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Best Famous Wife Poems

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

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See also: Best Member Poems

by Walt Whitman | |

I Hear America Singing

I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear, 
Those of mechanics, each one singing his as it should be blithe and strong, 
The carpenter singing his as he measures his plank or beam, 
The mason singing his as he makes ready for work, or leaves off work, 
The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat, the deckhand 
singing on the steamboat deck, 
The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench, the hatter singing as he stands, 
The wood-cutter's song, the ploughboy's on his way in the morning, or 
at noon intermission or at sundown, 
The delicious singing of the mother, or of the young wife at work, or of 
the girl sewing or washing, 
Each singing what belongs to him or her and to none else, 
The day what belongs to the day--at night the party of young fellows, 
robust, friendly, 
Singing with open mouths their strong melodious songs.

by Edgar Lee Masters | |

Doc Hill

I went up and down the streets
Here and there by day and night,
Through all hours of the night caring for the poor who were sick.
Do you know why? My wife hated me, my son went to the dogs.
And I turned to the people and poured out my love to them.
Sweet it was to see the crowds about the lawns on the day of my funeral, And hear them murmur their love and sorrow.
But oh, dear God, my soul trembled, scarcely able To hold to the railing of the new life When I saw Em Stanton behind the oak tree At the grave, Hiding herself, and her grief!

by Anna Akhmatova | |

Lots Wife

Holy Lot  was a-going behind  God's angel,
He seemed  huge and bright on a hill, huge and black.
But the heart of his wife whispered stronger and stranger: "It's not very late, you have time to look back At these rose turrets of your native Sodom, The square where you sang, and the yard where you span, The windows looking from your cozy home Where you bore children for your dear man.
" She looked -- and her eyes were instantly bound By pain -- they couldn't see any more at all: Her fleet feet grew into the stony ground, Her body turned into a pillar of salt.
Who'll mourn her as one of Lot's family members? Doesn't she seem the smallest of losses to us? But deep in my heart I will always remember One who gave her life up for one single glance.

More great poems below...

by Edward Estlin (E E) Cummings | |

proud of his scientific attitude

proud of his scientific attitude

and liked the prince of wales wife wants to die
but the doctors won't let her comman considers fr
whom he pronounces young mistaken and
cradles in rubbery one somewhat hand
the paper destinies of nations sic
item a bounceless period unshy
the empty house is full O Yes of guk
rooms daughter item son a woopsing queer
colon hobby photography never has plumbed
the heights of prowst but respects artists if
they are sincere proud of his scientif
ic attitude and liked the king of)hear

ye!the godless are the dull and the dull are the

by | by . You can read it on' st_url='' st_title='Words uttered in a subdued voice in order to constitute a dedication, Translation of Carlos Bousono's sonnet '>|

Words uttered in a subdued voice in order to constitute a dedication, Translation of Carlos Bousono's sonnet

Words uttered in a subdued voice in order to constitute a dedication,
Translation of Carlos Bousono’s poem :Palabras dichas en voz baja para
formar una dedicatoria
(To Ruth, so young, from another age)
(It’s quite probable that this poem commemorates and addresses Bousono’s
wife, Ruth, and as such the interest in the poem must underlie the intimate and/or
private candidness of tone, rather than the less than pretentious art form.
Wignesan) I This isn’t exactly wine that you and I drain to the last drop with such slowness at this hour, the neat truth.
It’s not wine, it’s love.
In any case, it’s not a question of an awaited celebration, a noisy fiesta, raised on gold.
It’s not a canticle of the mountains.
It’s only a whistling sound : flower, less than this : whisper, lacking in weight.
II And all this began some time back.
We joined hands very hurriedly to be able to remain by ourselves, alone, both jointly and separately in order to walk on the neverending pathway interminably.
And in this manner, we move forward together on the pathway tenaciously.
The same direction, the self-same golden instant and despite it all, you walked without being in doubt, always very far away, far behind, lost in the distance, in the brightness, diminshed, yet wanting me, in another station where flowers burgeoned, in another time and in another pure space.
And from the secluded spot in the woods, from the sandy indignity of mature lateness, from where I contemplated your eagerness to be ahead of time, I saw you slow down, once and all over again, without raising your head in your remote garden, though being held back, obstinate- ly, and so unjustly ! pluck in joy roses for me.
© T.
Wignesan – Paris, 2013

by | |

A Little Man


There was a little man, and he had a little gun,
  And his bullets were made of lead, lead, lead;
He went to the brook, and saw a little duck,
  And shot it right through the head, head, head.

He carried it home to his old wife Joan,
  And bade her a fire to make, make, make.
To roast the little duck he had shot in the brook,
  And he'd go and fetch the drake, drake, drake.

