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Best Famous Woman Poems

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

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by A E Housman | |

On the Idle Hill of Summer

On the idle hill of summer,
Sleepy with the flow of streams, 
Far I hear the steady drummer
Drumming like a noise in dreams.
Far and near and low and louder On the roads of earth go by, Dear to friends and food for powder, Soldiers marching, all to die.
East and west on fields forgotten Bleach the bones of comrades slain, Lovely lads and dead and rotten; None that go return again.
Far the calling bugles hollo, High the screaming fife replies, Gay the files of scarlet follow: Woman bore me, I will rise.


by Emma Lazarus | |

The New Colossus

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles.
From her beacon-hand Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
"Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she With silent lips.
"Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"


by Thomas Hardy | |

The Voice

Woman much missed, how you call to me, call to me,
Saying that now you are not as you were
When you had changed from the one who was all to me,
But as at first, when our day was fair.
Can it be you that I hear? Let me view you, then, Standing as when I drew near to the town Where you would wait for me: yes, as I knew you then, Even to the original air-blue gown! Or is it only the breeze in its listlessness Travelling across the wet mead to me here, You being ever dissolved to wan wistlessness, Heard no more again far or near? Thus I; faltering forward, Leaves around me falling, Wind oozing thin through the thorn from norward, And the woman calling.


by Sylvia Plath | |

The Rival

If the moon smiled, she would resemble you.
You leave the same impression Of something beautiful, but annihilating.
Both of you are great light borrowers.
Her O-mouth grieves at the world; yours is unaffected, And your first gift is making stone out of everything.
I wake to a mausoleum; you are here, Ticking your fingers on the marble table, looking for cigarettes, Spiteful as a woman, but not so nervous, And dying to say something unanswerable.
The moon, too, abases her subjects But in the daytime she is ridiculous.
Your dissatisfactions, on the other hand, Arrive through the mailslot with loving regularity, White and blank, expansive as carbon monoxide.
No day is safe from news of you, Walking about in Africa maybe, but thinking of me.


by Edward Estlin (E E) Cummings | |

am was. are leaves few this. is these a or

am was.
are leaves few this.
is these a or scratchily over which of earth dragged once -ful leaf.
; were who skies clutch an of poor how colding hereless.
air theres what immense live without every dancing.
singless on- ly a child's eyes float silently down more than two those that and that noing our gone snow gone yours mine .
We're alive and shall be:cities may overflow(am was)assassinating whole grassblades five ideas can swallow a man;three words im -prison a woman for all her now:but we've such freedom such intense digestion so much greenness only dying makes us grow


by John Donne | |

Song

GO and catch a falling star, 
Get with child a mandrake root, 
Tell me where all past years are, 
Or who cleft the Devil's foot; 
Teach me to hear mermaids singing, 5 
Or to keep off envy's stinging, 
And find 
What wind 
Serves to advance an honest mind.
If thou be'st born to strange sights, 10 Things invisible to see, Ride ten thousand days and nights Till Age snow white hairs on thee; Thou, when thou return'st, wilt tell me All strange wonders that befell thee, 15 And swear No where Lives a woman true and fair.
If thou find'st one, let me know; Such a pilgrimage were sweet.
20 Yet do not; I would not go, Though at next door we might meet.
Though she were true when you met her, And last till you write your letter, Yet she 25 Will be False, ere I come, to two or three.


by Christina Rossetti | |

From the Antique

 It's a weary life, it is, she said: 
Doubly blank in a woman's lot: 
I wish and I wish I were a man: 
Or, better then any being, were not:

Were nothing at all in all the world, 
Not a body and not a soul: 
Not so much as a grain of dust 
Or a drop of water from pole to pole.
Still the world would wag on the same, Still the seasons go and come: Blossoms bloom as in days of old, Cherries ripen and wild bees hum.
None would miss me in all the world, How much less would care or weep: I should be nothing, while all the rest Would wake and weary and fall asleep.


