Best Famous 200 Poems

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Written by Matthew Arnold | The Strayed Reveller 1 Faster, faster, 2 O Circe, Goddess, 3 Let the wild, thronging train 4 The bright procession 5 Of eddying forms, 6 Sweep through my soul! 7 Thou standest, smiling 8 Down on me! thy right arm, 9 Lean'd up against the column there, 10 Props thy soft cheek; 11 Thy left holds, hanging loosely, 12 The deep cup, ivy-cinctured, 13 I held but now. 14 Is it, then, evening 15 So soon? I see, the night-dews, 16 Cluster'd in thick beads, dim 17 The agate brooch-stones 18 On thy white shoulder; 19 The cool night-wind, too, 20 Blows through the portico, 21 Stirs thy hair, Goddess, 22 Waves thy white robe! Circe. 23 Whence art thou, sleeper? The Youth. 24 When the white dawn first 25 Through the rough fir-planks 26 Of my hut, by the chestnuts, 27 Up at the valley-head, 28 Came breaking, Goddess! 29 I sprang up, I threw round me 30 My dappled fawn-skin; 31 Passing out, from the wet turf, 32 Where they lay, by the hut door, 33 I snatch'd up my vine-crown, my fir-staff, 34 All drench'd in dew- 35 Came swift down to join 36 The rout early gather'd 37 In the town, round the temple, 38 Iacchus' white fane 39 On yonder hill. 40 Quick I pass'd, following 41 The wood-cutters' cart-track 42 Down the dark valley;-I saw 43 On my left, through the beeches, 44 Thy palace, Goddess, 45 Smokeless, empty! 46 Trembling, I enter'd; beheld 47 The court all silent, 48 The lions sleeping, 49 On the altar this bowl. 50 I drank, Goddess! 51 And sank down here, sleeping, 52 On the steps of thy portico. Circe. 53 Foolish boy! Why tremblest thou? 54 Thou lovest it, then, my wine? 55 Wouldst more of it? See, how glows, 56 Through the delicate, flush'd marble, 57 The red, creaming liquor, 58 Strown with dark seeds! 59 Drink, thee! I chide thee not, 60 Deny thee not my bowl. 61 Come, stretch forth thy hand, thee-so! 62 Drink-drink again! The Youth. 63 Thanks, gracious one! 64 Ah, the sweet fumes again! 65 More soft, ah me, 66 More subtle-winding 67 Than Pan's flute-music! 68 Faint-faint! Ah me, 69 Again the sweet sleep! Circe. 70 Hist! Thou-within there! 71 Come forth, Ulysses! 72 Art tired with hunting? 73 While we range the woodland, 74 See what the day brings. Ulysses. 75 Ever new magic! 76 Hast thou then lured hither, 77 Wonderful Goddess, by thy art, 78 The young, languid-eyed Ampelus, 79 Iacchus' darling- 80 Or some youth beloved of Pan, 81 Of Pan and the Nymphs? 82 That he sits, bending downward 83 His white, delicate neck 84 To the ivy-wreathed marge 85 Of thy cup; the bright, glancing vine-leaves 86 That crown his hair, 87 Falling forward, mingling 88 With the dark ivy-plants-- 89 His fawn-skin, half untied, 90 Smear'd with red wine-stains? Who is he, 91 That he sits, overweigh'd 92 By fumes of wine and sleep, 93 So late, in thy portico? 94 What youth, Goddess,-what guest 95 Of Gods or mortals? Circe. 96 Hist! he wakes! 97 I lured him not hither, Ulysses. 98 Nay, ask him! The Youth. 99 Who speaks' Ah, who comes forth 100 To thy side, Goddess, from within? 101 How shall I name him? 102 This spare, dark-featured, 103 Quick-eyed stranger? 104 Ah, and I see too 105 His sailor's bonnet, 106 His short coat, travel-tarnish'd, 107 With one arm bare!-- 108 Art thou not he, whom fame 109 This long time rumours 110 The favour'd guest of Circe, brought by the waves? 111 Art thou he, stranger? 112 The wise Ulysses, 113 Laertes' son? Ulysses. 114 I am Ulysses. 115 And thou, too, sleeper? 116 Thy voice is sweet. 117 It may be thou hast follow'd 118 Through the islands some divine bard, 119 By age taught many things, 120 Age and the Muses; 121 And heard him delighting 122 The chiefs and people 123 In the banquet, and learn'd his songs. 124 Of Gods and Heroes, 125 Of war and arts, 126 And peopled cities, 127 Inland, or built 128 By the gray sea.-If so, then hail! 129 I honour and welcome thee. The Youth. 130 The Gods are happy. 131 They turn on all sides 132 Their shining eyes, 133 And see below them 134 The earth and men. 135 They see Tiresias 136 Sitting, staff in hand, 137 On the warm, grassy 138 Asopus bank, 139 His robe drawn over 140 His old sightless head, 141 Revolving inly 142 The doom of Thebes. 