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

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by Maya Angelou |

Still I Rise

You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I'll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.

Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don't you take it awful hard
'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines
Diggin' in my own back yard.

You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I'll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I've got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history's shame
I rise
Up from a past that's rooted in pain
I rise
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.

by Fleda Brown |

I Write My Mother a Poem

Sometimes I feel her easing further into her grave, 
resigned, as always, and I have to come to her rescue. 
Like now, when I have so much else to do. Not that 

she'd want a poem. She would have been proud, of course, 
of all its mystery, involving her, but scared a little. 
Her eyes would have filled with tears. It always comes 

to that, I don't know why I bother. One gesture 
and she's gone down a well of raw feeling, and I'm left 
alone again. I avert my eyes, to keep from scaring her. 

On her dresser is one of those old glass bottles 
of Jergen's Lotion with the black label, a little round 
bottle of Mum deodorant, a white plastic tray 

with Avon necklaces and earrings, pennies, paper clips, 
and a large black coat button. I appear to be very 
interested in these objects, even interested in the sun 

through the blinds. It falls across her face, and not, 
as she changes the bed. She would rather have clean sheets 
than my poem, but as long as I don't bother her, she's glad 

to know I care. She's talked my father into taking 
a drive later, stopping for an A & W root beer. 
She is dreaming of foam on the glass, the tray propped 

on the car window. And trees, farmhouses, the expanse 
of the world as seen from inside the car. It is no 
use to try to get her out to watch airplanes 

take off, or walk a trail, or hear this poem 
and offer anything more than "Isn't that sweet!" 
Right now bombs are exploding in Kosovo, students 

shot in Colorado, and my mother is wearing a root beer 
mustache. Her eyes are unfocused, everything's root beer. 
I write root beer, root beer, to make her happy.

from Breathing In, Breathing Out, Anhinga Press, 2002
© 2000, Fleda Brown
(first published in The Southern Review, 36 [2000])

by Ben Jonson |

His Excuse for Loving

Let it not your wonder move, 
Less your laughter, that I love. 
Though I now write fifty years, 
I have had, and have, my peers. 
Poets, though divine, are men; 
Some have loved as old again. 
And it is not always face, 
Clothes, or fortune gives the grace, 
Or the feature, or the youth; 
But the language and the truth, 
With the ardor and the passion, 
Gives the lover weight and fashion. 
If you then would hear the story, 
First, prepare you to be sorry 
That you never knew till now 
Either whom to love or how; 
But be glad as soon with me 
When you hear that this is she 
Of whose beauty it was sung, 
She shall make the old man young, 
Keep the middle age at stay, 
And let nothing hide decay, 
Till she be the reason why 
All the world for love may die. 

by John Dryden |

To the Memory of Mr. Oldham

Farewell, too little, and too lately known,
Whom I began to think and call my own:
For sure our souls were near allied, and thine
Cast in the same poetic mold with mine.
One common note on either lyre did strike,
And knaves and fools we both abhorred alike.
To the same goal did both our studies drive;
The last set out the soonest did arrive.
Thus Nisus fell upon the slippery place,
While his young friend performed and won the race.
O early ripe! to thy abundant store
What could advancing age have added more?
It might (what nature never gives the young)
Have taught the numbers of thy native tongue.
But satire needs not those, and wit will shine
Through the harsh cadence of a rugged line:
A noble error, and but seldom made,
When poets are by too much force betrayed.
Thy generous fruits, though gathered ere their prime,
Still showed a quickness, and maturing time
But mellows what we write to the dull sweets of rhyme.
Once more, hail and farewell; farewell, thou young,
But ah too short, Marcellus of our tongue;
Thy brows with ivy, and with laurels bound;
But fate and gloomy night encompass thee around.

by Emily Dickinson |

Going to him! Happy letter!

"Going to him! Happy letter! Tell him--
Tell him the page I didn't write;
Tell him I only said the syntax,
And left the verb and the pronoun out.

Tell him just how the fingers hurried
Then how they waded, slow, slow, slow-
And then you wished you had eyes in your pages,
So you could see what moved them so.

"Tell him it wasn't a practised writer,
You guessed, from the way the sentence toiled;
You could hear the bodice tug, behind you,
As if it held but the might of a child;
You almost pitied it, you, it worked so.
Tell him--No, you may quibble there,
For it would split his heart to know it,
And then you and I were silenter.

