 (This verse was published, copiously illustrated by Lionel Lindsay.
Each stanza had its own illustration.
) The pronounciation of many Australian place-names can be quite unexpected.
Goondiwindi is a case in point.
The town is situated on the border of Queensland and New south Wales, on the banks of the Macintyre River, and its name is pronounced "gun-da-windy", with the main stress on the third syllable, a secondary stress on the first.


by Henry Van Dyke | |

Wordsworth

 Wordsworth, thy music like a river rolls 
Among the mountains, and thy song is fed 
By living springs far up the watershed; 
No whirling flood nor parching drought controls 
The crystal current: even on the shoals
It murmurs clear and sweet; and when its bed
Darkens below mysterious cliffs of dread, 
Thy voice of peace grows deeper in our souls.
But thou in youth hast known the breaking stress Of passion, and hast trod despair's dry ground Beneath black thoughts that wither and destroy.
Ah, wanderer, led by human tenderness Home to the heart of Nature, thou hast found The hidden Fountain of Recovered Joy.


by Lucy Maud Montgomery | |

The Farewell

 He rides away with sword and spur,
Garbed in his warlike blazonry,
With gallant glance and smile for her
Upon the dim-lit balcony.
Her kiss upon his lips is warm, Upon his breast he wears her rose, From her fond arms to stress and storm Of many a bannered field he goes.
He dreams of danger, glory, strife, His voice is blithe, his hand is strong, He rides perchance to death from life And leaves his lady with a song; But her blue-brimmed eyes are dim With her deep anguish standing there, Sending across the world with him The dear, white guerdon of her prayer.
For her the lonely vigil waits When ashen dawnlights come and go, Each bringing through the future's gates Its presages of fear and woe; For her the watch with soul and heart Grown sick with dread, as women may, Yet keeping still her pain apart From the wan duties of the day.
'Tis hers to walk when sunsets yield Their painted splendors to the skies, And dream on some far battlefield Perchance alone, unwatched, he dies; 'Tis hers to kneel in patient prayer When midnight stars keep sentinel, Lest the chill death-dews damp the hair Upon the brow she loves so well.
So stands she, white and sad and sweet, Upon the latticed balcony, From golden hair to slender feet No lady is so fair as she; He loves her true, he holds her dear, But he must ride on dangerous quest, With gallant glance and smile of cheer, And her red rose upon his breast.


by Lucy Maud Montgomery | |

On the Bay

 When the salt wave laps on the long, dim shore,
And frets the reef with its windy sallies,
And the dawn's white light is threading once more
The purple firs in the landward valleys, 
While yet the arms of the wide gray sea 
Are cradling the sunrise that is to be, 
The fisherman's boat, through the mist afar, 
Has sailed in the wake of the morning star.
The wind in his cordage and canvas sings Its old glad song of strength and endeavor, And up from the heart of the ocean rings A call of courage and cheer forever; Toil and danger and stress may wait Beyond the arch of the morning's gate, But he knows that behind him, upon the shore, A true heart prays for him evermore.
When a young moon floats in the hollow sky, Like a fairy shallop, all pale and golden, And over the rocks that are grim and high, The lamp of the light-house aloft is holden; When the bay is like to a lucent cup With glamor and glory and glow filled up, In the track of the sunset, across the foam, The fisherman's boat comes sailing home.
The wind is singing a low, sweet song Of a rest well won and a toil well over, And there on the shore shines clear and strong The star of the homelight to guide the rover: And deep unto deep may call and wail But the fisherman laughs as he furls his sail, For the bar is passed and the reef is dim And a true heart is waiting to welcome him!


by Sidney Lanier | |

Struggle

 My soul is like the oar that momently
Dies in a desperate stress beneath the wave,
Then glitters out again and sweeps the sea:
Each second I'm new-born from some new grave.


by Amy Levy | |

In the Black Forest

 I lay beneath the pine trees,
And looked aloft, where, through
The dusky, clustered tree-tops,
Gleamed rent, gay rifts of blue.
I shut my eyes, and a fancy Fluttered my sense around: "I lie here dead and buried, And this is churchyard ground.
"I am at rest for ever; Ended the stress and strife.
" Straight I fell to and sorrowed For the pitiful past life.
Right wronged, and knowledge wasted; Wise labour spurned for ease; The sloth and the sin and the failure; Did I grow sad for these? They had made me sad so often; Not now they made me sad; My heart was full of sorrow For joy it never had.


