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Best Famous All Clear Poems

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

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Written by T S (Thomas Stearns) Eliot | Create an image from this poem

Skimbleshanks: The Railway Cat

 There's a whisper down the line at 11.
39 When the Night Mail's ready to depart, Saying "Skimble where is Skimble has he gone to hunt the thimble? We must find him or the train can't start.
" All the guards and all the porters and the stationmaster's daughters They are searching high and low, Saying "Skimble where is Skimble for unless he's very nimble Then the Night Mail just can't go.
" At 11.
42 then the signal's nearly due And the passengers are frantic to a man— Then Skimble will appear and he'll saunter to the rear: He's been busy in the luggage van! He gives one flash of his glass-green eyes And the signal goes "All Clear!" And we're off at last for the northern part Of the Northern Hemisphere! You may say that by and large it is Skimble who's in charge Of the Sleeping Car Express.
From the driver and the guards to the bagmen playing cards He will supervise them all, more or less.
Down the corridor he paces and examines all the faces Of the travellers in the First and the Third; He establishes control by a regular patrol And he'd know at once if anything occurred.
He will watch you without winking and he sees what you are thinking And it's certain that he doesn't approve Of hilarity and riot, so the folk are very quiet When Skimble is about and on the move.
You can play no pranks with Skimbleshanks! He's a Cat that cannot be ignored; So nothing goes wrong on the Northern Mail When Skimbleshanks is aboard.
Oh, it's very pleasant when you have found your little den With your name written up on the door.
And the berth is very neat with a newly folded sheet And there's not a speck of dust on the floor.
There is every sort of light-you can make it dark or bright; There's a handle that you turn to make a breeze.
There's a funny little basin you're supposed to wash your face in And a crank to shut the window if you sneeze.
Then the guard looks in politely and will ask you very brightly "Do you like your morning tea weak or strong?" But Skimble's just behind him and was ready to remind him, For Skimble won't let anything go wrong.
And when you creep into your cosy berth And pull up the counterpane, You ought to reflect that it's very nice To know that you won't be bothered by mice— You can leave all that to the Railway Cat, The Cat of the Railway Train! In the watches of the night he is always fresh and bright; Every now and then he has a cup of tea With perhaps a drop of Scotch while he's keeping on the watch, Only stopping here and there to catch a flea.
You were fast asleep at Crewe and so you never knew That he was walking up and down the station; You were sleeping all the while he was busy at Carlisle, Where he greets the stationmaster with elation.
But you saw him at Dumfries, where he speaks to the police If there's anything they ought to know about: When you get to Gallowgate there you do not have to wait— For Skimbleshanks will help you to get out! He gives you a wave of his long brown tail Which says: "I'll see you again! You'll meet without fail on the Midnight Mail The Cat of the Railway Train.
"


