10 Best Famous Agitations Poems

Here is a collection of the top 10 all-time best famous Agitations poems. This is a select list of the best famous Agitations poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Agitations poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of agitations poems.

• All Famous Agitations Poems

 Thank Heaven! the crisis- 
The danger is past, 
And the lingering illness 
Is over at last- 
And the fever called "Living" 
Is conquered at last. 
Sadly, I know 
I am shorn of my strength, 
And no muscle I move 
As I lie at full length- 
But no matter!-I feel 
I am better at length. 

And I rest so composedly, 
Now, in my bed 
That any beholder 
Might fancy me dead- 
Might start at beholding me, 
Thinking me dead. 

The moaning and groaning, 
The sighing and sobbing, 
Are quieted now, 
With that horrible throbbing 
At heart:- ah, that horrible, 
Horrible throbbing! 

The sickness- the nausea- 
The pitiless pain- 
Have ceased, with the fever 
That maddened my brain- 
With the fever called "Living" 
That burned in my brain. 

And oh! of all tortures 
That torture the worst 
Has abated- the terrible 
Torture of thirst 
For the naphthaline river 
Of Passion accurst:- 
I have drunk of a water 
That quenches all thirst:- 

Of a water that flows, 
With a lullaby sound, 
From a spring but a very few 
Feet under ground- 
From a cavern not very far 
Down under ground. 

And ah! let it never 
Be foolishly said 
That my room it is gloomy 
And narrow my bed; 
For man never slept 
In a different bed- 
And, to sleep, you must slumber 
In just such a bed. 

My tantalized spirit 
Here blandly reposes, 
Forgetting, or never 
Regretting its roses- 
Its old agitations 
Of myrtles and roses: 

For now, while so quietly 
Lying, it fancies 
A holier odor 
About it, of pansies- 
A rosemary odor, 
Commingled with pansies- 
With rue and the beautiful 
Puritan pansies. 

And so it lies happily, 
Bathing in many 
A dream of the truth 
And the beauty of Annie- 
Drowned in a bath 
Of the tresses of Annie. 

She tenderly kissed me, 
She fondly caressed, 
And then I fell gently 
To sleep on her breast- 
Deeply to sleep 
From the heaven of her breast. 

When the light was extinguished, 
She covered me warm, 
And she prayed to the angels 
To keep me from harm- 
To the queen of the angels 
To shield me from harm. 

And I lie so composedly, 
Now, in my bed, 
(Knowing her love) 
That you fancy me dead- 
And I rest so contentedly, 
Now, in my bed, 
(With her love at my breast) 
That you fancy me dead- 
That you shudder to look at me, 
Thinking me dead. 

But my heart it is brighter 
Than all of the many 
Stars in the sky, 
For it sparkles with Annie- 
It glows with the light 
Of the love of my Annie- 
With the thought of the light 
Of the eyes of my Annie.

 The artichoke
of delicate heart
erect
in its battle-dress, builds
its minimal cupola;
keeps
stark
in its scallop of
scales.
Around it,
demoniac vegetables
bristle their thicknesses,
devise
tendrils and belfries,
the bulb's agitations;
while under the subsoil
the carrot
sleeps sound in its
rusty mustaches.
Runner and filaments
bleach in the vineyards,
whereon rise the vines.
The sedulous cabbage
arranges its petticoats;
oregano
sweetens a world;
and the artichoke
dulcetly there in a gardenplot,
armed for a skirmish,
goes proud
in its pomegranate
burnishes.
Till, on a day,
each by the other,
the artichoke moves
to its dream
of a market place
in the big willow
hoppers:
a battle formation.
Most warlike
of defilades-
with men
in the market stalls,
white shirts
in the soup-greens,
artichoke field marshals,
close-order conclaves,
commands, detonations,
and voices,
a crashing of crate staves.

And
Maria
come
down
with her hamper
to
make trial
of an artichoke:
she reflects, she examines,
she candles them up to the light like an egg,
never flinching;
she bargains,
she tumbles her prize
in a market bag
among shoes and a
cabbage head,
a bottle
of vinegar; is back
in her kitchen.
The artichoke drowns in a pot.

So you have it:
a vegetable, armed,
a profession
(call it an artichoke)
whose end
is millennial.
We taste of that
sweetness,
dismembering scale after scale.
We eat of a halcyon paste:
it is green at the artichoke heart.

 Seeing you have not come with me, nor spent 
This day's suggestive beauty as we ought, 
I have gone forth alone and been content 
To make you mistress only of my thought. 
And I have blessed the fate that was so kind 
In my life's agitations to include 
This moment's refuge where my sense can find 
Refreshment, and my soul beatitude. 
Oh, be my gentle love a little while! 
Walk with me sometimes. Let me see you smile. 
Watching some night under a wintry sky, 
Before the charge, or on the bed of pain, 
These blessed memories shall revive again 
And be a power to cheer and fortify