by Amy Levy | |

The End of the Day

 To B.
T.
Dead-tired, dog-tired, as the vivid day Fails and slackens and fades away.
-- The sky that was so blue before With sudden clouds is shrouded o'er.
Swiftly, stilly the mists uprise, Till blurred and grey the landscape lies.
* * * * * * * All day we have plied the oar; all day Eager and keen have said our say On life and death, on love and art, On good or ill at Nature's heart.
Now, grown so tired, we scarce can lift The lazy oars, but onward drift.
And the silence is only stirred Here and there by a broken word.
* * * * * * * O, sweeter far than strain and stress Is the slow, creeping weariness.
And better far than thought I find The drowsy blankness of the mind.
More than all joys of soul or sense Is this divine indifference; Where grief a shadow grows to be, And peace a possibility.


by Vernon Scannell | |

Lesson In Grammar

 THE SENTENCE

Perhaps I can make it plain by analogy.
Imagine a machine, not yet assembled, Each part being quite necessary To the functioning of the whole: if the job is fumbled And a vital piece mislaid The machine is quite valueless, The workers will not be paid.
It is just the same when constructing a sentence But here we must be very careful And lay stress on the extreme importance Of defining our terms: nothing is as simple As it seems at first regard.
"Sentence" might well mean to you The amorous rope or twelve years" hard.
No, by "sentence" we mean, quite simply, words Put together like the parts of a machine.
Now remember we must have a verb: verbs Are words of action like Murder, Love, or Sin.
But these might be nouns, depending On how you use them – Already the plot is thickening.
Except when the mood is imperative; that is to say A command is given like Pray, Repent, or Forgive (Dear me, these lessons get gloomier every day) Except, as I was saying, when the mood is gloomy – I mean imperative We need nouns, or else of course Pronouns; words like Maid, Man, Wedding or Divorce.
A sentence must make sense.
Sometimes I believe Our lives are ungrammatical.
I guess that some of you Have misplaced the direct object: the longer I live The less certain I feel of anything I do.
But now I begin To digress.
Write down these simple sentences:-- I am sentenced: I love: I murder: I sin.


by Sarojini Naidu | |

To The God of Pain

 UNWILLING priestess in thy cruel fane, 
Long hast thou held me, pitiless god of Pain, 
Bound to thy worship by reluctant vows, 
My tired breast girt with suffering, and my brows 
Anointed with perpetual weariness.
Long have I borne thy service, through the stress Of rigorous years, sad days and slumberless nights, Performing thine inexorable rites.
For thy dark altars, balm nor milk nor rice, But mine own soul thou'st ta'en for sacrifice: All the rich honey of my youth's desire, And all the sweet oils from my crushed life drawn, And all my flower-like dreams and gem-like fire Of hopes up-leaping like the light of dawn.
I have no more to give, all that was mine Is laid, a wrested tribute, at thy shrine; Let me depart, for my whole soul is wrung, And all my cheerless orisons are sung; Let me depart, with faint limbs let me creep To some dim shade and sink me down to sleep.


by Rg Gregory | |

haunting the quark

 (I)
if you can’t scientifically explain it
dawkins says it has no value – some hope
inside the mechanical framework of a guess
(as far as any fact can truly grope)
doubts roam – mere looking can’t attain it

twentieth-century science perceived that mess
the more you probed the inner – more the scope
for chaos (uncertainty) – no mind could drain it
tie it to a marriage it must elope
clarity of thinking must make worse the stress

the artist looks at truth and has to feign it
stirs mud makes shapes (gives up) disturbs old rope
what’s not there’s there (says who) – such wantonness

(II)
revelation comes in flits and starts
each one’s a bundle of the genes’ loose ends
there’s a sparking deep down in the dark
that (come to light) can’t find its plain amends
can’t sport a price-tag in exchange and marts

who wants mathematics in a singing lark
(oh it’s there all right – it’s not what listening spends)
the mystic truth lies somewhere in the heart – 
lies (you see) - all best truth has the bends
it’s blood not thought that asks the muse to heark

no artist helps – no doughty horse but cart
receptacle for undeciphered legends
science hunts (it’s art that haunts) the quark


