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Best Famous Thank You Poems

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

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by Philip Larkin | |

Send No Money

 Standing under the fobbed
Impendent belly of Time
Tell me the truth, I said,
Teach me the way things go.
All the other lads there Were itching to have a bash, But I thought wanting unfair: It and finding out clash.
So he patted my head, booming Boy, There's no green in your eye: Sit here and watch the hail Of occurence clobber life out To a shape no one sees - Dare you look at that straight? Oh thank you, I said, Oh yes please, And sat down to wait.
Half life is over now, And I meet full face on dark mornings The bestial visor, bent in By the blows of what happened to happen.
What does it prove? Sod all.
In this way I spent youth, Tracing the trite untransferable Truss-advertisement, truth.


by William Lisle Bowles | |

IV. To the River Wenbeck

 AS slowly wanders thy forsaken stream, 
Wenbeck! the mossy-scatter'd rocks among, 
In fancy's ear still making plaintive song 
To the dark woods above: ah! sure I seem 
To meet some friendly Genius in the gloom, 
And in each breeze a pitying voice I hear 
Like sorrow's sighs upon misfortune's tomb.
Ah! soothing are your quiet scenes -- the tear Of him who passes weary on his way Shall thank you, as he turns to bid adieu: Onward a cheerless pilgrim he may stray, Yet oft as musing memory shall review The scenes that cheer'd his path with fairer ray, Delightful haunts, he will remember you.


by Walter de la Mare | |

Bones

 Said Mr.
Smith, “I really cannot Tell you, Dr.
Jones— The most peculiar pain I’m in— I think it’s in my bones.
” Said Dr.
Jones, “Oh, Mr.
Smith, That’s nothing.
Without doubt We have a simple cure for that; It is to take them out.
” He laid forthwith poor Mr.
Smith Close-clamped upon the table, And, cold as stone, took out his bones As fast as he was able.
Smith said, “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” And wished him a good-day; And with his parcel ‘neath his arm He slowly moved away.


by Mark Van Doren | |

Farewell and Thanksgiving

 Whatever I have left unsaid
When I am dead
O'muse forgive me.
You were always there, like light, like air.
Those great good things of which the least bird sings, So why not I? Yet thank you even then, Sweet muse, Amen.


by | |

Little Jenny Wren

 

Little Jenny Wren fell sick,
    Upon a time;
In came Robin Redbreast
    And brought her cake and wine.

"Eat well of my cake, Jenny,
    Drink well of my wine.
"
"Thank you, Robin, kindly,
    You shall be mine.
"
Jenny she got well,
    And stood upon her feet,
And told Robin plainly
    She loved him not a bit.

Robin being angry,
    Hopped upon a twig,
Saying, "Out upon you! Fie upon you!
    Bold-faced jig!"


by | |

Pussy-Cat By The Fire


Pussy-cat sits by the fire;
    How can she be fair?
In walks the little dog;
    Says: "Pussy, are you there?
How do you do, Mistress Pussy?
    Mistress Pussy, how d'ye do?"
"I thank you kindly, little dog,
    I fare as well as you!"


by | |

Shall We Go A-Shearing?


"Old woman, old woman, shall we go a-shearing?"
"Speak a little louder, sir, I am very thick of hearing.
"
"Old woman, old woman, shall I kiss you dearly?"
"Thank you, kind sir, I hear you very clearly.
"


by Steve Kowit | |

Some Clouds

 Now that I've unplugged the phone,
no one can reach me--
At least for this one afternoon
they will have to get by without my advice
or opinion.
Now nobody else is going to call & ask in a tentative voice if I haven't yet heard that she's dead, that woman I once loved-- nothing but ashes scattered over a city that barely itself any longer exists.
Yes, thank you, I've heard.
It had been too lovely a morning.
That in itself should have warned me.
The sun lit up the tangerines & the blazing poinsettias like so many candles.
For one afternoon they will have to forgive me.
I am busy watching things happen again that happened a long time ago.
as I lean back in Josephine's lawnchair under a sky of incredible blue, broken--if that is the word for it-- by a few billowing clouds, all white & unspeakably lovely, drifting out of one nothingness into another.


