Best Famous Accumulations Poems

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

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• All Famous Accumulations Poems

Written by Walt Whitman | With Antecedents 1 WITH antecedents; With my fathers and mothers, and the accumulations of past ages; With all which, had it not been, I would not now be here, as I am: With Egypt, India, Phenicia, Greece and Rome; With the Kelt, the Scandinavian, the Alb, and the Saxon; With antique maritime ventures,—with laws, artizanship, wars and journeys; With the poet, the skald, the saga, the myth, and the oracle; With the sale of slaves—with enthusiasts—with the troubadour, the crusader, and the monk; With those old continents whence we have come to this new continent; With the fading kingdoms and kings over there; With the fading religions and priests; With the small shores we look back to from our own large and present shores; With countless years drawing themselves onward, and arrived at these years; You and Me arrived—America arrived, and making this year; This year! sending itself ahead countless years to come. 2 O but it is not the years—it is I—it is You; We touch all laws, and tally all antecedents; We are the skald, the oracle, the monk, and the knight—we easily include them, and more; We stand amid time, beginningless and endless—we stand amid evil and good; All swings around us—there is as much darkness as light; The very sun swings itself and its system of planets around us; Its sun, and its again, all swing around us. As for me, (torn, stormy, even as I, amid these vehement days,) I have the idea of all, and am all, and believe in all; I believe materialism is true, and spiritualism is true—I reject no part. Have I forgotten any part? Come to me, whoever and whatever, till I give you recognition. I respect Assyria, China, Teutonia, and the Hebrews; I adopt each theory, myth, god, and demi-god; I see that the old accounts, bibles, genealogies, are true, without exception; I assert that all past days were what they should have been; And that they could no-how have been better than they were, And that to-day is what it should be—and that America is, And that to-day and America could no-how be better than they are. 3 In the name of These States, and in your and my name, the Past, And in the name of These States, and in your and my name, the Present time. I know that the past was great, and the future will be great, And I know that both curiously conjoint in the present time, (For the sake of him I typify—for the common average man’s sake—your sake, if you are he;) And that where I am, or you are, this present day, there is the centre of all days, all races, And there is the meaning, to us, of all that has ever come of races and days, or ever will come.

Written by Edgar Lee Masters | Albert Schirding Jonas Keene thought his lot a hard one Because his children were all failures. But I know of a fate more trying than that: It is to be a failure while your children are successes. For I raised a brood of eagles Who flew away at last, leaving me A crow on the abandoned bough. Then, with the ambition to prefix Honorable to my name, And thus to win my children's admiration, I ran for County Superintendent of Schools, Spending my accumulations to win -- and lost. That fall my daughter received first prize in Paris For her picture, entitled, "The Old Mill" -- (It was of the water mill before Henry Wilkin put in steam.) The feeling that I was not worthy of her finished me.

Written by Jorie Graham | The Surface It has a hole in it. Not only where I concentrate. The river still ribboning, twisting up, into its re- arrangements, chill enlightenments, tight-knotted quickenings and loosenings--whispered messages dissolving the messengers-- the river still glinting-up into its handfuls, heapings. glassy forgettings under the river of my attention-- and the river of my attention laying itself down-- bending, reassembling--over the quick leaving-offs and windy obstacles-- and the surface rippling under the wind's attention-- rippling over the accumulations, the slowed-down drifting permanences of the cold bed. I say iridescent and I look down. The leaves very still as they are carried.

Written by Walt Whitman | Prairie States The A NEWER garden of creation, no primal solitude, Dense, joyous, modern, populous millions, cities and farms, With iron interlaced, composite, tied, many in one, By all the world contributed—freedom’s and law’s and thrift’s society, The crown and teeming paradise, so far, of time’s accumulations, To justify the past.