by Charlotte Bronte | |

Winter Stores

 WE take from life one little share,
And say that this shall be
A space, redeemed from toil and care, 
From tears and sadness free.
And, haply, Death unstrings his bow And Sorrow stands apart, And, for a little while, we know The sunshine of the heart.
Existence seems a summer eve, Warm, soft, and full of peace; Our free, unfettered feelings give The soul its full release.
A moment, then, it takes the power, To call up thoughts that throw Around that charmed and hallowed hour, This life's divinest glow.
But Time, though viewlessly it flies, And slowly, will not stay; Alike, through clear and clouded skies, It cleaves its silent way.
Alike the bitter cup of grief, Alike the draught of bliss, Its progress leaves but moment brief For baffled lips to kiss.
The sparkling draught is dried away, The hour of rest is gone, And urgent voices, round us, say, ' Ho, lingerer, hasten on !' And has the soul, then, only gained, From this brief time of ease, A moment's rest, when overstrained, One hurried glimpse of peace ? No; while the sun shone kindly o'er us, And flowers bloomed round our feet,­ While many a bud of joy before us Unclosed its petals sweet,­ An unseen work within was plying; Like honey-seeking bee, From flower to flower, unwearied, flying, Laboured one faculty,­ Thoughtful for Winter's future sorrow, Its gloom and scarcity; Prescient to-day, of want to-morrow, Toiled quiet Memory.
'Tis she that from each transient pleasure Extracts a lasting good; 'Tis she that finds, in summer, treasure To serve for winter's food.
And when Youth's summer day is vanished, And Age brings Winter's stress, Her stores, with hoarded sweets replenished, Life's evening hours will bless.


by Charles Baudelaire | |

THE FLASK

 THERE are some powerful odours that can pass 
Out of the stoppard flagon; even glass 
To them is porous.
Oft when some old box Brought from the East is opened and the locks And hinges creak and cry; or in a press In some deserted house, where the sharp stress Of odours old and dusty fills the brain; An ancient flask is brought to light again, And forth the ghosts of long-dead odours creep.
There, softly trembling in the shadows, sleep A thousand thoughts, funereal chrysalides, Phantoms of old the folding darkness hides, Who make faint flutterings as their wings unfold, Rose-washed and azure-tinted, shot with gold.
A memory that brings languor flutters here: The fainting eyelids droop, and giddy Fear Thrusts with both hands the soul towards the pit Where, like a Lazarus from his winding-sheet, Arises from the gulf of sleep a ghost Of an old passion, long since loved and lost.
So I, when vanished from man's memory Deep in some dark and sombre chest I lie, An empty flagon they have cast aside, Broken and soiled, the dust upon my pride, Will be your shroud, beloved pestilence! The witness of your might and virulence, Sweet poison mixed by angels; bitter cup Of life and death my heart has drunken up!


by Charles Baudelaire | |

THE FLASK

 THERE are some powerful odours that can pass 
Out of the stoppard flagon; even glass 
To them is porous.
Oft when some old box Brought from the East is opened and the locks And hinges creak and cry; or in a press In some deserted house, where the sharp stress Of odours old and dusty fills the brain; An ancient flask is brought to light again, And forth the ghosts of long-dead odours creep.
There, softly trembling in the shadows, sleep A thousand thoughts, funereal chrysalides, Phantoms of old the folding darkness hides, Who make faint flutterings as their wings unfold, Rose-washed and azure-tinted, shot with gold.
A memory that brings languor flutters here: The fainting eyelids droop, and giddy Fear Thrusts with both hands the soul towards the pit Where, like a Lazarus from his winding-sheet, Arises from the gulf of sleep a ghost Of an old passion, long since loved and lost.
So I, when vanished from man's memory Deep in some dark and sombre chest I lie, An empty flagon they have cast aside, Broken and soiled, the dust upon my pride, Will be your shroud, beloved pestilence! The witness of your might and virulence, Sweet poison mixed by angels; bitter cup Of life and death my heart has drunken up!


by William Shakespeare | |

Sonnet I

 NOR judge me light, tho' light at times I seem,
And lightly in the stress of fortune bear
The innumerable flaws of changeful care -
Nor judge me light for this, nor rashly deem
(Office forbid to mortals, kept supreme
And separate the prerogative of God!)
That seaman idle who is borne abroad
To the far haven by the favouring stream.
Not he alone that to contrarious seas Opposes, all night long, the unwearied oar, Not he alone, by high success endeared, Shall reach the Port; but, winged, with some light breeze Shall they, with upright keels, pass in before Whom easy Taste, the golden pilot, steered.