Best Famous Jane Austen Poems

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

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Written by Jane Austen | Create an image from this poem

My Dearest Frank I Wish You Joy

 My dearest Frank, I wish you joy
Of Mary's safety with a Boy,
Whose birth has given little pain
Compared with that of Mary Jane.
-- May he a growing Blessing prove, And well deserve his Parents' Love!-- Endow'd with Art's and Nature's Good, Thy Name possessing with thy Blood, In him, in all his ways, may we Another Francis WIlliam see!-- Thy infant days may he inherit, THey warmth, nay insolence of spirit;-- We would not with one foult dispense To weaken the resemblance.
May he revive thy Nursery sin, Peeping as daringly within, His curley Locks but just descried, With 'Bet, my be not come to bide.
'-- Fearless of danger, braving pain, And threaten'd very oft in vain, Still may one Terror daunt his Soul, One needful engine of Controul Be found in this sublime array, A neigbouring Donkey's aweful Bray.
So may his equal faults as Child, Produce Maturity as mild! His saucy words and fiery ways In early Childhood's pettish days, In Manhood, shew his Father's mind Like him, considerate and Kind; All Gentleness to those around, And anger only not to wound.
Then like his Father too, he must, To his own former struggles just, Feel his Deserts with honest Glow, And all his self-improvement know.
A native fault may thus give birth To the best blessing, conscious Worth.
As for ourselves we're very well; As unaffected prose will tell.
-- Cassandra's pen will paint our state, The many comforts that await Our Chawton home, how much we find Already in it, to our mind; And how convinced, that when complete It will all other Houses beat The ever have been made or mended, With rooms concise, or rooms distended.
You'll find us very snug next year, Perhaps with Charles and Fanny near, For now it often does delight us To fancy them just over-right us.
--
Written by Jane Austen | Create an image from this poem

Ode to Pity

 1

Ever musing I delight to tread 
The Paths of honour and the Myrtle Grove 
Whilst the pale Moon her beams doth shed 
On disappointed Love.
While Philomel on airy hawthorn Bush Sings sweet and Melancholy, And the thrush Converses with the Dove.
2 Gently brawling down the turnpike road, Sweetly noisy falls the Silent Stream-- The Moon emerges from behind a Cloud And darts upon the Myrtle Grove her beam.
Ah! then what Lovely Scenes appear, The hut, the Cot, the Grot, and Chapel queer, And eke the Abbey too a mouldering heap, Cnceal'd by aged pines her head doth rear And quite invisible doth take a peep.
Written by Jane Austen | Create an image from this poem

Oh! Mr Best Youre Very Bad

 Oh! Mr.
Best, you're very bad And all the world shall know it; Your base behaviour shall be sung By me, a tunefull Poet.
-- You used to go to Harrowgate Each summer as it came, And why I pray should you refuse To go this year the same?-- The way's as plain, the road's as smooth, The Posting not increased; You're scarcely stouter than you were, Not younger Sir at least.
-- If e'er the waters were of use Why now their use forego? You may not live another year, All's mortal here below.
-- It is your duty Mr Best To give your health repair.
Vain else your Richard's pills will be, And vain your Consort's care.
But yet a nobler Duty calls You now towards the North.
Arise ennobled--as Escort Of Martha Lloyd stand forth.
She wants your aid--she honours you With a distinguished call.
Stand forth to be the friend of her Who is the friend of all.
-- Take her, and wonder at your luck, In having such a Trust.
Her converse sensible and sweet Will banish heat and dust.
-- So short she'll make the journey seem You'll bid the Chaise stand still.
T'will be like driving at full speed From Newb'ry to Speen hill.
-- Convey her safe to Morton's wife And I'll forget the past, And write some verses in your praise As finely and as fast.
But if you still refuse to go I'll never let your rest, Buy haunt you with reproachful song Oh! wicked Mr.
Best!--
Written by Jane Austen | Create an image from this poem

This Little Bag

 This little bag I hope will prove
To be not vainly made--
For, if you should a needle want
It will afford you aid.
And as we are about to part T'will serve another end, For when you look upon the Bag You'll recollect your friend
Written by Jane Austen | Create an image from this poem

Happy the Labrer

 Happy the lab'rer in his Sunday clothes!
In light-drab coat, smart waistcoat, well-darn'd hose,
Andhat upon his head, to church he goes;
As oft, with conscious pride, he downward throws
A glance upon the ample cabbage rose
That, stuck in button-hole, regales his nose,
He envies not the gayest London beaux.
In church he takes his seat among the rows, Pays to the place the reverence he owes, Likes best the prayers whose meaning least he knows, Lists to the sermon in a softening doze, And rouses joyous at the welcome close.
Written by Jane Austen | Create an image from this poem

Ive a Pain in my Head

 'I've a pain in my head' 
Said the suffering Beckford; 
To her Doctor so dread.
'Oh! what shall I take for't?' Said this Doctor so dread Whose name it was Newnham.
'For this pain in your head Ah! What can you do Ma'am?' Said Miss Beckford, 'Suppose If you think there's no risk, I take a good Dose Of calomel brisk.
'-- 'What a praise worthy Notion.
' Replied Mr.
Newnham.
'You shall have such a potion And so will I too Ma'am.
'
Written by Jane Austen | Create an image from this poem