The drake was a-swimming with his curly tail;
  The little man made it his mark, mark, mark.
He let off his gun, but he fired too soon,
  And the drake flew away with a quack, quack, quack.

by | |

Comical Folk


    In a cottage in Fife
    Lived a man and his wife
Who, believe me, were comical folk;
    For, to people's surprise,
    They both saw with their eyes,
And their tongues moved whenever they spoke!
    When they were asleep,
    I'm told, that to keep
Their eyes open they could not contrive;
    They both walked on their feet,
    And 'twas thought what they eat
Helped, with drinking, to keep them alive!

by | |

Going To St. Ives

As I was going to St.
I met a man with seven wives.
Every wife had seven sacks,
Every sack had seven cats,
Every cat had seven kits.
Kits, cats, sacks, and wives,
How many were going to St.

by | |

I Love Sixpence


I love sixpence, a jolly, jolly sixpence,
  I love sixpence as my life;
I spent a penny of it, I spent a penny of it,
  I took a penny home to my wife.

Oh, my little fourpence, a jolly, jolly fourpence,
  I love fourpence as my life;
I spent twopence of it, I spent twopence of it,
  And I took twopence home to my wife.

by | |

Jack Jingle

Little Jack Jingle, He used to live single;
But when he got tired of this kind of life,
He left off being single and lived with his wife.
Now what do you think of little Jack Jingle?
Before he was married he used to live single.

by | |

Jack Sprat

    Jack Sprat
    Could eat no fat,
His wife could eat no lean;
    And so,
    Betwixt them both,
They licked the platter clean.

by | |

Little Tom Tucker

Little Tom Tucker
    Sings for his supper.
What shall he eat?
    White bread and butter.
How will he cut it
    Without e'er a knife?
How will he be married
    Without e'er a wife?

by | |

Master I Have

Master I have, and I am his man,
    Gallop a dreary dun;
Master I have, and I am his man,
    And I'll get a wife as fast as I can;
With a heighty gaily gamberally,
    Higgledy piggledy, niggledy, niggledy,
    Gallop a dreary dun.

by | |

Nancy Dawson

Nancy Dawson was so fine
She wouldn't get up to serve the swine;
She lies in bed till eight or nine,
So it's Oh, poor Nancy Dawson.

And do ye ken Nancy Dawson, honey?
The wife who sells the barley, honey?
She won't get up to feed her swine,
And do ye ken Nancy Dawson, honey?

by | |

The Pumpkin-Eater

Peter, Peter, pumpkin-eater,
Had a wife and couldn't keep her;
He put her in a pumpkin shell,
And there he kept her very well.

by | |

Three Blind Mice

Three blind mice! See how they run!
They all ran after the farmer's wife,
Who cut off their tails with a carving knife.
Did you ever see such a thing in your life
As three blind mice?

by | by . You can read it on' st_url='' st_title='T'Other Little Tune'>|

T'Other Little Tune


I won't be my father's Jack,
  I won't be my father's Jill;
I will be the fiddler's wife,
  And have music when I will.
      T'other little tune,
      T'other little tune,
      Prithee, Love, play me
      T'other little tune.

by Omer Tarin | |

For Tahira Mazhar Ali Khan , RIP (5th January 1925-23rd March 2015)

Some souls pass away so quietly that not even the suspiration of their fleeting wings
is heard, or known, to us, among so many other activities, so many other things; 

so, this was one such soul, that breathed its last, effortlessly and without pain, 
melting away into the unknown, rising to the snowy Himalayan heights, shining forth beyond these dusty plains; 

only now, people seem to have woken up to her plaudits, her praise, 
something she never sought in her long and eventful life, through years of joy and strife

yet all this is somehow her due, more than many who falsely claim it 
and its no small achievement, hers, at so many levels, when we think of it- 

personal and national-- daughter, wife, mother; and an inspiring enabling guide
to millions, who flounder in the shallows, or sink with each fickle tide; 

for these, the poor, the helpless, the friendless, the outcast, 
she brought hope and comfort and a vision eternal, one that will last 
and outlive us all.

(BR magazine 25th March 2015)

by Erin Belieu | |

For Catherine: Juana Infanta of Navarre

 Ferdinand was systematic when
he drove his daughter mad.
With a Casanova's careful art, he moved slowly, stole only one child at a time through tunnels specially dug behind the walls of her royal chamber, then paid the Duenna well to remember nothing but his appreciation.
Imagine how quietly the servants must have worked, loosening the dirt, the muffled ring of pick-ends against the castle stone.
The Duenna, one eye gauging the drugged girl's sleep, each night handing over another light parcel, another small body vanished through the mouth of a hole.
Once you were a daughter, too, then a wife and now the mother of a baby with a Spanish name.
Paloma, you call her, little dove; she sleeps in a room beyond you.
Your husband, too, works late, drinks too much at night, comes home lit, wanting sex and dinner.
You feign sleep, shrunk in the corner of the queen-sized bed.
You've confessed, you can't feel things when they touch you; take Prozac for depression, Ativan for the buzz.
Drunk, you call your father who doesn't want to claim a ha!fsand-niggergrandkid.
He says he never loved your mother.
No one remembers Juana; almost everything's forgotten in time, and if I tell her story, it's only when guessing what she loved, what she dreamed about, the lost details of a life that barely survives history.
God and Latin, I suppose, what she loved.
And dreams of mice pouring out from a hole.
The Duenna, in spite of her black, widow's veil, leaning to kiss her, saying Juana, don't listen.

