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Best Famous Write Poems

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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Written 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.


Written 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])


Written 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.


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Written 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.


Written 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!"


Written 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


Written 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!


Written by Ralph Waldo Emerson | |

Bacchus

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.


Written by Elizabeth Bishop | |

One Art

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.
Lose something every day.
Accept the fluster of lost door keys the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.
Then practice losing farther losing faster: places and names and where it was your meant to travel.
None of these will bring disaster.
I lost my mother's watch.
And look! my last or next-to-last of three loved housed went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.
I lose two cities lovely ones.
And vaster some realms I owned two rivers a continent.
I miss them but it wasn't a disaster.
--Even losing you (the joking voice a gesture I love) I shan't have lied.
It's evident the art of losing's not too hard to master though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.


Written 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.


Written by Percy Bysshe Shelley | |

Hellas

THE world's great age begins anew  
The golden years return  
The earth doth like a snake renew 
Her winter weeds outworn; 
Heaven smiles and faiths and empires gleam 5 
Like wrecks of a dissolving dream.
A brighter Hellas rears its mountains From waves serener far; A new Peneus rolls his fountains Against the morning star; 10 Where fairer Tempes bloom there sleep Young Cyclads on a sunnier deep.
A loftier Argo cleaves the main Fraught with a later prize; Another Orpheus sings again 15 And loves and weeps and dies; A new Ulysses leaves once more Calypso for his native shore.
O write no more the tale of Troy If earth Death's scroll must be¡ª 20 Nor mix with Laian rage the joy Which dawns upon the free Although a subtler Sphinx renew Riddles of death Thebes never knew.
Another Athens shall arise 25 And to remoter time Bequeath like sunset to the skies The splendour of its prime; And leave if naught so bright may live All earth can take or Heaven can give.
30 Saturn and Love their long repose Shall burst more bright and good Than all who fell than One who rose Than many unsubdued: Not gold not blood their altar dowers 35 But votive tears and symbol flowers.
O cease! must hate and death return? Cease! must men kill and die? Cease! drain not to its dregs the urn Of bitter prophecy! 40 The world is weary of the past¡ª O might it die or rest at last!


Written by Oliver Wendell Holmes | |

The Height of the Ridiculous

 I WROTE some lines once on a time 
In wondrous merry mood, 
And thought, as usual, men would say
They were exceeding good.
They were so queer, so very queer, I laughed as I would die; Albeit, in the general way, A sober man am I.
I called my servant, and he came; How kind it was of him To mind a slender man like me, He of the mighty limb.
"These to the printer," I exclaimed, And, in my humorous way, I added, (as a trifling jest,) "There'll be the devil to pay.
" He took the paper, and I watched, And saw him peep within; At the first line he read, his face Was all upon the grin.
He read the next; the grin grew broad, And shot from ear to ear; He read the third; a chuckling noise I now began to hear.
The fourth; he broke into a roar; The fifth; his waistband split; The sixth; he burst five buttons off, And tumbled in a fit.
Ten days and nights, with sleepless eye, I watched that wretched man, And since, I never dare to write As funny as I can.


Written by Oliver Wendell Holmes | |

Cacoethes Scribendi

 If all the trees in all the woods were men; 
And each and every blade of grass a pen; 
If every leaf on every shrub and tree 
Turned to a sheet of foolscap; every sea 
Were changed to ink, and all earth's living tribes 
Had nothing else to do but act as scribes, 
And for ten thousand ages, day and night, 
The human race should write, and write, and write, 
Till all the pens and paper were used up, 
And the huge inkstand was an empty cup, 
Still would the scribblers clustered round its brink 
Call for more pens, more paper, and more ink.


Written by John Greenleaf Whittier | |

An Autograph

 I write my name as one, 
On sands by waves o'errun 
Or winter's frosted pane, 
Traces a record vain.
Oblivion's blankness claims Wiser and better names, And well my own may pass As from the strand or glass.
Wash on, O waves of time! Melt, noons, the frosty rime! Welcome the shadow vast, The silence that shall last! When I and all who know And love me vanish so, What harm to them or me Will the lost memory be? If any words of mine, Through right of life divine, Remain, what matters it Whose hand the message writ? Why should the "crowner's quest" Sit on my worst or best? Why should the showman claim The poor ghost of my name? Yet, as when dies a sound Its spectre lingers round, Haply my spent life will Leave some faint echo still.
A whisper giving breath Of praise or blame to death, Soothing or saddening such As loved the living much.
Therefore with yearnings vain And fond I still would fain A kindly judgment seek, A tender thought bespeak.
And, while my words are read, Let this at least be said: "Whate'er his life's defeatures, He loved his fellow-creatures.
"If, of the Law's stone table, To hold he scarce was able The first great precept fast, He kept for man the last.
"Through mortal lapse and dulness What lacks the Eternal Fulness, If still our weakness can Love Him in loving man? "Age brought him no despairing Of the world's future faring; In human nature still He found more good than ill.
"To all who dumbly suffered, His tongue and pen he offered; His life was not his own, Nor lived for self alone.
"Hater of din and riot He lived in days unquiet; And, lover of all beauty, Trod the hard ways of duty.
"He meant no wrong to any He sought the good of many, Yet knew both sin and folly, -- May God forgive him wholly!"


Written by A R Ammons | |

Called Into Play

 Fall fell: so that's it for the leaf poetry:
some flurries have whitened the edges of roads

and lawns: time for that, the snow stuff: &
turkeys and old St.
Nick: where am I going to find something to write about I haven't already written away: I will have to stop short, look down, look up, look close, think, think, think: but in what range should I think: should I figure colors and outlines, given forms, say mailboxes, or should I try to plumb what is behind what and what behind that, deep down where the surface has lost its semblance: or should I think personally, such as, this week seems to have been crafted in hell: what: is something going on: something besides this diddledeediddle everyday matter-of-fact: I could draw up an ancient memory which would wipe this whole presence away: or I could fill out my dreams with high syntheses turned into concrete visionary forms: Lucre could lust for Luster: bad angels could roar out of perdition and kill the AIDS vaccine not quite perfected yet: the gods could get down on each other; the big gods could fly in from nebulae unknown: but I'm only me: I have 4 interests--money, poetry, sex, death: I guess I can jostle those.
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