Of A Ministry Pitiful Angry Mean

 Of a Ministry pitiful, angry, mean,
A gallant commander the victim is seen.
For promptitude, vigour, success, does he stand Condemn'd to receive a severe reprimand! To his foes I could wish a resemblance in fate: That they, too, may suffer themselves, soon or late, The injustice they warrent.
But vain is my spite They cannot so suffer who never do right.
Written by Jane Austen | Create an image from this poem

To the Memory of Mrs. Lefroy who died Dec:r 16 -- my Birthday

 The day returns again, my natal day;
What mix'd emotions with the Thought arise!
Beloved friend, four years have pass'd away
Since thou wert snatch'd forever from our eyes.
-- The day, commemorative of my birth Bestowing Life and Light and Hope on me, Brings back the hour which was thy last on Earth.
Oh! bitter pang of torturing Memory!-- Angelic Woman! past my power to praise In Language meet, thy Talents, Temper, mind.
Thy solid Worth, they captivating Grace!-- Thou friend and ornament of Humankind!-- At Johnson's death by Hamilton t'was said, 'Seek we a substitute--Ah! vain the plan, No second best remains to Johnson dead-- None can remind us even of the Man.
' So we of thee--unequall'd in thy race Unequall'd thou, as he the first of Men.
Vainly we wearch around the vacant place, We ne'er may look upon thy like again.
Come then fond Fancy, thou indulgant Power,-- --Hope is desponding, chill, severe to thee!-- Bless thou, this little portion of an hour, Let me behold her as she used to be.
I see her here, with all her smiles benign, Her looks of eager Love, her accents sweet.
That voice and Countenance almost divine!-- Expression, Harmony, alike complete.
-- I listen--'tis not sound alone--'tis sense, 'Tis Genius, Taste and Tenderness of Soul.
'Tis genuine warmth of heart without pretence And purity of Mind that crowns the whole.
She speaks; 'tis Eloquence--that grace of Tongue So rare, so lovely!--Never misapplied By her to palliate Vice, or deck a Wrong, She speaks and reasons but on Virtue's side.
Her's is the Engergy of Soul sincere.
Her Christian Spirit ignorant to feign, Seeks but to comfort, heal, enlighten, chear, Confer a pleasure, or prevent a pain.
-- Can ought enhance such Goodness?--Yes, to me, Her partial favour from my earliest years Consummates all.
--Ah! Give me yet to see Her smile of Love.
--the Vision diappears.
'Tis past and gone--We meet no more below.
Short is the Cheat of Fancy o'er the Tomb.
Oh! might I hope to equal Bliss to go! To meet thee Angel! in thy future home!-- Fain would I feel an union in thy fate, Fain would I seek to draw an Omen fair From this connection in our Earthly date.
Indulge the harmless weakness--Reason, spare.
--
Written by Jane Austen | Create an image from this poem

When Stretchd on Ones Bed

 When stretch'd on one's bed 
With a fierce-throbbing head, 
Which preculdes alike thought or repose, 
How little one cares 
For the grandest affairs 
That may busy the world as it goes!

How little one feels 
For the waltzes and reels 
Of our Dance-loving friends at a Ball! 
How slight one's concern 
To conjecture or learn 
What their flounces or hearts may befall.
How little one minds If a company dines On the best that the Season affords! How short is one's muse O'er the Sauces and Stews, Or the Guests, be they Beggars or Lords.
How little the Bells, Ring they Peels, toll they Knells, Can attract our attention or Ears! The Bride may be married, The Corse may be carried And touch nor our hopes nor our fears.
Our own bodily pains Ev'ry faculty chains; We can feel on no subject besides.
Tis in health and in ease We the power must seize For our friends and our souls to provide.
Written by Erica Jong | Create an image from this poem

Dear Colette

 Dear Colette,
I want to write to you
about being a woman
for that is what you write to me.
I want to tell you how your face enduring after thirty, forty, fifty.
.
.
hangs above my desk like my own muse.
I want to tell you how your hands reach out from your books & seize my heart.
I want to tell you how your hair electrifies my thoughts like my own halo.
I want to tell you how your eyes penetrate my fear & make it melt.
I want to tell you simply that I love you-- though you are "dead" & I am still "alive.
" Suicides & spinsters-- all our kind! Even decorous Jane Austen never marrying, & Sappho leaping, & Sylvia in the oven, & Anna Wickham, Tsvetaeva, Sara Teasdale, & pale Virginia floating like Ophelia, & Emily alone, alone, alone.
.
.
.
But you endure & marry, go on writing, lose a husband, gain a husband, go on writing, sing & tap dance & you go on writing, have a child & still you go on writing, love a woman, love a man & go on writing.
You endure your writing & your life.
Dear Colette, I only want to thank you: for your eyes ringed with bluest paint like bruises, for your hair gathering sparks like brush fire, for your hands which never willingly let go, for your years, your child, your lovers, all your books.
.
.
.
Dear Colette, you hold me to this life.
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