Written by Rudyard Kipling | Create an image from this poem

The Long Trail

 There's a whisper down the field where the year has shot her yield,
 And the ricks stand grey to the sun,
Singing: "Over then, come over, for the bee has quit the dover,
 "And your English summer's done.
" You have heard the beat of the off-shore wind, And the thresh of the deep-sea rain; You have heard the song -- how long? how long? Pull out on the trail again! Ha' done with the Tents of Shem, dear lass, We've seen the seasons through, And it's time to turn the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, Pull out, pull out, on the Long Trail-the trail that is always new! It's North you may run to the rime-ringed sun Or South to the blind Hom's hate; Or East all the way into Mississippi Bay, Or West to the Golden Gate -- Where the blindest bluffs hold good, dear lass, And the wildest tales are true, And the men bulk big on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, And life runs large on the Long Trail -- the trail that is always new.
The days are sick and cold, and the skies are grey and old And the twice-breathed airs blow damp; And I'd sell my tired soul for the bucking beam-sea roll Of a black Bilbao tramp, With her load-line over her hatch, dear lass, And a drunken Dago crew, And her nose held down on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail From Cadiz south on the Long Trail-the trail that is always new.
There be triple ways to take, of the eagle or the snake, Or the way of a man with a maid; But the sweetest way to me is a ship's upon the sea In the heel of the North-East Trade.
Can you hear the crash on her brows, dear lass.
And the drum of the racing screw, As she ships it green on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, As she lifts and 'scends on the Long Trail -- the trail that is always new? See the shaking funnels roar, with the Peter at the fore, And the fenders grind and heave, And the derricks clack and grate, as the tackle hooks the crate, And the fall-rope whines through the sheave; It's "Gang-plank up and in," dear lass, It's "Hawsers warp her through!" And it's "All clear aft" on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, We're backing down on the Long Trail -- the trail that is always new.
O the mutter overside, when the port-fog holds us tied, And the sirens hoot their dread, When foot by foot we creep o'er the hueless, viewless deep To the sob of the questing lead! It's down by the Lower Hope, dear lass, With the Grinfleet Sands in view, Till the Mouse swings green on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, And the Gull Light lifts on the Long Trail -- the trail that is always new.
O the blazing tropic night, when the wake's a welt of light That holds the hot sky tame, And the steady fore-foot snores through the planet-powdered floors Where the scared whale flukes in flame! Her plates are flaked by the sun, dear lass And her ropes are taut with the dew, For we're booming down on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, We're sagging south on the Long Trail -- the trail that is always new.
Then home, get her home, where the drunken rollers comb, And the shouting seas drive by, And the engines stamp and ring, and the wet bows reel and swing, And the Southern Cross rides high! Yes, the old lost stars wheel back, dear lass, That blaze in the velvet blue.
They're all old friends on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, They're God's own guides on the Long Trail -- the trail that is always new.
Fly forward, O my heart, from the Foreland to the Start We're steaming all too slow, And it's twenty thousand mile to our little lazy isle Where the trumpet-orchids blow! You have heard the call of the off-shore wind And the voice of the deep-sea rain; You have heard the song-how long? how long? Pull out on the trail again! The Lord knows what we may find, dear lass, And The Deuce knows we may do But we're back once more on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, We're down, hull-down, on the Long Trail -- the trail that is always new!
Written by Paul Muldoon | Create an image from this poem

Aisling

 I was making my way home late one night
this summer, when I staggered
into a snow drift.
Her eyes spoke of a sloe-year, her mouth a year of haws.
Was she Aurora, or the goddess Flora, Artemidora, or Venus bright, or Anorexia, who left a lemon stain on my flannel sheet? It's all much of a muchness.
In Belfast's Royal Victoria Hospital a kidney machine supports the latest hunger-striker to have called off his fast, a saline drip into his bag of brine.
A lick and a promise.
Cuckoo spittle.
I hand my sample to Doctor Maw.
She gives me back a confident All Clear.
Written by Robert Frost | Create an image from this poem

The Trial by Existence

 Even the bravest that are slain
Shall not dissemble their surprise
On waking to find valor reign,
Even as on earth, in paradise;
And where they sought without the sword
Wide fields of asphodel fore'er,
To find that the utmost reward
Of daring should be still to dare.
The light of heaven falls whole and white And is not shattered into dyes, The light forever is morning light; The hills are verdured pasture-wise; The angle hosts with freshness go, And seek with laughter what to brave;-- And binding all is the hushed snow Of the far-distant breaking wave.
And from a cliff-top is proclaimed The gathering of the souls for birth, The trial by existence named, The obscuration upon earth.
And the slant spirits trooping by In streams and cross- and counter-streams Can but give ear to that sweet cry For its suggestion of what dreams! And the more loitering are turned To view once more the sacrifice Of those who for some good discerned Will gladly give up paradise.
And a white shimmering concourse rolls Toward the throne to witness there The speeding of devoted souls Which God makes his especial care.
And none are taken but who will, Having first heard the life read out That opens earthward, good and ill, Beyond the shadow of a doubt; And very beautifully God limns, And tenderly, life's little dream, But naught extenuates or dims, Setting the thing that is supreme.
Nor is there wanting in the press Some spirit to stand simply forth, Heroic in it nakedness, Against the uttermost of earth.
The tale of earth's unhonored things Sounds nobler there than 'neath the sun; And the mind whirls and the heart sings, And a shout greets the daring one.
But always God speaks at the end: 'One thought in agony of strife The bravest would have by for friend, The memory that he chose the life; But the pure fate to which you go Admits no memory of choice, Or the woe were not earthly woe To which you give the assenting voice.
' And so the choice must be again, But the last choice is still the same; And the awe passes wonder then, And a hush falls for all acclaim.
And God has taken a flower of gold And broken it, and used therefrom The mystic link to bind and hold Spirit to matter till death come.
'Tis of the essence of life here, Though we choose greatly, still to lack The lasting memory at all clear, That life has for us on the wrack Nothing but what we somehow chose; Thus are we wholly stipped of pride In the pain that has but one close, Bearing it crushed and mystified.
Written by Rudyard Kipling | Create an image from this poem