"Tell him night finished before we finished
And the old clock kept neighing 'day!'
And you got sleepy and begged to be ended--
What could it hinder so, to say?
Tell him just how she sealed you, cautious
But if he ask where you are hid
Until to-morrow,--happy letter!
Gesture, coquette, and shake your head!"

by Edmund Spenser |


YE learn¨¨d sisters, which have oftentimes 
Beene to me ayding, others to adorne, 
Whom ye thought worthy of your gracefull rymes, 
That even the greatest did not greatly scorne 
To heare theyr names sung in your simple layes, 5 
But joy¨¨d in theyr praise; 
And when ye list your owne mishaps to mourne, 
Which death, or love, or fortunes wreck did rayse, 
Your string could soone to sadder tenor turne, 
And teach the woods and waters to lament 10 
Your dolefull dreriment: 
Now lay those sorrowfull complaints aside; 
And, having all your heads with girlands crownd, 
Helpe me mine owne loves prayses to resound; 
Ne let the same of any be envide: 15 
So Orpheus did for his owne bride! 
So I unto my selfe alone will sing; 
The woods shall to me answer, and my Eccho ring. 

Early, before the worlds light-giving lampe 
His golden beame upon the hils doth spred, 20 
Having disperst the nights unchearefull dampe, 
Doe ye awake; and, with fresh lusty-hed, 
Go to the bowre of my belov¨¨d love, 
My truest turtle dove; 
Bid her awake; for Hymen is awake, 25 
And long since ready forth his maske to move, 
With his bright Tead that flames with many a flake, 
And many a bachelor to waite on him, 
In theyr fresh garments trim. 
Bid her awake therefore, and soone her dight, 30 
For lo! the wish¨¨d day is come at last, 
That shall, for all the paynes and sorrowes past, 
Pay to her usury of long delight: 
And, whylest she doth her dight, 
Doe ye to her of joy and solace sing, 35 
That all the woods may answer, and your eccho ring. 

Bring with you all the Nymphes that you can heare 
Both of the rivers and the forrests greene, 
And of the sea that neighbours to her neare: 
Al with gay girlands goodly wel beseene. 40 
And let them also with them bring in hand 
Another gay girland 
For my fayre love, of lillyes and of roses, 
Bound truelove wize, with a blew silke riband. 
And let them make great store of bridale poses, 45 
And let them eeke bring store of other flowers, 
To deck the bridale bowers. 
And let the ground whereas her foot shall tread, 
For feare the stones her tender foot should wrong, 
Be strewed with fragrant flowers all along, 50 
And diapred lyke the discolored mead. 
Which done, doe at her chamber dore awayt, 
For she will waken strayt; 
The whiles doe ye this song unto her sing, 
The woods shall to you answer, and your Eccho ring. 55 

Ye Nymphes of Mulla, which with carefull heed 
The silver scaly trouts doe tend full well, 
And greedy pikes which use therein to feed; 
(Those trouts and pikes all others doo excell;) 
And ye likewise, which keepe the rushy lake, 60 
Where none doo fishes take; 
Bynd up the locks the which hang scatterd light, 
And in his waters, which your mirror make, 
Behold your faces as the christall bright, 
That when you come whereas my love doth lie, 65 
No blemish she may spie. 
And eke, ye lightfoot mayds, which keepe the deere, 
That on the hoary mountayne used to towre; 
And the wylde wolves, which seeke them to devoure, 
With your steele darts doo chace from comming neer; 70 
Be also present heere, 
To helpe to decke her, and to help to sing, 
That all the woods may answer, and your eccho ring. 

Wake now, my love, awake! for it is time; 
The Rosy Morne long since left Tithones bed, 75 
All ready to her silver coche to clyme; 
And Phoebus gins to shew his glorious hed. 
Hark! how the cheerefull birds do chaunt theyr laies 
And carroll of Loves praise. 
The merry Larke hir mattins sings aloft; 80 
The Thrush replyes; the Mavis descant playes; 
The Ouzell shrills; the Ruddock warbles soft; 
So goodly all agree, with sweet consent, 
To this dayes merriment. 
Ah! my deere love, why doe ye sleepe thus long? 85 
When meeter were that ye should now awake, 
T' awayt the comming of your joyous make, 
And hearken to the birds love-learn¨¨d song, 
The deawy leaves among! 
Nor they of joy and pleasance to you sing, 90 
That all the woods them answer, and theyr eccho ring. 