by Edmund Spenser | |

Sonnet 54

 Of this worlds theatre in which we stay,
My love like the spectator ydly sits
Beholding me that all the pageants play,
Disguysing diversly my troubled wits.
Sometimes I joy when glad occasion fits, And mask in myrth lyke to a comedy: Soone after when my joy to sorrow flits, I waile and make my woes a tragedy.
Yet she, beholding me with constant eye, Delights not in my merth nor rues my smart: But when I laugh she mocks, and when I cry She laughs and hardens evermore her heart.
What then can move her? if nor merth nor mone, She is no woman, but a senceless stone.


by Edmund Spenser | |

Sonnet LIIII

 OF this worlds Theatre in which we stay,
My loue lyke the Spectator ydly sits
beholding me that all the pageants play,
disguysing diuersly my troubled wits.
Sometimes I ioy when glad occasion sits, and mask in myrth lyke to a Comedy: soone after when my ioy to sorrow flits, I waile and make my woes a Tragedy.
Yet she beholding me with constant eye, delights not in my merth nor rues my smart: but when I laugh she mocks, and when I cry she laughes, and hardens euermore her hart.
What then can moue her? if nor merth nor mone, she is no woman, but a sencelesse stone.


by Gertrude Stein | |

Daughter

 Why is the world at peace.
This may astonish you a little but when you realise how easily Mrs.
Charles Bianco sells the work of American painters to American millionaires you will recognize that authorities are constrained to be relieved.
Let me tell you a story.
A painter loved a woman.
A musician did not sing.
A South African loved books.
An American was a woman and needed help.
Are Americans the same as incubators.
But this is the rest of the story.
He became an authority.


by Siegfried Sassoon | |

Hero

 'Jack fell as he'd have wished,' the Mother said,
And folded up the letter that she'd read.
'The Colonel writes so nicely.
' Something broke In the tired voice that quavered to a choke.
She half looked up.
'We mothers are so proud Of our dead soldiers.
' Then her face was bowed.
Quietly the Brother Officer went out.
He'd told the poor old dear some gallant lies That she would nourish all her days, no doubt.
For while he coughed and mumbled, her weak eyes Had shone with gentle triumph, brimmed with joy, Because he'd been so brave, her glorious boy.
He thought how 'Jack', cold-footed, useless swine, Had panicked down the trench that night the mine Went up at Wicked Corner; how he'd tried To get sent home, and how, at last, he died, Blown to small bits.
And no one seemed to care Except that lonely woman with white hair.


by Delmore Schwartz | |

Sonnet On Famous And Familiar Sonnets And Experiences

 (With much help from Robert Good, William Shakespeare, 
John Milton, and little Catherine Schwartz) 


Shall I compare her to a summer play?
She is too clever, too devious, too subtle, too dark:
Her lies are rare, but then she paves the way
Beyond the summer's sway, within the jejune park
Where all souls' aspiration to true nobility
Obliges Statues in the Frieze of Death
And when this pantomime and Panama of Panorama Fails,
"I'll never speak to you agayne" -- or waste her panting breath.
When I but think of how her years are spent Deadening that one talent which -- for woman is -- Death or paralysis, denied: nature's intent That each girl be a mother -- whether or not she is Or has become a lawful wife or bride -- 0 Alma Magna Mater, deathless the living death of pride.


by Delmore Schwartz | |

Poem (You my photographer you most aware)

 You, my photographer, you, most aware,
Who climbed to the bridge when the iceberg struck,
Climbed with your camera when the ship's hull broke,
And lighted your flashes and, standing passionate there,
Wound the camera in the sudden burst's flare,
Shot the screaming women, and turned and took
Pictures of the iceberg (as the ship's deck shook)
Dreaming like the moon in the night's black air!