by Judith Viorst | |

Learning

I'm learning to say thank you.
And I'm learning to say please.
And I'm learning to use Kleenex,
Not my sweater, when I sneeze.
And I'm learning not to dribble.
And I'm learning not to slurp.
And I'm learning (though it sometimes really hurts me)
Not to burp.
And I'm learning to chew softer
When I eat corn on the cob.
And I'm learning that it's much
Much easier to be a slob.


by Allen Ginsberg | |

Father Death Blues (Dont Grow Old Part V)

 Hey Father Death, I'm flying home
Hey poor man, you're all alone
Hey old daddy, I know where I'm going

Father Death, Don't cry any more
Mama's there, underneath the floor
Brother Death, please mind the store

Old Aunty Death Don't hide your bones
Old Uncle Death I hear your groans
O Sister Death how sweet your moans

O Children Deaths go breathe your breaths
Sobbing breasts'll ease your Deaths
Pain is gone, tears take the rest

Genius Death your art is done
Lover Death your body's gone
Father Death I'm coming home

Guru Death your words are true
Teacher Death I do thank you
For inspiring me to sing this Blues

Buddha Death, I wake with you
Dharma Death, your mind is new
Sangha Death, we'll work it through

Suffering is what was born
Ignorance made me forlorn
Tearful truths I cannot scorn

Father Breath once more farewell
Birth you gave was no thing ill
My heart is still, as time will tell.
July 8, 1976 (Over Lake Michigan)


by Rg Gregory | |

doughnut denial

 (an ascetic poem for karen's birthday)

fancy having a birthday on a thursday
when you do the buying of the doughnuts
and others lick their sticky fingers
thinking good old karen letting
us share the eating of her birthday

not me of course - i sit at home (alone)
reflecting it is purification day
today and i do not have a doughnut
thank you karen for letting me have
a taste of self-denial on your birthday

and such a spiritual gain- in this way
you and i share the high-church position
while others lick the sugar off their lips
guzzling their souls away benightedly
with you great circe in your birthday play

luckily i have no envy of doughnuts
i sit here (alone) appreciating the pure
a step aside from doughy lust and greed
enjoying your birthday in its proper light 
-a time of abstinence starvation longing


by George Herbert | |

Church Music

 Sweetest of sweets, I thank you: when displeasure
Did through my body wound my mind,
You took me thence, and in your house of pleasure
A dainty lodging me assigned.
Now I in you without a body move, Rising and falling with your wings: We both together sweetly live and love, Yet say sometimes, "God help poor Kings".
Comfort, I'll die; for if you post from me Sure I shall do so, and much more: But if I travel in your company, You know the way to heaven's door.


by Bob Hicok | |

By Their Works

 Who cleaned up the Last Supper?
These would be my people.
Maybe hung over, wanting desperately a better job, standing with rags in hand as the window beckons with hills of yellow grass.
In Da Vinci, the blue robed apostle gesturing at Christ is saying, give Him the check.
What a mess they've made of their faith.
My God would put a busboy on earth to roam among the waiters and remind them to share their tips.
The woman who finished one half eaten olive and scooped the rest into her pockets, walked her tiny pride home to children who looked at her smile and saw the salvation of a meal.
All that week at work she ignored customers who talked of Rome and silk and crucifixions, though she couldn't stop thinking of this man who said thank you each time she filled His glass.


by Randall Jarrell | |

A Sick Child

 The postman comes when I am still in bed.
"Postman, what do you have for me today?" I say to him.
(But really I'm in bed.
) Then he says - what shall I have him say? "This letter says that you are president Of - this word here; it's a republic.
" Tell them I can't answer right away.
"It's your duty.
" No, I'd rather just be sick.
Then he tells me there are letters saying everything That I can think of that I want for them to say.
I say, "Well, thank you very much.
Good-bye.
" He is ashamed, and turns and walks away.
If I can think of it, it isn't what I want.
I want .
.
.
I want a ship from some near star To land in the yard, and beings to come out And think to me: "So this is where you are! Come.
" Except that they won't do, I thought of them.
.
.
.
And yet somewhere there must be Something that's different from everything.
All that I've never thought of - think of me!