My love is now awake out of her dreames, 
And her fayre eyes, like stars that dimm¨¨d were 
With darksome cloud, now shew theyr goodly beams 
More bright then Hesperus his head doth rere. 95 
Come now, ye damzels, daughters of delight, 
Helpe quickly her to dight: 
But first come ye fayre houres, which were begot 
In Joves sweet paradice of Day and Night; 
Which doe the seasons of the yeare allot, 100 
And al, that ever in this world is fayre, 
Doe make and still repayre: 
And ye three handmayds of the Cyprian Queene, 
The which doe still adorne her beauties pride, 
Helpe to addorne my beautifullest bride: 105 
And, as ye her array, still throw betweene 
Some graces to be seene; 
And, as ye use to Venus, to her sing, 
The whiles the woods shal answer, and your eccho ring. 

Now is my love all ready forth to come: 110 
Let all the virgins therefore well awayt: 
And ye fresh boyes, that tend upon her groome, 
Prepare your selves; for he is comming strayt. 
Set all your things in seemely good aray, 
Fit for so joyfull day: 115 
The joyfulst day that ever sunne did see. 
Faire Sun! shew forth thy favourable ray, 
And let thy lifull heat not fervent be, 
For feare of burning her sunshyny face, 
Her beauty to disgrace. 120 
O fayrest Phoebus! father of the Muse! 
If ever I did honour thee aright, 
Or sing the thing that mote thy mind delight, 
Doe not thy servants simple boone refuse; 
But let this day, let this one day, be myne; 125 
Let all the rest be thine. 
Then I thy soverayne prayses loud wil sing, 
That all the woods shal answer, and theyr eccho ring. 

Harke! how the Minstrils gin to shrill aloud 
Their merry Musick that resounds from far, 130 
The pipe, the tabor, and the trembling Croud, 
That well agree withouten breach or jar. 
But, most of all, the Damzels doe delite 
When they their tymbrels smyte, 
And thereunto doe daunce and carrol sweet, 135 
That all the sences they doe ravish quite; 
The whyles the boyes run up and downe the street, 
Crying aloud with strong confus¨¨d noyce, 
As if it were one voyce, 
Hymen, i? Hymen, Hymen, they do shout; 140 
That even to the heavens theyr shouting shrill 
Doth reach, and all the firmament doth fill; 
To which the people standing all about, 
As in approvance, doe thereto applaud, 
And loud advaunce her laud; 145 
And evermore they Hymen, Hymen sing, 
That al the woods them answer, and theyr eccho ring. 

Loe! where she comes along with portly pace, 
Lyke Phoebe, from her chamber of the East, 
Arysing forth to run her mighty race, 150 
Clad all in white, that seemes a virgin best. 
So well it her beseemes, that ye would weene 
Some angell she had beene. 
Her long loose yellow locks lyke golden wyre, 
Sprinckled with perle, and perling flowres atweene, 155 
Doe lyke a golden mantle her attyre; 
And, being crown¨¨d with a girland greene, 
Seeme lyke some mayden Queene. 
Her modest eyes, abash¨¨d to behold 
So many gazers as on her do stare, 160 
Upon the lowly ground affix¨¨d are; 
Ne dare lift up her countenance too bold, 
But blush to heare her prayses sung so loud, 
So farre from being proud. 
Nathlesse doe ye still loud her prayses sing, 165 
That all the woods may answer, and your eccho ring. 

Tell me, ye merchants daughters, did ye see 
So fayre a creature in your towne before; 
So sweet, so lovely, and so mild as she, 
Adornd with beautyes grace and vertues store? 170 
Her goodly eyes lyke Saphyres shining bright, 
Her forehead yvory white, 
Her cheekes lyke apples which the sun hath rudded, 
Her lips lyke cherryes charming men to byte, 
Her brest like to a bowle of creame uncrudded, 175 
Her paps lyke lyllies budded, 
Her snowie necke lyke to a marble towre; 
And all her body like a pallace fayre, 
Ascending up, with many a stately stayre, 
To honors seat and chastities sweet bowre. 180 
Why stand ye still ye virgins in amaze, 
Upon her so to gaze, 
Whiles ye forget your former lay to sing, 
To which the woods did answer, and your eccho ring? 

