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Best Famous Allegory Poems

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

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Written by Stephen Dunn | Create an image from this poem

Allegory Of The Cave

 He climbed toward the blinding light
and when his eyes adjusted
he looked down and could see

his fellow prisoners captivated
by shadows; everything he had believed
was false.
And he was suddenly in the 20th century, in the sunlight and violence of history, encumbered by knowledge.
Only a hero would dare return with the truth.
So from the cave's upper reaches, removed from harm, he called out the disturbing news.
What lovely echoes, the prisoners said, what a fine musical place to live.
He spelled it out, then, in clear prose on paper scraps, which he floated down.
But in the semi-dark they read his words with the indulgence of those who seldom read: It's about my father's death, one of them said.
No, said the others, it's a joke.
By this time he no longer was sure of what he'd seen.
Wasn't sunlight a shadow too? Wasn't there always a source behind a source? He just stood there, confused, a man who had moved to larger errors, without a prayer.

Written by John Ashbery | Create an image from this poem

Daffy Duck In Hollywood

 Something strange is creeping across me.
La Celestina has only to warble the first few bars Of "I Thought about You" or something mellow from Amadigi di Gaula for everything--a mint-condition can Of Rumford's Baking Powder, a celluloid earring, Speedy Gonzales, the latest from Helen Topping Miller's fertile Escritoire, a sheaf of suggestive pix on greige, deckle-edged Stock--to come clattering through the rainbow trellis Where Pistachio Avenue rams the 2300 block of Highland Fling Terrace.
He promised he'd get me out of this one, That mean old cartoonist, but just look what he's Done to me now! I scarce dare approach me mug's attenuated Reflection in yon hubcap, so jaundiced, so déconfit Are its lineaments--fun, no doubt, for some quack phrenologist's Fern-clogged waiting room, but hardly what you'd call Companionable.
But everything is getting choked to the point of Silence.
Just now a magnetic storm hung in the swatch of sky Over the Fudds' garage, reducing it--drastically-- To the aura of a plumbago-blue log cabin on A Gadsden Purchase commemorative cover.
Suddenly all is Loathing.
I don't want to go back inside any more.
You meet Enough vague people on this emerald traffic-island--no, Not people, comings and goings, more: mutterings, splatterings, The bizarrely but effectively equipped infantries of happy-go-nutty Vegetal jacqueries, plumed, pointed at the little White cardboard castle over the mill run.
"Up The lazy river, how happy we could be?" How will it end? That geranium glow Over Anaheim's had the riot act read to it by the Etna-size firecracker that exploded last minute into A carte du Tendre in whose lower right-hand corner (Hard by the jock-itch sand-trap that skirts The asparagus patch of algolagnic nuits blanches) Amadis Is cozening the Princesse de Cleves into a midnight micturition spree On the Tamigi with the Wallets (Walt, Blossom, and little Sleezix) on a lamé barge "borrowed" from Ollie Of the Movies' dread mistress of the robes.
Wait! I have an announcement! This wide, tepidly meandering, Civilized Lethe (one can barely make out the maypoles And châlets de nécessitê on its sedgy shore) leads to Tophet, that Landfill-haunted, not-so-residential resort from which Some travellers return! This whole moment is the groin Of a borborygmic giant who even now Is rolling over on us in his sleep.
Farewell bocages, Tanneries, water-meadows.
The allegory comes unsnarled Too soon; a shower of pecky acajou harpoons is About all there is to be noted between tornadoes.
I have Only my intermittent life in your thoughts to live Which is like thinking in another language.
Everything Depends on whether somebody reminds you of me.
That this is a fabulation, and that those "other times" Are in fact the silences of the soul, picked out in Diamonds on stygian velvet, matters less than it should.
Prodigies of timing may be arranged to convince them We live in one dimension, they in ours.
While I Abroad through all the coasts of dark destruction seek Deliverance for us all, think in that language: its Grammar, though tortured, offers pavillions At each new parting of the ways.
Pastel Ambulances scoop up the quick and hie them to hospitals.
"It's all bits and pieces, spangles, patches, really; nothing Stands alone.
What happened to creative evolution?" Sighed Aglavaine.
Then to her Sélysette: "If his Achievement is only to end up less boring than the others, What's keeping us here? Why not leave at once? I have to stay here while they sit in there, Laugh, drink, have fine time.
In my day One lay under the tough green leaves, Pretending not to notice how they bled into The sky's aqua, the wafted-away no-color of regions supposed Not to concern us.
And so we too Came where the others came: nights of physical endurance, Or if, by day, our behavior was anarchically Correct, at least by New Brutalism standards, all then Grew taciturn by previous agreement.
We were spirited Away en bateau, under cover of fudge dark.
It's not the incomplete importunes, but the spookiness Of the finished product.
True, to ask less were folly, yet If he is the result of himself, how much the better For him we ought to be! And how little, finally, We take this into account! Is the puckered garance satin Of a case that once held a brace of dueling pistols our Only acknowledging of that color? I like not this, Methinks, yet this disappointing sequel to ourselves Has been applauded in London and St.
Somewhere Ravens pray for us.
" The storm finished brewing.
And thus She questioned all who came in at the great gate, but none She found who ever heard of Amadis, Nor of stern Aureng-Zebe, his first love.
Some They were to whom this mattered not a jot: since all By definition is completeness (so In utter darkness they reasoned), why not Accept it as it pleases to reveal itself? As when Low skyscrapers from lower-hanging clouds reveal A turret there, an art-deco escarpment here, and last perhaps The pattern that may carry the sense, but Stays hidden in the mysteries of pagination.
Not what we see but how we see it matters; all's Alike, the same, and we greet him who announces The change as we would greet the change itself.
All life is but a figment; conversely, the tiny Tome that slips from your hand is not perhaps the Missing link in this invisible picnic whose leverage Shrouds our sense of it.
Therefore bivouac we On this great, blond highway, unimpeded by Veiled scruples, worn conundrums.
Morning is Impermanent.
Grab sex things, swing up Over the horizon like a boy On a fishing expedition.
No one really knows Or cares whether this is the whole of which parts Were vouchsafed--once--but to be ambling on's The tradition more than the safekeeping of it.
This mulch for Play keeps them interested and busy while the big, Vaguer stuff can decide what it wants--what maps, what Model cities, how much waste space.
Life, our Life anyway, is between.
We don't mind Or notice any more that the sky is green, a parrot One, but have our earnest where it chances on us, Disingenuous, intrigued, inviting more, Always invoking the echo, a summer's day.
Written by Robert Pinsky | Create an image from this poem