143 They see the Centaurs 144 In the upper glens 145 Of Pelion, in the streams, 146 Where red-berried ashes fringe 147 The clear-brown shallow pools, 148 With streaming flanks, and heads 149 Rear'd proudly, snuffing 150 The mountain wind. 151 They see the Indian 152 Drifting, knife in hand, 153 His frail boat moor'd to 154 A floating isle thick-matted 155 With large-leaved, low-creeping melon-plants 156 And the dark cucumber. 157 He reaps, and stows them, 158 Drifting--drifting;--round him, 159 Round his green harvest-plot, 160 Flow the cool lake-waves, 161 The mountains ring them. 162 They see the Scythian 163 On the wide stepp, unharnessing 164 His wheel'd house at noon. 165 He tethers his beast down, and makes his meal-- 166 Mares' milk, and bread 167 Baked on the embers;--all around 168 The boundless, waving grass-plains stretch, thick-starr'd 169 With saffron and the yellow hollyhock 170 And flag-leaved iris-flowers. 171 Sitting in his cart 172 He makes his meal; before him, for long miles, 173 Alive with bright green lizards, 174 And the springing bustard-fowl, 175 The track, a straight black line, 176 Furrows the rich soil; here and there 177 Cluster of lonely mounds 178 Topp'd with rough-hewn, 179 Gray, rain-blear'd statues, overpeer 180 The sunny waste. 181 They see the ferry 182 On the broad, clay-laden 183 Lone Chorasmian stream;--thereon, 184 With snort and strain, 185 Two horses, strongly swimming, tow 186 The ferry-boat, with woven ropes 187 To either bow 188 Firm harness'd by the mane; a chief 189 With shout and shaken spear, 190 Stands at the prow, and guides them; but astern 191 The cowering merchants, in long robes, 192 Sit pale beside their wealth 193 Of silk-bales and of balsam-drops, 194 Of gold and ivory, 195 Of turquoise-earth and amethyst, 196 Jasper and chalcedony, 197 And milk-barred onyx-stones. 198 The loaded boat swings groaning 199 In the yellow eddies; 200 The Gods behold him. 201 They see the Heroes 202 Sitting in the dark ship 203 On the foamless, long-heaving 204 Violet sea. 205 At sunset nearing 206 The Happy Islands. 207 These things, Ulysses, 208 The wise bards, also 209 Behold and sing. 210 But oh, what labour! 211 O prince, what pain! 212 They too can see 213 Tiresias;--but the Gods, 214 Who give them vision, 215 Added this law: 216 That they should bear too 217 His groping blindness, 218 His dark foreboding, 219 His scorn'd white hairs; 220 Bear Hera's anger 221 Through a life lengthen'd 222 To seven ages. 223 They see the Centaurs 224 On Pelion:--then they feel, 225 They too, the maddening wine 226 Swell their large veins to bursting; in wild pain 227 They feel the biting spears 228 Of the grim Lapith?, and Theseus, drive, 229 Drive crashing through their bones; they feel 230 High on a jutting rock in the red stream 231 Alcmena's dreadful son 232 Ply his bow;--such a price 233 The Gods exact for song: 234 To become what we sing. 235 They see the Indian 236 On his mountain lake; but squalls 237 Make their skiff reel, and worms 238 In the unkind spring have gnawn 239 Their melon-harvest to the heart.--They see 240 The Scythian: but long frosts 241 Parch them in winter-time on the bare stepp, 242 Till they too fade like grass; they crawl 243 Like shadows forth in spring. 244 They see the merchants 245 On the Oxus stream;--but care 246 Must visit first them too, and make them pale. 247 Whether, through whirling sand, 248 A cloud of desert robber-horse have burst 249 Upon their caravan; or greedy kings, 250 In the wall'd cities the way passes through, 251 Crush'd them with tolls; or fever-airs, 252 On some great river's marge, 253 Mown them down, far from home. 254 They see the Heroes 255 Near harbour;--but they share 256 Their lives, and former violent toil in Thebes, 257 Seven-gated Thebes, or Troy; 258 Or where the echoing oars 259 Of Argo first 260 Startled the unknown sea. 261 The old Silenus 262 Came, lolling in the sunshine, 263 From the dewy forest-coverts, 264 This way at noon. 265 Sitting by me, while his Fauns 266 Down at the water-side 267 Sprinkled and smoothed 268 His drooping garland, 269 He told me these things. 270 But I, Ulysses, 271 Sitting on the warm steps, 272 Looking over the valley, 273 All day long, have seen, 274 Without pain, without labour, 275 Sometimes a wild-hair'd M?nad-- 276 Sometimes a Faun with torches-- 277 And sometimes, for a moment, 278 Passing through the dark stems 279 Flowing-robed, the beloved, 280 The desired, the divine, 281 Beloved Iacchus. 282 Ah, cool night-wind, tremulous stars! 283 Ah, glimmering water, 284 Fitful earth-murmur, 285 Dreaming woods! 286 Ah, golden-haired, strangely smiling Goddess, 287 And thou, proved, much enduring, 288 Wave-toss'd Wanderer! 289 Who can stand still? 290 Ye fade, ye swim, ye waver before me-- 291 The cup again! 292 Faster, faster, 293 O Circe, Goddess. 294 Let the wild, thronging train, 295 The bright procession 296 Of eddying forms, 297 Sweep through my soul!