But if ye saw that which no eyes can see, 185 
The inward beauty of her lively spright, 
Garnisht with heavenly guifts of high degree, 
Much more then would ye wonder at that sight, 
And stand astonisht lyke to those which red 
Medusaes mazeful hed. 190 
There dwels sweet love, and constant chastity, 
Unspotted fayth, and comely womanhood, 
Regard of honour, and mild modesty; 
There vertue raynes as Queene in royal throne, 
And giveth lawes alone, 195 
The which the base affections doe obay, 
And yeeld theyr services unto her will; 
Ne thought of thing uncomely ever may 
Thereto approch to tempt her mind to ill. 
Had ye once seene these her celestial threasures, 200 
And unreveal¨¨d pleasures, 
Then would ye wonder, and her prayses sing, 
That al the woods should answer, and your echo ring. 

Open the temple gates unto my love, 
Open them wide that she may enter in, 205 
And all the postes adorne as doth behove, 
And all the pillours deck with girlands trim, 
For to receyve this Saynt with honour dew, 
That commeth in to you. 
With trembling steps, and humble reverence, 210 
She commeth in, before th' Almighties view; 
Of her ye virgins learne obedience, 
When so ye come into those holy places, 
To humble your proud faces: 
Bring her up to th' high altar, that she may 215 
The sacred ceremonies there partake, 
The which do endlesse matrimony make; 
And let the roring Organs loudly play 
The praises of the Lord in lively notes; 
The whiles, with hollow throates, 220 
The Choristers the joyous Antheme sing, 
That al the woods may answere, and their eccho ring. 

Behold, whiles she before the altar stands, 
Hearing the holy priest that to her speakes, 
And blesseth her with his two happy hands, 225 
How the red roses flush up in her cheekes, 
And the pure snow, with goodly vermill stayne 
Like crimsin dyde in grayne: 
That even th' Angels, which continually 
About the sacred Altare doe remaine, 230 
Forget their service and about her fly, 
Ofte peeping in her face, that seems more fayre, 
The more they on it stare. 
But her sad eyes, still fastened on the ground, 
Are govern¨¨d with goodly modesty, 235 
That suffers not one looke to glaunce awry, 
Which may let in a little thought unsownd. 
Why blush ye, love, to give to me your hand, 
The pledge of all our band! 
Sing, ye sweet Angels, Alleluya sing, 240 
That all the woods may answere, and your eccho ring. 

Now al is done: bring home the bride againe; 
Bring home the triumph of our victory: 
Bring home with you the glory of her gaine; 
With joyance bring her and with jollity. 245 
Never had man more joyfull day then this, 
Whom heaven would heape with blis, 
Make feast therefore now all this live-long day; 
This day for ever to me holy is. 
Poure out the wine without restraint or stay, 250 
Poure not by cups, but by the belly full, 
Poure out to all that wull, 
And sprinkle all the postes and wals with wine, 
That they may sweat, and drunken be withall. 
Crowne ye God Bacchus with a coronall, 255 
And Hymen also crowne with wreathes of vine; 
And let the Graces daunce unto the rest, 
For they can doo it best: 
The whiles the maydens doe theyr carroll sing, 
To which the woods shall answer, and theyr eccho ring. 260 

Ring ye the bels, ye yong men of the towne, 
And leave your wonted labors for this day: 
This day is holy; doe ye write it downe, 
That ye for ever it remember may. 
This day the sunne is in his chiefest hight, 265 
With Barnaby the bright, 
From whence declining daily by degrees, 
He somewhat loseth of his heat and light, 
When once the Crab behind his back he sees. 
But for this time it ill ordain¨¨d was, 270 
To chose the longest day in all the yeare, 
And shortest night, when longest fitter weare: 
Yet never day so long, but late would passe. 
Ring ye the bels, to make it weare away, 
And bonefiers make all day; 275 
And daunce about them, and about them sing, 
That all the woods may answer, and your eccho ring. 