Ode To Meaning

 Dire one and desired one,
Savior, sentencer--

In an old allegory you would carry
A chained alphabet of tokens:

Ankh Badge Cross.
Dragon, Engraved figure guarding a hallowed intaglio, Jasper kinema of legendary Mind, Naked omphalos pierced By quills of rhyme or sense, torah-like: unborn Vein of will, xenophile Yearning out of Zero.
Untrusting I court you.
Wavering I seek your face, I read That Crusoe's knife Reeked of you, that to defile you The soldier makes the rabbi spit on the torah.
"I'll drown my book" says Shakespeare.
Drowned walker, revenant.
After my mother fell on her head, she became More than ever your sworn enemy.
She spoke Sometimes like a poet or critic of forty years later.
Or she spoke of the world as Thersites spoke of the heroes, "I think they have swallowed one another.
I Would laugh at that miracle.
" You also in the laughter, warrior angel: Your helmet the zodiac, rocket-plumed Your spear the beggar's finger pointing to the mouth Your heel planted on the serpent Formulation Your face a vapor, the wreath of cigarette smoke crowning Bogart as he winces through it.
You not in the words, not even Between the words, but a torsion, A cleavage, a stirring.
You stirring even in the arctic ice, Even at the dark ocean floor, even In the cellular flesh of a stone.
My poker friends Question your presence In a poem by me, passing the magazine One to another.
Not the stone and not the words, you Like a veil over Arthur's headstone, The passage from Proverbs he chose While he was too ill to teach And still well enough to read, I was Beside the master craftsman Delighting him day after day, ever At play in his presence--you A soothing veil of distraction playing over Dying Arthur playing in the hospital, Thumbing the Bible, fuzzy from medication, Ever courting your presence, And you the prognosis, You in the cough.
Gesturer, when is your spur, your cloud? You in the airport rituals of greeting and parting.
Indicter, who is your claimant? Bell at the gate.
Spiderweb iron bridge.
Cloak, video, aroma, rue, what is your Elected silence, where was your seed? What is Imagination But your lost child born to give birth to you? Dire one.
Desired one.
Savior, sentencer-- Absence, Or presence ever at play: Let those scorn you who never Starved in your dearth.
If I Dare to disparage Your harp of shadows I taste Wormwood and motor oil, I pour Ashes on my head.
You are the wound.
You Be the medicine.
Written by Helen Hunt Jackson | Create an image from this poem