LEnvoi

 There's a whisper down the field where the year has shot her yield,
 And the ricks stand gray to the sun,
Singing: -- "Over then, come over, for the bee has quit the clover,
 And your English summer's done.
" You have heard the beat of the off-shore wind, And the thresh of the deep-sea rain; You have heard the song -- how long! how long? Pull out on the trail again! Ha' done with the Tents of Shem, dear lass, We've seen the seasons through, And it's time to turn on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, Pull out, pull out, on the Long Trail -- the trail that is always new.
It's North you may run to the rime-ringed sun, Or South to the blind Horn's hate; Or East all the way into Mississippi Bay, Or West to the Golden Gate; Where the blindest bluffs hold good, dear lass, And the wildest tales are true, And the men bulk big on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, And life runs large on the Long Trail -- the trail that is always new.
The days are sick and cold, and the skies are gray and old, And the twice-breathed airs blow damp; And I'd sell my tired soul for the bucking beam-sea roll Of a black Bilbao tramp; With her load-line over her hatch, dear lass, And a drunken Dago crew, And her nose held down on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail From Cadiz Bar on the Long Trail -- the trail that is always new.
There be triple ways to take, of the eagle or the snake, Or the way of a man with a maid; But the fairest way to me is a ship's upon the sea In the heel of the North-East Trade.
Can you hear the crash on her bows, dear lass, And the drum of the racing screw, As she ships it green on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, As she lifts and 'scends on the Long Trail -- the trail that is always new? See the shaking funnels roar, with the Peter at the fore, And the fenders grind and heave, And the derricks clack and grate, as the tackle hooks the crate, And the fall-rope whines through the sheave; It's "Gang-plank up and in," dear lass, It's "Hawsers warp her through!" And it's "All clear aft" on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, We're backing down on the Long Trail -- the trail that is always new.
O the mutter overside, when the port-fog holds us tied, And the sirens hoot their dread! When foot by foot we creep o'er the hueless viewless deep To the sob of the questing lead! It's down by the Lower Hope, dear lass, With the Gunfleet Sands in view, Till the Mouse swings green on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, And the Gull Light lifts on the Long Trail -- the trail that is always new.
O the blazing tropic night, when the wake's a welt of light That holds the hot sky tame, And the steady fore-foot snores through the planet-powdered floors Where the scared whale flukes in flame! Her plates are scarred by the sun, dear lass, And her ropes are taut with the dew, For we're booming down on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, We're sagging south on the Long Trail -- the trail that is always new.
Then home, get her home, where the drunken rollers comb, And the shouting seas drive by, And the engines stamp and ring, and the wet bows reel and swing, And the Southern Cross rides high! Yes, the old lost stars wheel back, dear lass, That blaze in the velvet blue.
They're all old friends on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, They're God's own guides on the Long Trail -- the trail that is always new.
Fly forward, O my heart, from the Foreland to the Start -- We're steaming all-too slow, And it's twenty thousand mile to our little lazy isle Where the trumpet-orchids blow! You have heard the call of the off-shore wind, And the voice of the deep-sea rain; You have heard the song -- how long! how long? Pull out on the trail again! The Lord knows what we may find, dear lass, And The Deuce knows what we may do -- But we're back once more on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, We're down, hull down on the Long Trail -- the trail that is always new.


Written by Ben Jonson | Create an image from this poem

The Metamorphosed Gypsies (excerpt)

 The fairy beam upon you,
The stars to glister on you;
A moon of light
In the noon of night,
Till the fire-drake hath o'ergone you.
The wheel of fortune guide you The boy with the bow beside you; Run aye in the way Till the bird of day, And the luckier lot betide you.
To the old, long life and treasure, To the young, all health and pleasure; To the fair, their face With eternal grace, And the foul to be lov'd at leisure.
To the witty, all clear mirrors, To the foolish, their dark errors; To the loving sprite, A secure delight; To the jealous, his own false terrors.