Ah! when will this long weary day have end, 
And lende me leave to come unto my love? 
How slowly do the houres theyr numbers spend? 280 
How slowly does sad Time his feathers move? 
Hast thee, O fayrest Planet, to thy home, 
Within the Westerne fome: 
Thy tyr¨¨d steedes long since have need of rest. 
Long though it be, at last I see it gloome, 285 
And the bright evening-star with golden creast 
Appeare out of the East. 
Fayre childe of beauty! glorious lampe of love! 
That all the host of heaven in rankes doost lead, 
And guydest lovers through the nights sad dread, 290 
How chearefully thou lookest from above, 
And seemst to laugh atweene thy twinkling light, 
As joying in the sight 
Of these glad many, which for joy doe sing, 
That all the woods them answer, and their echo ring! 295 

Now ceasse, ye damsels, your delights fore-past; 
Enough it is that all the day was youres: 
Now day is doen, and night is nighing fast, 
Now bring the Bryde into the brydall boures. 
The night is come, now soon her disaray, 300 
And in her bed her lay; 
Lay her in lillies and in violets, 
And silken courteins over her display, 
And odourd sheetes, and Arras coverlets. 
Behold how goodly my faire love does ly, 305 
In proud humility! 
Like unto Maia, when as Jove her took 
In Tempe, lying on the flowry gras, 
Twixt sleepe and wake, after she weary was, 
With bathing in the Acidalian brooke. 310 
Now it is night, ye damsels may be gon, 
And leave my love alone, 
And leave likewise your former lay to sing: 
The woods no more shall answere, nor your echo ring. 

Now welcome, night! thou night so long expected, 315 
That long daies labour doest at last defray, 
And all my cares, which cruell Love collected, 
Hast sumd in one, and cancell¨¨d for aye: 
Spread thy broad wing over my love and me, 
That no man may us see; 320 
And in thy sable mantle us enwrap, 
From feare of perrill and foule horror free. 
Let no false treason seeke us to entrap, 
Nor any dread disquiet once annoy 
The safety of our joy; 325 
But let the night be calme, and quietsome, 
Without tempestuous storms or sad afray: 
Lyke as when Jove with fayre Alcmena lay, 
When he begot the great Tirynthian groome: 
Or lyke as when he with thy selfe did lie 330 
And begot Majesty. 
And let the mayds and yong men cease to sing; 
Ne let the woods them answer nor theyr eccho ring. 

Let no lamenting cryes, nor dolefull teares, 
Be heard all night within, nor yet without: 335 
Ne let false whispers, breeding hidden feares, 
Breake gentle sleepe with misconceiv¨¨d dout. 
Let no deluding dreames, nor dreadfull sights, 
Make sudden sad affrights; 
Ne let house-fyres, nor lightnings helpelesse harmes, 340 
Ne let the Pouke, nor other evill sprights, 
Ne let mischivous witches with theyr charmes, 
Ne let hob Goblins, names whose sence we see not, 
Fray us with things that be not: 
Let not the shriech Oule nor the Storke be heard, 345 
Nor the night Raven, that still deadly yels; 
Nor damn¨¨d ghosts, cald up with mighty spels, 
Nor griesly vultures, make us once affeard: 
Ne let th' unpleasant Quyre of Frogs still croking 
Make us to wish theyr choking. 350 
Let none of these theyr drery accents sing; 
Ne let the woods them answer, nor theyr eccho ring. 

But let stil Silence trew night-watches keepe, 
That sacred Peace may in assurance rayne, 
And tymely Sleep, when it is tyme to sleepe, 355 
May poure his limbs forth on your pleasant playne; 
The whiles an hundred little wing¨¨d loves, 
Like divers-fethered doves, 
Shall fly and flutter round about your bed, 
And in the secret darke, that none reproves, 360 
Their prety stealthes shal worke, and snares shal spread 
To filch away sweet snatches of delight, 
Conceald through covert night. 
Ye sonnes of Venus, play your sports at will! 
For greedy pleasure, carelesse of your toyes, 365 
Thinks more upon her paradise of joyes, 
Then what ye do, albe it good or ill. 
All night therefore attend your merry play, 
For it will soone be day: 
Now none doth hinder you, that say or sing; 370 
Ne will the woods now answer, nor your Eccho ring. 