My Bees: An Allegory

 "O bees, sweet bees!" I said, "that nearest field 
Is shining white with fragrant immortelles.
Fly swiftly there and drain those honey wells.
" Then, spicy pines the sunny hive to shield, I set, and patient for the autumn's yield Of sweet I waited.
When the village bells Rang frosty clear, and from their satin cells The chestnuts leaped, rejoicing, I unsealed My hive.
Alas! no snowy honey there Was stored.
My wicked bees had borne away Their queen and left no trace.
That very day, An idle drone who sauntered through the air I tracked and followed, and he led me where My truant bees and stolen honey lay.
Twice faithless bees! They had sought out to eat Rank, bitter herbs.
The honey was not sweet.
Written by Andrew Barton Paterson | Create an image from this poem

The Bushfire - an Allegory

 'Twas on the famous Empire run, 
Whose sun does never set, 
Whose grass and water, so they say, 
Have never failed them yet -- 
They carry many million sheep, 
Through seasons dry and wet.
They call the homestead Albion House, And then, along with that, There's Welshman's Gully, Scotchman's Hill, And Paddymelon Flat: And all these places are renowned For making jumbacks fat.
And the out-paddocks -- holy frost! There wouldn't be no sense For me to try and tell you half -- They really are immense; A man might ride for days and weeks And never strike a fence.
But still for years they never had Been known a sheep to lose; Old Billy Gladstone managed it, And you can bet your shoes He'd scores of supers under him, And droves of jackaroos.
Old Billy had an eagle eye, And kept his wits about -- If any chaps got trespassing He quickly cleared 'em out; And coves that used to "work a cross", They hated him, no doubt.
But still he managed it in style, Until the times got dry, And Billy gave the supers word To see and mind their eye -- "If any paddocks gets a-fire I'll know the reason why.
" Now on this point old Bill was sure, Because, for many a year, Whenever times got dry at all, As sure as you are here, The Paddymelon Flat got burnt Which Bill thought rather *****.
He sent his smartest supers there To try and keep things right.
No use! The grass was always dry -- They'd go to sleep at night, And when they woke they'd go and find The whole concern alight.
One morning it was very hot -- The sun rose in a haze; Old Bill was cutting down some trees (One of his little ways); A black boy came hot-foot to say The Flat was in a blaze.
Old Bill he swears a fearful oath And lets the tommy fall -- Says he: "'ll take this business up, And fix it once for all; If this goes on the cursed run Will send us to the wall.
" So he withdrew his trespass suits, He'd one with Dutchy's boss -- In prosecutions criminal He entered nolle pros.
, But these were neither here nor there -- They always meant a loss.
And off to Paddymelon Flat He started double quick Drayloads of men with lots of grog Lest heat should make them sick, And all the strangers came around To see him do the trick.
And there the fire was flaming bright, For miles and miles it spread, And many a sheep and horse and cow Were numbered with the dead -- The super came to meet Old Bill, And this is what he said: "No use, to try to beat it out, 'Twill dry you up like toast, I've done as much as man can do, Although I never boast; I think you'd better chuck it up, And let the jumbucks roast.
" Then Bill said just two words: "You're sacked," And pitches off his coat, And wrenches down a blue gum bough And clears his manly throat, And into it like threshing wheat Right sturdily he smote.
And beat the blazing grass until His shirt was dripping wet; And all the people watched him there To see what luck he'd get, "Gosh! don't he make the cinders fly," And, Golly, don't he sweat!" But though they worked like Trojans all, The fire still went ahead So far as you could see around, The very skies were red, Sometimes the flames would start afresh, Just where they thought it dead.
His men, too, quarreled 'mongst themselves And some coves gave it best And some said, "Light a fire in front, And burn from east to west" -- But Bill he still kept sloggin' in, And never took no rest.
Then through the crowd a cornstalk kid Come ridin' to the spot Says he to Bill, "Now take a spell, You're lookin' very 'ot, And if you'll only listen, why, I'll tell you what is what.
"These coves as set your grass on fire, There ain't no mortal doubt, I've seen 'em ridin' here and there, And pokin' round about; It ain't no use your workin' here, Until you finds them out.
"See yonder, where you beat the fire -- It's blazin' up again, And fires are starting right and left On Tipperary Plain, Beating them out is useless quite, Unless Heaven sends the rain.
Then Bill, he turns upon the boy, "Oh, hold your tongue, you pup!" But a cinder blew across the creek While Bill stopped for a sup, And fired the Albion paddocks, too -- It was a bitter cup; Old Bill's heart was broke at last, He had to chuck it up.
Moral The run is England's Empire great, The fire is the distress That burns the stock they represent -- Prosperity you'll guess.
And the blue gum bough is the Home Rule Bill That's making such a mess.
And Ireland green, of course I mean By Paddymelon Flat; All men can see the fire, of course, Spreads on at such a bat, But who are setting it alight, I cannot tell you that.
But this I think all men will see, And hold it very true -- "Don't quarrel with effects until The cause is brought to view.
" What is the cause? That cornstalk boy -- He seemed to think he knew.

