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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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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.


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
ood
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
damned


by Philip Larkin | |

Money

 Quarterly, is it, money reproaches me: 
 'Why do you let me lie here wastefully? 
I am all you never had of goods and sex,
 You could get them still by writing a few cheques.
' So I look at others, what they do with theirs: They certainly don't keep it upstairs.
By now they've a second house and car and wife: Clearly money has something to do with life - In fact, they've a lot in common, if you enquire: You can't put off being young until you retire, And however you bank your screw, the money you save Won't in the end buy you more than a shave.
I listen to money singing.
It's like looking down From long French windows at a provincial town, The slums, the canal, the churches ornate and mad In the evening sun.
It is intensely sad.


by Gerard Manley Hopkins | |

To Seem The Stranger Lies My Lot My Life

 To seem the stranger lies my lot, my life
Among strangers.
Father and mother dear, Brothers and sisters are in Christ not near And he my peace my parting, sword and strife.
England, whose honour O all my heart woos, wife To my creating thought, would neither hear Me, were I pleading, plead nor do I: I wear- y of idle a being but by where wars are rife.
I am in Ireland now; now I am at a thírd Remove.
Not but in all removes I can Kind love both give and get.
Only what word Wisest my heart breeds dark heaven's baffling ban Bars or hell's spell thwarts.
This to hoard unheard, Heard unheeded, leaves me a lonely began.


by Anne Kingsmill Finch | |

To A Husband

 This is to the crown and blessing of my life,
The much loved husband of a happy wife;
To him whose constant passion found the art
To win a stubborn and ungrateful heart,
And to the world by tenderest proof discovers
They err, who say that husbands can't be lovers.
With such return of passion, as is due, Daphnis I love, Daphinis my thoughts pursue; Daphnis, my hopes and joys are bounded all in you.
Even I, for Daphnis' and my promise' sake, What I in woman censure, undertake.
But this from love, not vanity proceeds; You know who writes, and I who 'tis that reads.
Judge not my passion by my want of skill: Many love well, though they express it ill; And I your censure could with pleasure bear, Would you but soon return, and speak it here.


by William Henry Davies | |

Nell Barnes

 They lived apart for three long years, 
Bill Barnes and Nell his wife; 
He took his joy from other girls, 
She led a wicked life.
Yet ofttimes she would pass his shop, With some strange man awhile; And, looking, meet her husband's frown With her malicious smile.
Until one day, when passing there, She saw her man had gone; And when she saw the empty shop, She fell down with a moan.
And when she heard that he had gone Five thousand miles away; And that she's see his face no more, She sickened from that day.
To see his face was health and life, And when it was denied, She could not eat, and broke her heart -- It was for love she died.


by William Henry Davies | |

Truly Great

 My walls outside must have some flowers, 
My walls within must have some books; 
A house that's small; a garden large, 
And in it leafy nooks.
A little gold that's sure each week; That comes not from my living kind, But from a dead man in his grave, Who cannot change his mind.
A lovely wife, and gentle too; Contented that no eyes but mine Can see her many charms, nor voice To call her beauty fine.
Where she would in that stone cage live, A self-made prisoner, with me; While many a wild bird sang around, On gate, on bush, on tree.
And she sometimes to answer them, In her far sweeter voice than all; Till birds, that loved to look on leaves, Will doat on a stone wall.
With this small house, this garden large, This little gold, this lovely mate, With health in body, peace in heart-- Show me a man more great.


by Edwin Arlington Robinson | |

The Mill

 The miller's wife had waited long,
The tea was cold, the fire was dead;
And there might yet be nothing wrong
In how he went and what he said:
"There are no millers any more,"
Was all that she had heard him say;
And he had lingered at the door
So long that it seemed yesterday.
Sick with a fear that had no form She knew that she was there at last; And in the mill there was a warm And mealy fragrance of the past.
What else there was would only seem To say again what he had meant; And what was hanging from a beam Would not have heeded where she went.
And if she thought it followed her, She may have reasoned in the dark That one way of the few there were Would hide her and would leave no mark: Black water, smooth above the weir Like starry velvet in the night, Though ruffled once, would soon appear The same as ever to the sight.


by Edwin Arlington Robinson | |

Reuben Bright

 Because he was a butcher and thereby 
Did earn an honest living (and did right), 
I would not have you think that Reuben Bright
Was any more a brute than you or I; 
For when they told him that his wife must die, 
He stared at them, and shook with grief and fright, 
And cried like a great baby half that night, 
And made the women cry to see him cry.
And after she was dead, and he had paid The singers and the sexton and the rest, He packed a lot of things that she had made Most mournfully away in an old chest Of hers, and put some chopped-up cedar boughs In with them, and tore down the slaughter-house.


by Edwin Arlington Robinson | |

A Happy Man

 When these graven lines you see, 
Traveller, do not pity me; 
Though I be among the dead, 
Let no mournful word be said.
Children that I leave behind, And their children, all were kind; Near to them and to my wife, I was happy all my life.
My three sons I married right, And their sons I rocked at night; Death nor sorrow never brought Cause for one unhappy thought.
Now, and with no need of tears, Here they leave me, full of years,-- Leave me to my quiet rest In the region of the blest.