Who is the same, which at my window peepes? 
Or whose is that faire face that shines so bright? 
Is it not Cinthia, she that never sleepes, 
But walkes about high heaven al the night? 375 
O! fayrest goddesse, do thou not envy 
My love with me to spy: 
For thou likewise didst love, though now unthought, 
And for a fleece of wooll, which privily 
The Latmian shepherd once unto thee brought, 380 
His pleasures with thee wrought. 
Therefore to us be favorable now; 
And sith of wemens labours thou hast charge, 
And generation goodly dost enlarge, 
Encline thy will t'effect our wishfull vow, 385 
And the chast wombe informe with timely seed 
That may our comfort breed: 
Till which we cease our hopefull hap to sing; 
Ne let the woods us answere, nor our Eccho ring. 

And thou, great Juno! which with awful might 390 
The lawes of wedlock still dost patronize; 
And the religion of the faith first plight 
With sacred rites hast taught to solemnize; 
And eeke for comfort often call¨¨d art 
Of women in their smart; 395 
Eternally bind thou this lovely band, 
And all thy blessings unto us impart. 
And thou, glad Genius! in whose gentle hand 
The bridale bowre and geniall bed remaine, 
Without blemish or staine; 400 
And the sweet pleasures of theyr loves delight 
With secret ayde doest succour and supply, 
Till they bring forth the fruitfull progeny; 
Send us the timely fruit of this same night. 
And thou, fayre Hebe! and thou, Hymen free! 405 
Grant that it may so be. 
Til which we cease your further prayse to sing; 
Ne any woods shall answer, nor your Eccho ring. 

And ye high heavens, the temple of the gods, 
In which a thousand torches flaming bright 410 
Doe burne, that to us wretched earthly clods 
In dreadful darknesse lend desir¨¨d light 
And all ye powers which in the same remayne, 
More then we men can fayne! 
Poure out your blessing on us plentiously, 415 
And happy influence upon us raine, 
That we may raise a large posterity, 
Which from the earth, which they may long possesse 
With lasting happinesse, 
Up to your haughty pallaces may mount; 420 
And, for the guerdon of theyr glorious merit, 
May heavenly tabernacles there inherit, 
Of bless¨¨d Saints for to increase the count. 
So let us rest, sweet love, in hope of this, 
And cease till then our tymely joyes to sing: 425 
The woods no more us answer, nor our eccho ring! 

Song! made in lieu of many ornaments, 
With which my love should duly have been dect, 
Which cutting off through hasty accidents, 
Ye would not stay your dew time to expect, 430 
But promist both to recompens; 
Be unto her a goodly ornament, 
And for short time an endlesse moniment. 

GLOSS: tead] torch. ruddock] redbreast. croud] violin.

by William Blake |

Reeds of Innocence

PIPING down the valleys wild  
Piping songs of pleasant glee  
On a cloud I saw a child  
And he laughing said to me: 

'Pipe a song about a Lamb!' 5 
So I piped with merry cheer. 
'Piper pipe that song again;' 
So I piped: he wept to hear. 

'Drop thy pipe thy happy pipe; 
Sing thy songs of happy cheer!' 10 
So I sung the same again  
While he wept with joy to hear. 

'Piper sit thee down and write 
In a book that all may read.' 
So he vanish'd from my sight; 15 
And I pluck'd a hollow reed  

And I made a rural pen  
And I stain'd the water clear  
And I wrote my happy songs 
Every child may joy to hear. 20 

by Percy Bysshe Shelley |

The Recollection

NOW the last day of many days, 
All beautiful and bright as thou, 
The loveliest and the last, is dead: 
Rise, Memory, and write its praise! 
Up¡ªto thy wonted work! come, trace 5 
The epitaph of glory fled, 
For now the earth has changed its face, 
A frown is on the heaven's brow. 