Written by T S (Thomas Stearns) Eliot | The Fire Sermon The river's tent is broken: the last fingers of leaf Clutch and sink into the wet bank. The wind Crosses the brown land, unheard. The nymphs are departed. Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song. The river bears no empty bottles, sandwich papers, Silk handkerchiefs, cardboard boxes, cigarette ends Or other testimony of summer nights. The nymphs are departed. And their friends, the loitering heirs of city directors; 180 Departed, have left no addresses. Line 161 ALRIGHT. This spelling occurs also in the Hogarth Press edition— Editor. By the waters of Leman I sat down and wept . . . Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song, Sweet Thames, run softly, for I speak not loud or long. But at my back in a cold blast I hear The rattle of the bones, and chuckle spread from ear to ear. A rat crept softly through the vegetation Dragging its slimy belly on the bank While I was fishing in the dull canal On a winter evening round behind the gashouse 190 Musing upon the king my brother's wreck And on the king my father's death before him. White bodies naked on the low damp ground And bones cast in a little low dry garret, Rattled by the rat's foot only, year to year. But at my back from time to time I hear The sound of horns and motors, which shall bring Sweeney to Mrs. Porter in the spring. O the moon shone bright on Mrs. Porter And on her daughter 200 They wash their feet in soda water Et O ces voix d'enfants, chantant dans la coupole! Twit twit twit Jug jug jug jug jug jug So rudely forc'd. Tereu Unreal City Under the brown fog of a winter noon Mr. Eugenides, the Smyrna merchant Unshaven, with a pocket full of currants 210 C.i.f. London: documents at sight, Asked me in demotic French To luncheon at the Cannon Street Hotel Followed by a weekend at the Metropole. At the violet hour, when the eyes and back Turn upward from the desk, when the human engine waits Like a taxi throbbing waiting, I Tiresias, though blind, throbbing between two lives, Old man with wrinkled female breasts, can see At the violet hour, the evening hour that strives 220 Homeward, and brings the sailor home from sea, The typist home at teatime, clears her breakfast, lights Her stove, and lays out food in tins. Out of the window perilously spread Her drying combinations touched by the sun's last rays, On the divan are piled (at night her bed) Stockings, slippers, camisoles, and stays. I Tiresias, old man with wrinkled dugs Perceived the scene, and foretold the rest— I too awaited the expected guest. 230 He, the young man carbuncular, arrives, A small house agent's clerk, with one bold stare, One of the low on whom assurance sits As a silk hat on a Bradford millionaire. The time is now propitious, as he guesses, The meal is ended, she is bored and tired, Endeavours to engage her in caresses Which still are unreproved, if undesired. Flushed and decided, he assaults at once; Exploring hands encounter no defence; 240 His vanity requires no response, And makes a welcome of indifference. (And I Tiresias have foresuffered all Enacted on this same divan or bed; I who have sat by Thebes below the wall And walked among the lowest of the dead.) Bestows one final patronising kiss, And gropes his way, finding the stairs unlit . . . She turns and looks a moment in the glass, Hardly aware of her departed lover; 250 Her brain allows one half-formed thought to pass: "Well now that's done: and I'm glad it's over." When lovely woman stoops to folly and Paces about her room again, alone, She smoothes her hair with automatic hand, And puts a record on the gramophone. "This music crept by me upon