by Ben Jonson | |

On Don Surly

Don SURLY, to aspire the glorious name
Of a great man, and to be thought the same,
Makes serious use of all great trade he knows,
He speaks to men with a rhinocerote's nose,
Which he thinks great ; and so reads verses too :
And that is done, as he saw great men do.
He has tympanies of business in his face,
And can forget men's names, with a great grace.
He will both argue, and discourse in oaths,
Both which are great : and laugh at ill-made clothes ;
That's greater, yet : to cry his own up neat.
He doth at meals, alone, his pheasant eat,
Which is main greatness ; and at his still board
He drinks to no man : that's, too, like a lord.
He keeps another's wife, which is a spice
Of solemn greatness ; and he dares, at dice,
Blaspheme God greatly ; or some poor hind beat,
That breathes in his dog's way : and this is great.
Nay more, for greatness sake, he will be one
May hear my epigrams, but like of none.
SURLY, use other arts, these only can
Style thee a most great fool, but no great man.

[AJ Notes:
cry his own up neat, facilely praise his own clothes.
still board, quiet table.

by Ben Jonson | |

To Sir Luckless Woo-All

Is this the sir, who, some waste wife to win,
A knight-hood bought, to go a wooing in?
'Tis LUCKLESS, he that took up one on band
To pay at's day of marriage.
By my hand
The knight-wright's cheated then !  he'll never pay :
Yes, now he wears his knighthood every day.

by Ben Jonson | |

To Hornet


HORNET, thou hast thy wife drest for the stall,
To draw thee custom: but herself gets all.

by Ben Jonson | |

On Sir Voluptuous Beast

While BEAST instructs his fair and innocent wife,
In the past pleasures of his sensual life,
Telling the motions of each petticoat,
And how his Ganymede mov'd, and how his goat,
And now her hourly her own cucquean makes,
In varied shapes, which for his lust she takes :
What doth he else, but say, Leave to be chaste,
Just wife, and, to change me, make woman's haste.

[AJ Notes:
Ganymede, in Greek mythology, a beautiful shepherd boy
        with whom Zeus fell in love.
Cucquean, n.
[Cuckold + queen], a woman whose
        husband is unfaithful to her.

by Ben Jonson | |

On Giles and Joan

Who says that GILES and JOAN at discord be ?
Th' observing neighbors no such mood can see.

Indeed, poor Giles repents he married ever ;
But that his Joan doth too.
  And Giles would never,
By his free-will, be in Joan's company :
No more would Joan he should.
  Giles riseth early,
And having got him out of doors is glad ;
The like is Joan : but turning home is sad ;
And so is Joan.
  Oftimes when Giles doth find
Harsh sights at home, Giles wisheth he were blind ;
All this doth Joan : or that his long-yearn'd life
Were quite out-spun ; the like wish hath his wife.

The children that he keeps, Giles swears are none
Of his getting ;  and so swears his Joan.

In all affections she concurreth still.

If now, with man and wife, to will and nill
The self-same things, a note of concord be :
I know no couple better can agree !

by Oliver Wendell Holmes | |

The Old Man Dreams

 OH for one hour of youthful joy!
Give back my twentieth spring!
I'd rather laugh, a bright-haired boy,
Than reign, a gray-beard king.
Off with the spoils of wrinkled age! Away with Learning's crown! Tear out life's Wisdom-written page, And dash its trophies down! One moment let my life-blood stream From boyhood's fount of flame! Give me one giddy, reeling dream Of life all love and fame! .
My listening angel heard the prayer, And, calmly smiling, said, "If I but touch thy silvered hair Thy hasty wish hath sped.
"But is there nothing in thy track, To bid thee fondly stay, While the swift seasons hurry back To find the wished-for day?" "Ah, truest soul of womankind! Without thee what were life ? One bliss I cannot leave behind: I'll take-- my-- precious-- wife!" The angel took a sapphire pen And wrote in rainbow dew, The man would be a boy again, And be a husband too! "And is there nothing yet unsaid, Before the change appears? Remember, all their gifts have fled With those dissolving years.
" "Why, yes;" for memory would recall My fond paternal joys; "I could not bear to leave them all-- I'll take-- my-- girl-- and-- boys.
" The smiling angel dropped his pen,-- "Why, this will never do; The man would be a boy again, And be a father too!" .
And so I laughed,-- my laughter woke The household with its noise,-- And wrote my dream, when morning broke, To please the gray-haired boys.