You, tiptoe on the rail to film a child!
The nude old woman swimming in the sea
Looked up from the dark water to watch you there;
Below, near the ballroom where the band still toiled,
The frightened, in their lifebelts, watched you bitterly -
You hypocrite! My brother! We are a pair!


by Alan Seeger | |

Sonnet 08

 Oh, love of woman, you are known to be 
A passion sent to plague the hearts of men; 
For every one you bring felicity 
Bringing rebuffs and wretchedness to ten.
I have been oft where human life sold cheap And seen men's brains spilled out about their ears And yet that never cost me any sleep; I lived untroubled and I shed no tears.
Fools prate how war is an atrocious thing; I always knew that nothing it implied Equalled the agony of suffering Of him who loves and loves unsatisfied.
War is a refuge to a heart like this; Love only tells it what true torture is.


by Alan Seeger | |

Sonnet VII

 To me, a pilgrim on that journey bound 
Whose stations Beauty's bright examples are, 
As of a silken city famed afar 
Over the sands for wealth and holy ground, 
Came the report of one -- a woman crowned 
With all perfection, blemishless and high, 
As the full moon amid the moonlit sky, 
With the world's praise and wonder clad around.
And I who held this notion of success: To leave no form of Nature's loveliness Unworshipped, if glad eyes have access there, -- Beyond all earthly bounds have made my goal To find where that sweet shrine is and extol The hand that triumphed in a work so fair.


by Alan Seeger | |

Sonnet XI

 When among creatures fair of countenance 
Love comes enformed in such proud character, 
So far as other beauty yields to her, 
So far the breast with fiercer longing pants; 
I bless the spot, and hour, and circumstance, 
That wed desire to a thing so high, 
And say, Glad soul, rejoice, for thou and I 
Of bliss unpaired are made participants; 
Hence have come ardent thoughts and waking dreams 
That, feeding Fancy from so sweet a cup, 
Leave it no lust for gross imaginings.
Through her the woman's perfect beauty gleams That while it gazes lifts the spirit up To that high source from which all beauty springs.


by Anne Sexton | |

Housewife

 Some women marry houses.
It's another kind of skin; it has a heart, a mouth, a liver and bowel movements.
The walls are permanent and pink.
See how she sits on her knees all day, faithfully washing herself down.
Men enter by force, drawn back like Jonah into their fleshy mothers.
A woman is her mother.
That's the main thing.


by Anne Sexton | |

The Firebombers

 We are America.
We are the coffin fillers.
We are the grocers of death.
We pack them in crates like cauliflowers.
The bomb opens like a shoebox.
And the child? The child is certainly not yawning.
And the woman? The woman is bathing her heart.
It has been torn out of her and as a last act she is rinsing it off in the river.
This is the death market.
America, where are your credentials?


by Anne Sexton | |

The Fury Of Guitars And Sopranos

 This singing 
is a kind of dying, 
a kind of birth, 
a votive candle.
I have a dream-mother who sings with her guitar, nursing the bedroom with a moonlight and beautiful olives.
A flute came too, joining the five strings, a God finger over the holes.
I knew a beautiful woman once who sang with her fingertips and her eyes were brown like small birds.
At the cup of her breasts I drew wine.
At the mound of her legs I drew figs.
She sang for my thirst, mysterious songs of God that would have laid an army down.
It was as if a morning-glory had bloomed in her throat and all that blue and small pollen ate into my heart violent and religious.


by Anne Sexton | |

The Fury Of Abandonment

 Someone lives in a cave
eating his toes,
I know that much.
Someone little lives under a bush pressing an empty Coca-Cola can against his starving bloated stomac, I know that much.
A monkey had his hands cut off for a medical experiment and his claws wept.
I know tht much.
I know that it is all a matter of hands.
Out of the mournful sweetness of touching comes love like breakfast.
Out of the many houses come the hands before the abandonment of the city, out of hte bars and shops, a thin file of ants.
I've been abandoned out here under the dry stars with no shoes, no belt and I've called Rescue Inc.
- that old-fashioned hot line - no voice.
Left to my own lips, touch them, my own nostrils, shoulders, breasts, navel, stomach, mound,kneebone, ankle, touch them.
It makes me laugh to see a woman in this condition.
It makes me laugh for America and New York city when your hands are cut off and no one answers the phone.