the waters" And along the Strand, up Queen Victoria Street. O City city, I can sometimes hear Beside a public bar in Lower Thames Street, 260 The pleasant whining of a mandoline And a clatter and a chatter from within Where fishmen lounge at noon: where the walls Of Magnus Martyr hold Inexplicable splendour of Ionian white and gold. The river sweats Oil and tar The barges drift With the turning tide Red sails 270 Wide To leeward, swing on the heavy spar. The barges wash Drifting logs Down Greenwich reach Past the Isle of Dogs. Weialala leia Wallala leialala Elizabeth and Leicester Beating oars 280 The stern was formed A gilded shell Red and gold The brisk swell Rippled both shores Southwest wind Carried down stream The peal of bells White towers Weialala leia 290 Wallala leialala "Trams and dusty trees. Highbury bore me. Richmond and Kew Undid me. By Richmond I raised my knees Supine on the floor of a narrow canoe." "My feet are at Moorgate, and my heart Under my feet. After the event He wept. He promised 'a new start'. I made no comment. What should I resent?" "On Margate Sands. 300 I can connect Nothing with nothing. The broken fingernails of dirty hands. My people humble people who expect Nothing." la la To Carthage then I came Burning burning burning burning O Lord Thou pluckest me out O Lord Thou pluckest 310 burning

Written by Percy Bysshe Shelley | Poetical Essay Extract from Poetical Essay by Percy Bysshe Shelley Millions to fight compell'd, to fight or die In mangled heaps on War's red altar lie . . . When the legal murders swell the lists of pride; When glory's views the titled idiot guide Lost Shelley poem found after 200 years http://www.timesonline.co.uk/article/0,,2-2267433,00.html

Written by William Topaz McGonagall | The Sunderland Calamity 'Twas in the town of Sunderland, and in the year of 1883, That about 200 children were launch'd into eternity While witnessing an entertainment in Victoria Hall, While they, poor little innocents, to God for help did call. The entertainment consisted of conjuring, and the ghost illusion play, Also talking waxworks, and living marionettes, and given by Mr. Fay; And on this occasion, presents were to be given away, But in their anxiety of getting presents they wouldn't brook delay, And that is the reason why so many lives have been taken away; But I hope their precious souls are in heaven to-day. As soon as the children began to suspect That they would lose their presents by neglect, They rush'd from the gallery, and ran down the stairs pell-mell, And trampled one another to death, according as they fell. As soon as the catastrophe became known throughout the boro' The people's hearts were brim-full of sorrow, And parents rush'd to the Hall terror-stricken and wild, And each one was anxious to find their own child. Oh! it must have been a most horrible sight To see the dear little children struggling with all their might To get out at the door at the foot of the stair, While one brave little boy did repeat the Lord's Prayer. The innocent children were buried seven or eight layers deep, The sight was heart-rending and enough to make one weep; It was a most affecting spectacle and frightful to behold The corpse of a little boy not above four years old, Who had on a top-coat much too big for him, And his little innocent face was white and grim, And appearing to be simply in a calm sleep- The sight was enough to make one's flesh to creep. The scene in the Hall was heart-sickening to behold, And enough to make one's blood run cold. To see the children's faces, blackened, that were trampled to death, And their parents lamenting o'er them with bated breath. Oh! it was most lamentable for to hear The cries of the mothers for their children dear; And many mothers swooned in grief away At the sight of their dead children in grim array. There was a parent took home a boy by mistake, And after arriving there his heart was like to break When it was found to be the body of a neighbour's child; The parent stood aghast and was like to go wild. A man and his wife rush'd madly in the Hall, And loudly in grief on their children they did call, And the man searched for his children among the dead Seemingly without the least fear or dread. And with his finger pointing he cried. "That's