by Edwin Arlington Robinson | |

Neighbors

 As often as we thought of her, 
We thought of a gray life 
That made a quaint economist 
Of a wolf-haunted wife; 
We made the best of all she bore 
That was not ours to bear, 
And honored her for wearing things 
That were not things to wear.
There was a distance in her look That made us look again; And if she smiled, we might believe That we had looked in vain.
Rarely she came inside our doors, And had not long to stay; And when she left, it seemed somehow That she was far away.
At last, when we had all forgot That all is here to change, A shadow on the commonplace Was for a moment strange.
Yet there was nothing for suprise, Nor much that need be told: Love, with its gift of pain, had given More than one heart could hold.


by Edwin Arlington Robinson | |

Ben Trovato

 The Deacon thought.
“I know them,” he began, “And they are all you ever heard of them— Allurable to no sure theorem, The scorn or the humility of man.
You say ‘Can I believe it?’—and I can; And I’m unwilling even to condemn The benefaction of a stratagem Like hers—and I’m a Presbyterian.
“Though blind, with but a wandering hour to live, He felt the other woman in the fur That now the wife had on.
Could she forgive All that? Apparently.
Her rings were gone, Of course; and when he found that she had none, He smiled—as he had never smiled at her.


by George William Russell | |

Symbolism

 NOW when the spirit in us wakes and broods,
Filled with home yearnings, drowsily it flings
From its deep heart high dreams and mystic moods,
Mixed with the memory of the loved earth things:
Clothing the vast with a familiar face;
Reaching its right hand forth to greet the starry race.
Wondrously near and clear the great warm fires Stare from the blue; so shows the cottage light To the field labourer whose heart desires The old folk by the nook, the welcome bright From the house-wife long parted from at dawn— So the star villages in God’s great depths withdrawn.
Nearer to Thee, not by delusion led, Though there no house fires burn nor bright eyes gaze: We rise, but by the symbol charioted, Through loved things rising up to Love’s own ways: By these the soul unto the vast has wings And sets the seal celestial on all mortal things.


by Ella Wheeler Wilcox | |

An Answer

 If all the year was summer-time,
And all the aim of life
Was just to lilt on like a rhyme –
Then I would be your wife.
If all the days were August days, And crowned with golden weather, How happy then through green-clad ways We two could stray together! If all the nights were moonlit nights, And we had naught to do But just to sit and plan delights, Then I would be with you.
If life was all a summer fete, Its soberest pace the “glide, ” Then I would choose you for my mate, And keep you at my side.
But winter makes full half the year, And labour half of life, And all the laughter and good cheer Gives place to wearing strife.
Days will grow cold, and moons wax old, And then a heart that’s true Is better far than grace or gold – And so, my love, adieu! I cannot wed with you.


by Algernon Charles Swinburne | |

Non Dolet

 It does not hurt.
She looked along the knife Smiling, and watched the thick drops mix and run Down the sheer blade; not that which had been done Could hurt the sweet sense of the Roman wife, But that which was to do yet ere the strife Could end for each for ever, and the sun: Nor was the palm yet nor was peace yet won While pain had power upon her husband's life.
It does not hurt, Italia.
Thou art more Than bride to bridegroom; how shalt thou not take The gift love's blood has reddened for thy sake? Was not thy lifeblood given for us before? And if love's heartblood can avail thy need, And thou not die, how should it hurt indeed?


by Henry Van Dyke | |

A Scrap of Paper

 "Will you go to war just for a scrap of paper?" -- Question 
of the German Chancellor to the British Ambassador, 
August 5, 1914.
A mocking question! Britain's answer came Swift as the light and searching as the flame.
"Yes, for a scrap of paper we will fight Till our last breath, and God defend the right! "A scrap of paper where a name is set Is strong as duty's pledge and honor's debt.
"A scrap of paper holds for man and wife The sacrament of love, the bond of life.
"A scrap of paper may be Holy Writ With God's eternal word to hallow it.
"A scrap of paper binds us both to stand Defenders of a neutral neighbor land.
"By God, by faith, by honor, yes! We fight To keep our name upon that paper white.
"


by Henry Van Dyke | |

Jeanne dArc Returns

 1914-1916 

What hast thou done, O womanhood of France,
Mother and daughter, sister, sweetheart, wife,
What hast thou done, amid this fateful strife,
To prove the pride of thine inheritance
In this fair land of freedom and romance?
I hear thy voice with tears and courage rife,--
Smiling against the swords that seek thy life,--
Make answer in a noble utterance:
"I give France all I have, and all she asks.
Would it were more! Ah, let her ask and take: My hands to nurse her wounded, do her tasks,-- My feet to run her errands through the dark,-- My heart to bleed in triumph for her sake,-- And all my soul to follow thee, Jeanne d'Arc!"


by Rainer Maria Rilke | |

The Song Of The Blindman

 I am blind, you out there -- that is a curse,
against one's will, a contradiction,
a heavy daily burden.
I lay my hand on the arm of my wife, my grey hand upon her greyer grey, as she guides me through empty spaces.
You move about and stir, and imagine your sounds differing from stone to stone.
But you are mistaken: I alone live and suffer and complain, for in me is an endless crying, and I do not know whether it is my heart that cries or my bowels.
Do you recognize these songs? You never sang them, not quite with this intonation.
For you every morning brings its new light warm through your open windows.
And you have the feeling from face to face that tempts you to be indulgent.