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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 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 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.
"


by John Matthew | |

Muskaan — A Poem

 When she smiles she sends happiness
A million pleasant thrills of the heart
To parched souls thirsting for love 
In the vast desert of human affairs.
Oh, is there in this world such a heart? So pure in its expression of joy, smiles I know not how to thank you dear God For this wonderful creation of yours.
What makes Muskan’s smile so beautiful? Is it the deep pain and hurt she is hiding? Wringing the joys from the sadness of life Throwing away the bland fiber and rinds.


by Alfonsina Storni | |

I Am Going to Sleep

 Teeth of flowers, hairnet of dew,
hands of herbs, you, perfect wet nurse,
prepare the earthly sheets for me
and the down quilt of weeded moss.
I am going to sleep, my nurse, put me to bed.
Set a lamp at my headboard; a constellation; whatever you like; all are good: lower it a bit.
Leave me alone: you hear the buds breaking through .
.
.
a celestial foot rocks you from above and a bird traces a pattern for you so you'll forget .
.
.
Thank you.
Oh, one request: if he telephones again tell him not to keep trying for I have left .
.
.


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 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 Robert Herrick | |

TO SIR CLIPSBY CREW

 Since to the country first I came,
I have lost my former flame;
And, methinks, I not inherit,
As I did, my ravish'd spirit.
If I write a verse or two, 'Tis with very much ado; In regard I want that wine Which should conjure up a line.
Yet, though now of Muse bereft, I have still the manners left For to thank you, noble sir, For those gifts you do confer Upon him, who only can Be in prose a grateful man.


by Emily Dickinson | |

If I shouldnt be alive

 If I shouldn't be alive
When the Robins come,
Give the one in Red Cravat,
A Memorial crumb.
If I couldn't thank you, Being fast asleep, You will know I'm trying Why my Granite lip!


by John Berryman | |

Dream Song 82: Op. posth. no. 5

 Maskt as honours, insult like behaving
missiles homes.
I bow, & grunt 'Thank you.
I'm glad you could come so late.
' All loves are gratified.
I'm having to screw a little thing I have to screw.
Good nature is over.
Herewith ill-wishes.
From a cozy grave rainbow I scornful laughings.
Do not do, Father, me down.
Let's shuck an obligation.
O I have done.
Is the inner-coffin burning blue or did Jehovah frown? Jehovah.
Period.
Yahweh.
Period.
God.
It is marvellous that views so differay (Father is a Jesuit) can love so well each other.
We was had.
O visit in my last tomb me.
—Perché? —Is a nice pit.


by John Berryman | |

Dream Song 25: Henry edged decidedly made up stories

 Henry, edged, decidedly, made up stories
lighting the past of Henry, of his glorious
present, and his hoaries,
all the bight heals he tamped— —Euphoria,
Mr Bones, euphoria.
Fate clobber all.
—Hand me back my crawl, condign Heaven.
Tighten into a ball elongate & valved Henry.
Tuck him peace.
Render him sightless, or ruin at high rate his crampon focus, wipe out his need.
Reduce him to the rest of us.
—But, Bones, you is that.
—I cannot remember.
I am going away.
There was something in my dream about a Cat, which fought and sang.
Something about a lyre, an island.
Unstrung.
Linked to the land at low tide.
Cables fray.
Thank you for everything.


by John Betjeman | |

Back From Australia

 Cocooned in Time, at this inhuman height,
The packaged food tastes neutrally of clay,
We never seem to catch the running day
But travel on in everlasting night
With all the chic accoutrements of flight:
Lotions and essences in neat array
And yet another plastic cup and tray.
"Thank you so much.
Oh no, I'm quite all right".
At home in Cornwall hurrying autumn skies Leave Bray Hill barren, Stepper jutting bare, And hold the moon above the sea-wet sand.
The very last of late September dies In frosty silence and the hills declare How vast the sky is, looked at from the land.


by Bertolt Brecht | |

Send Me A Leaf

 Send me a leaf, but from a bush
That grows at least one half hour
Away from your house, then
You must go and will be strong, and I
Thank you for the pretty leaf.


by Raymond Carver | |

Photograph of My Father in His Twenty-Second Year

 October.
Here in this dank, unfamiliar kitchen I study my father's embarrassed young man's face.
Sheepish grin, he holds in one hand a string of spiny yellow perch, in the other a bottle of Carlsbad Beer.
In jeans and denim shirt, he leans against the front fender of a 1934 Ford.
He would like to pose bluff and hearty for his posterity, Wear his old hat cocked over his ear.
All his life my father wanted to be bold.
But the eyes give him away, and the hands that limply offer the string of dead perch and the bottle of beer.
Father, I love you, yet how can I say thank you, I who can't hold my liquor either, and don't even know the places to fish?


by Maggie Estep | |

Fuck Me

 FUCK ME
I'm all screwed up so
FUCK ME.
FUCK ME and take out the garbage feed the cat and FUCK ME you can do it, I know you can.
FUCK ME and theorize about Sado Masochism's relationship to classical philosophy tell me how this stimulates the fabric of most human relationships, I love that kind of pointless intellectualism so do it again and FUCK ME.
Stop being logical stop contemplating the origins of evil and the beauty of death this is not a TV movie about Plato sex life, this is FUCK ME so FUCK ME It's the pause that refreshes just add water and FUCK ME.
I wrote this so I'd have a good excuse to say "FUCK ME" over and over and over so I could get a lot of attention and look, it worked! So thank you thank you and fuck ME.