one! two! Oh! heaven above, what shall I do;" And still he kept walking on and murmuring very low. Until he came to the last child in the row; Then he cried, "Good God! all my family gone And now I am left to mourn alone;" And staggering back he cried, "Give me water, give me water!" While his heart was like to break and his teeth seem'd to chatter. Oh, heaven! it must have been most pitiful to see Fathers with their dead children upon their knee While the blood ran copiously from their mouths and ears And their parents shedding o'er them hot burning tears. I hope the Lord will comfort their parents by night and by day, For He gives us life and He takes it away, Therefore I hope their parents will put their trust in Him, Because to weep for the dead it is a sin. Her Majesty's grief for the bereaved parents has been profound, And I'm glad to see that she has sent them £50; And I hope from all parts of the world will flow relief To aid and comfort the bereaved parents in their grief.

Written by Constantine P Cavafy | In 200 B.C "Alexander son of Philip, and the Greeks except the Lacedaemonians--" We can very well imagine that they were utterly indifferent in Sparta to this inscription. "Except the Lacedaemonians", but naturally. The Spartans were not to be led and ordered about as precious servants. Besides a panhellenic campaign without a Spartan king as a leader would not have appeared very important. O, of course "except the Lacedaemonians." This too is a stand. Understandable. Thus, except the Lacedaemonians at Granicus; and then at Issus; and in the final battle, where the formidable army was swept away that the Persians had massed at Arbela: which had set out from Arbela for victory, and was swept away. And out of the remarkable panhellenic campaign, victorious, brilliant, celebrated, glorious as no other had ever been glorified, the incomparable: we emerged; a great new Greek world. We; the Alexandrians, the Antiocheans, the Seleucians, and the numerous rest of the Greeks of Egypt and Syria, and of Media, and Persia, and the many others. With our extensive territories, with the varied action of thoughtful adaptations. And the Common Greek Language we carried to the heart of Bactria, to the Indians. As if we were to talk of Lacedaemonians now!

Written by Robert Burns | 200. Song—The Young Highland Rover LOUD blaw the frosty breezes, The snaws the mountains cover; Like winter on me seizes, Since my young Highland rover Far wanders nations over. Where’er he go, where’er he stray, May heaven be his warden; Return him safe to fair Strathspey, And bonie Castle-Gordon! The trees, now naked groaning, Shall soon wi’ leaves be hinging, The birdies dowie moaning, Shall a’ be blythely singing, And every flower be springing; Sae I’ll rejoice the lee-lang day, When by his mighty Warden My youth’s return’d to fair Strathspey, And bonie Castle-Gordon.

Written by Francesco Petrarch | Sonnet CLXXXVII SONNET CLXXXVII. Quando 'l sol bagna in mur l' aurato carro. HIS NIGHTS ARE, LIKE HIS DAYS, PASSED IN TORMENT. When in the sea sinks the sun's golden light,And on my mind and nature darkness lies,With the pale moon, faint stars and clouded skiesI pass a weary and a painful night:To her who hears me not I then rehearseMy sad life's fruitless toils, early and late;And with the world and with my gloomy fate,With Love, with Laura and myself, converse.[Pg 200]Sleep is forbid me: I have no repose,But sighs and groans instead, till morn returns,And tears, with which mine eyes a sad heart feeds;Then comes the dawn, the thick air clearer grows,But not my soul; the sun which in it burnsAlone can cure the grief his fierce warmth breeds. Nott. When Phœbus lashes to the western mainHis fiery steeds, and shades the lurid air;Grief shades my soul, my night is spent in care;Yon moon, yon stars, yon heaven begin my pain.Wretch that I am! full oft I urge in vainTo heedless beings all those pangs I bear;Of the false world, of an unpitying fair,Of Love, and fickle fortune I complain!From eve's last glance, till morning's earliest ray,Sleep shuns my couch; rest quits my tearful eye;And my rack'd breast heaves many a plaintive sigh.Then bright Aurora cheers the rising day,But cheers not me—for to my sorrowing heartOne sun alone can cheering light impart! Anon. 1777.