We wander'd to the Pine Forest 
That skirts the ocean's foam. 10 
The lightest wind was in its nest, 
The tempest in its home; 
The whispering waves were half asleep, 
The clouds were gone to play, 
And on the bosom of the deep 15 
The smile of heaven lay: 
It seem'd as if the hour were one 
Sent from beyond the skies 
Which scatter'd from above the sun 
A light of Paradise! 20 

We paused amid the pines that stood 
The giants of the waste, 
Tortured by storms to shapes as rude 
As serpents interlaced,¡ª 
And soothed by every azure breath 25 
That under heaven is blown, 
To harmonies and hues beneath, 
As tender as its own. 
Now all the tree-tops lay asleep 
Like green waves on the sea, 30 
As still as in the silent deep 
The ocean-woods may be. 

How calm it was!¡ªThe silence there 
By such a chain was bound, 
That even the busy woodpecker 35 
Made stiller by her sound 
The inviolable quietness; 
The breath of peace we drew 
With its soft motion made not less 
The calm that round us grew. 40 
There seem'd, from the remotest seat 
Of the wide mountain waste 
To the soft flower beneath our feet, 
A magic circle traced,¡ª 
A spirit interfused around 45 
A thrilling silent life; 
To momentary peace it bound 
Our mortal nature's strife;¡ª 
And still I felt the centre of 
The magic circle there 50 
Was one fair form that fill'd with love 
The lifeless atmosphere. 

We paused beside the pools that lie 
Under the forest bough; 
Each seem'd as 'twere a little sky 55 
Gulf'd in a world below¡ª 
A firmament of purple light 
Which in the dark earth lay, 
More boundless than the depth of night 
And purer than the day¡ª 60 
In which the lovely forests grew 
As in the upper air, 
More perfect both in shape and hue 
Than any spreading there. 
There lay the glade and neighbouring lawn, 65 
And through the dark-green wood 
The white sun twinkling like the dawn 
Out of a speckled cloud. 
Sweet views which in our world above 
Can never well be seen 70 
Were imaged in the water's love 
Of that fair forest green; 
And all was interfused beneath 
With an Elysian glow, 
An atmosphere without a breath, 75 
A softer day below. 
Like one beloved, the scene had lent 
To the dark water's breast 
Its every leaf and lineament 
With more than truth exprest; 80 
Until an envious wind crept by, 
Like an unwelcome thought 
Which from the mind's too faithful eye 
Blots one dear image out. 
¡ªThough thou art ever fair and kind, 85 
The forests ever green, 
Less oft is peace in Shelley's mind 
Than calm in waters seen! 

by Elizabeth Barrett Browning |

The Deserted Garden

I MIND me in the days departed, 
How often underneath the sun 
With childish bounds I used to run 
To a garden long deserted. 

The beds and walks were vanish'd quite; 5 
And wheresoe'er had struck the spade, 
The greenest grasses Nature laid, 
To sanctify her right. 

I call'd the place my wilderness, 
For no one enter'd there but I. 10 
The sheep look'd in, the grass to espy, 
And pass'd it ne'ertheless. 

The trees were interwoven wild, 
And spread their boughs enough about 
To keep both sheep and shepherd out, 15 
But not a happy child. 

Adventurous joy it was for me! 
I crept beneath the boughs, and found 
A circle smooth of mossy ground 
Beneath a poplar-tree. 20 

Old garden rose-trees hedged it in, 
Bedropt with roses waxen-white, 
Well satisfied with dew and light, 
And careless to be seen. 

Long years ago, it might befall, 25 
When all the garden flowers were trim, 
The grave old gardener prided him 
On these the most of all. 

Some Lady, stately overmuch, 
Here moving with a silken noise, 30 
Has blush'd beside them at the voice 
That liken'd her to such. 

Or these, to make a diadem, 
She often may have pluck'd and twined; 
Half-smiling as it came to mind, 35 
That few would look at them. 

O, little thought that Lady proud, 
A child would watch her fair white rose, 
When buried lay her whiter brows, 
And silk was changed for shroud!¡ª 40 

Nor thought that gardener (full of scorns 
For men unlearn'd and simple phrase) 
A child would bring it all its praise, 
By creeping through the thorns! 

To me upon my low moss seat, 45 
Though never a dream the roses sent 
Of science or love's compliment, 
I ween they smelt as sweet. 

It did not move my grief to see 
The trace of human step departed: 50 
Because the garden was deserted, 
The blither place for me! 

Friends, blame me not! a narrow ken 
Hath childhood 'twixt the sun and sward: 
We draw the moral afterward¡ª 55 
We feel the gladness then. 