by Edgar Lee Masters | |

Eugene Carman

 Rhodes' slave! Selling shoes and gingham,
Flour and bacon, overalls, clothing, all day long
For fourteen hours a day for three hundred and thirteen days
For more than twenty years.
Saying "Yes'm" and "Yes, sir", and "Thank you" A thousand times a day, and all for fifty dollars a month.
Living in this stinking room in the rattle-trap "Commercial.
" And compelled to go to Sunday School, and to listen To the Rev.
Abner Peet one hundred and four times a year For more than an hour at a time, Because Thomas Rhodes ran the church As well as the store and the bank.
So while I was tying my neck-tie that morning I suddenly saw myself in the glass: My hair all gray, my face like a sodden pie.
So I cursed and cursed: You damned old thing You cowardly dog! You rotten pauper! You Rhodes' slave! Till Roger Baughman Thought I was having a fight with some one, And looked through the transom just in time To see me fall on the floor in a heap From a broken vein in my head.


by Edgar Lee Masters | |

Edmund Pollard

 I would I had thrust my hands of flesh
Into the disk-flowers bee-infested,
Into the mirror-like core of fire
Of the light of life, the sun of delight.
For what are anthers worth or petals Or halo-rays? Mockeries, shadows Of the heart of the flower, the central flame! All is yours, young passer-by; Enter the banquet room with the thought; Don't sidle in as if you were doubtful Whether you're welcome -- the feast is yours! Nor take but a little, refusing more With a bashful "Thank you," when you're hungry.
Is your soul alive? Then let it feed! Leave no balconies where you can climb; Nor milk-white bosoms where you can rest; Nor golden heads with pillows to share; Nor wine cups while the wine is sweet; Nor ecstasies of body or soul, You will die, no doubt, but die while living In depths of azure, rapt and mated, Kissing the queen-bee, Life!


by Edgar Lee Masters | |

Harlan Sewall

 You never understood, O unknown one,
Why it was I repaid
Your devoted friendship and delicate ministrations
First with diminished thanks,
Afterward by gradually withdrawing my presence from you,
So that I might not be compelled to thank you,
And then with silence which followed upon
Our final Separation.
You had cured my diseased soul.
But to cure it You saw my disease, you knew my secret, And that is why I fled from you.
For though when our bodies rise from pain We kiss forever the watchful hands That gave us wormwood, while we shudder For thinking of the wormwood, A soul that's cured is a different matter, For there we'd blot from memory The soft-toned words, the searching eyes, And stand forever oblivious, Not so much of the sorrow itself As of the hand that healed it.


by Robert Louis Stevenson | |

The Cow

 Thank you, pretty cow, that made
Pleasant milk to soak my bread, 
Every day and every night, 
Warm, and fresh, and sweet, and white.
Do not chew the hemlock rank, Growing on the weedy bank; But the yellow cowslips eat; They perhaps will make it sweet.
Where the purple violet grows, Where the bubbling water flows, Where the grass is fresh and fine, Pretty cow, go there to dine.


by Robert William Service | |

Belated Bard

 The songs I made from joy of earth
 In wanton wandering,
Are rapturous with Maytime mirth
 And ectasy of Spring.
But all the songs I sing today Take tediously the ear: Novemberishly dark are they With mortuary fear.
For half a century has gone Since first I rang a rhyme; And that is long to linger on The tolerance of Time.
This blue-veined hand with which I write Yet answers to my will; Though four-score years I count to-night I am unsilent still.
"Senile old fool!" I hear you say; "Beside the dying fire You huddle and stiff-fingered play Your tired and tinny lyre.
" Well, though your patience I may try, Bear with me yet awhile, And though you scorn my singing I Will thank you with a smile.
For I such soul-delighting joy Have found in simple rhyme, Since first a happy-hearted boy I coaxed a word to chime, That ere I tryst with Mother Earth Let from my heart arise A song of youth and starry mirth .
.
.
Then close my eyes.


by Katherine Mansfield | |

A Fine Day

 After all the rain, the sun
Shines on hill and grassy mead;
Fly into the garden, child,
You are very glad indeed.
For the days have been so dull, Oh, so special dark and drear, That you told me, "Mr.
Sun Has forgotten we live here.
" Dew upon the lily lawn, Dew upon the garden beds; Daintly from all the leaves Pop the little primrose heads.
And the violets in the copse With their parasols of green Take a little peek at you; They're the bluest you have seen.
On the lilac tree a bird Singing first a little not, Then a burst of happy song Bubbles in his lifted throat.
O the sun, the comfy sun! This the song that you must sing, "Thank you for the birds, the flowers, Thank you, sun, for everything.
"