Written by William Topaz McGonagall | The Kessack Ferry-Boat Fatality 'Twas on Friday the 2nd of March, in the year of 1894, That the Storm Fiend did loudly laugh and roar Along the Black Isle and the Kessack Ferry shore, Whereby six men were drowned, which their friends will deplore. The accident is the most serious that has occurred for many years, And their relatives no doubt will shed many tears, Because the accident happened within 200 yards of the shore, While Boreas he did loudly rail and roar. The ferry-boat started from the north or Black Isle, While the gusty gales were blowing all the while From the south, and strong from the south-west, And to get to land fclie crew tried their utmost best. The crew, however, were very near the land, When the gusts rose such as no man could withstand, With such force that the ferry-boat flew away From her course, down into the little bay, Which opens into the Moray Firth and the river Ness, And by this time the poor men were in great distress, And they tried again and again to get back to the pier, And to save themselves from being drowned they began to fear. And at last the poor men began to despair, And they decided to drop anchor where they were, While the Storm Fiend did angry roar, And the white-crested billows did lash the shore. And the water poured in, but was baled out quickly, And the men's clothes were wet, and they felt sickly, Because they saw no help in the distance, Until at last they blew the fog-horn for assistance. And quickly in response to their cry of distress, Four members of the coastguard, in coastguard dreys, Whose station overlooked the scene, put off in a small boat, And with a desperate struggle they managed to keep her afloat. Then the coastguards and boat drifted rapidly away, Until they found themselves in the little bay, Whilst the big waves washed o'er them, again and again, And they began to think their struggling was all in vain. But they struggled on manfully until they came upon a smaller boat, Which they thought would be more easily kept afloat, And to which the hawser was soon transferred, Then for a second time to save the ferrymen all was prepared. Then the coastguards drifted down alongside the ferry-boat, And with great difficulty they kept themselves afloat, Because the big waves were like mountains high, Yet the coastguards resolved to save the ferrymen or die. Then at last the ferrymen got into the coastguard boat, And they all toiled manfully to keep her afloat, Until she was struck as she rose on the crest of the wave, Then each one tried hard his life to save. And the poor men's hearts with grief were rent, For they were thrown into the merciless sea in a moment, And out of the eight men two have been saved, All owing to their swimming abilities, and how they behaved. Oh! it must have been a fearful sight, To see them striving hard with all their might To save themselves from a watery grave, While the Storm Fiend did laugh and angry did rave.

Written by Paul Laurence Dunbar | Dirge For A Soldier In the east the morning comes, Hear the rollin' of the drums On the hill. But the heart that beat as they beat In the battle's raging day heat Lieth still. Unto him the night has come, Though they roll the morning drum.[Pg 200] What is in the bugle's blast? It is: "Victory at last! Now for rest." But, my comrades, come behold him, Where our colors now enfold him, And his breast Bares no more to meet the blade, But lies covered in the shade. What a stir there is to-day! They are laying him away Where he fell. There the flag goes draped before him; Now they pile the grave sod o'er him With a knell. And he answers to his name In the higher ranks of fame. There's a woman left to mourn For the child that she has borne In travail. But her heart beats high and higher, With the patriot mother's fire, At the tale. She has borne and lost a son, But her work and his are done. Fling the flag out, let it wave; They 're returning from the grave— "Double quick!" And the cymbals now are crashing, Bright his comrades' eyes are flashing From the thick Battle-ranks which knew him brave, No tears for a hero's grave. In the east the morning comes, Hear the rattle of the drums Far away. Now no time for grief's pursuing, Other work is for the doing, Here to-day. He is sleeping, let him rest With the flag across his breast.