And gladdest hours for me did glide 
In silence at the rose-tree wall: 
A thrush made gladness musical 
Upon the other side. 60 

Nor he nor I did e'er incline 
To peck or pluck the blossoms white:¡ª 
How should I know but that they might 
Lead lives as glad as mine? 

To make my hermit-home complete, 65 
I brought clear water from the spring 
Praised in its own low murmuring, 
And cresses glossy wet. 

And so, I thought, my likeness grew 
(Without the melancholy tale) 70 
To 'gentle hermit of the dale,' 
And Angelina too. 

For oft I read within my nook 
Such minstrel stories; till the breeze 
Made sounds poetic in the trees, 75 
And then I shut the book. 

If I shut this wherein I write, 
I hear no more the wind athwart 
Those trees, nor feel that childish heart 
Delighting in delight. 80 

My childhood from my life is parted, 
My footstep from the moss which drew 
Its fairy circle round: anew 
The garden is deserted. 

Another thrush may there rehearse 85 
The madrigals which sweetest are; 
No more for me!¡ªmyself afar 
Do sing a sadder verse. 

Ah me! ah me! when erst I lay 
In that child's-nest so greenly wrought, 90 
I laugh'd unto myself and thought, 
'The time will pass away.' 

And still I laugh'd, and did not fear 
But that, whene'er was pass'd away 
The childish time, some happier play 95 
My womanhood would cheer. 

I knew the time would pass away; 
And yet, beside the rose-tree wall, 
Dear God, how seldom, if at all, 
Did I look up to pray! 100 

The time is past: and now that grows 
The cypress high among the trees, 
And I behold white sepulchres 
As well as the white rose,¡ª 

When wiser, meeker thoughts are given, 105 
And I have learnt to lift my face, 
Reminded how earth's greenest place 
The colour draws from heaven,¡ª 

It something saith for earthly pain, 
But more for heavenly promise free, 110 
That I who was, would shrink to be 
That happy child again. 

by Ralph Waldo Emerson |


BRING me wine but wine which never grew 
In the belly of the grape  
Or grew on vine whose tap-roots reaching through 
Under the Andes to the Cape  
Suffer'd no savour of the earth to 'scape. 5 

Let its grapes the morn salute 
From a nocturnal root  
Which feels the acrid juice 
Of Styx and Erebus; 
And turns the woe of Night 10 
By its own craft to a more rich delight. 

We buy ashes for bread; 
We buy diluted wine; 
Give me of the true  
Whose ample leaves and tendrils curl'd 15 
Among the silver hills of heaven 
Draw everlasting dew; 
Wine of wine  
Blood of the world  
Form of forms and mould of statures 20 
That I intoxicated  
And by the draught assimilated  
May float at pleasure through all natures; 
The bird-language rightly spell  
And that which roses say so well: 25 

Wine that is shed 
Like the torrents of the sun 
Up the horizon walls  
Or like the Atlantic streams which run 
When the South Sea calls. 30 

Water and bread  
Food which needs no transmuting  
Rainbow-flowering wisdom-fruiting  
Wine which is already man  
Food which teach and reason can. 35 

Wine which Music is ¡ª 
Music and wine are one ¡ª 
That I drinking this  
Shall hear far Chaos talk with me; 
Kings unborn shall walk with me; 40 
And the poor grass shall plot and plan 
What it will do when it is man. 
Quicken'd so will I unlock 
Every crypt of every rock. 

I thank the joyful juice 45 
For all I know; 
Winds of remembering 
Of the ancient being blow  
And seeming-solid walls of use 
Open and flow. 50 

Pour Bacchus! the remembering wine; 
Retrieve the loss of me and mine! 
Vine for vine be antidote  
And the grape requite the lote! 
Haste to cure the old despair; 55 
Reason in Nature's lotus drench'd¡ª 
The memory of ages quench'd¡ª 
Give them again to shine; 
Let wine repair what this undid; 
And where the infection slid 60 
A dazzling memory revive; 
Refresh the faded tints  
Recut the ag¨¨d prints  
And write my old adventures with the pen 
Which on the first day drew 65 
Upon the tablets blue  
The dancing Pleiads and eternal men.