Written by Thomas Hood | Create an image from this poem


 I had a gig-horse, and I called him Pleasure 
Because on Sundays for a little jaunt 
He was so fast and showy, quite a treasure; 
Although he sometimes kicked and shied aslant.
I had a chaise, and christened it Enjoyment, With yellow body and the wheels of red, Because it was only used for one employment, Namely, to go wherever Pleasure led.
I had a wife, her nickname was Delight: A son called Frolic, who was never still: Alas! how often dark succeeds to bright! Delight was thrown, and Frolic had a spill, Enjoyment was upset and shattered quite, And Pleasure fell a splitter on Paine's Hill.
Written by Percy Bysshe Shelley | Create an image from this poem

The Two Spirits: An Allegory

O thou, who plum'd with strong desire 
Wouldst float above the earth, beware!
A Shadow tracks thy flight of fire--
Night is coming!
Bright are the regions of the air,
And among the winds and beams
It were delight to wander there--
Night is coming!SECOND SPIRIT
The deathless stars are bright above;
If I would cross the shade of night,
Within my heart is the lamp of love,
And that is day!
And the moon will smile with gentle light
On my golden plumes where'er they move;
The meteors will linger round my flight,
And make night day.
FIRST SPIRIT But if the whirlwinds of darkness waken Hail, and lightning, and stormy rain; See, the bounds of the air are shaken-- Night is coming! The red swift clouds of the hurricane Yon declining sun have overtaken, The clash of the hail sweeps over the plain-- Night is coming!SECOND SPIRIT I see the light, and I hear the sound; I'll sail on the flood of the tempest dark, With the calm within and the light around Which makes night day: And thou, when the gloom is deep and stark, Look from thy dull earth, slumber-bound, My moon-like flight thou then mayst mark On high, far away.
---- Some say there is a precipice Where one vast pine is frozen to ruin O'er piles of snow and chasms of ice Mid Alpine mountains; And that the languid storm pursuing That winged shape, for ever flies Round those hoar branches, aye renewing Its aëry fountains.
Some say when nights are dry and dear, And the death-dews sleep on the morass, Sweet whispers are heard by the traveller, Which make night day: And a silver shape like his early love doth pass Upborne by her wild and glittering hair, And when he awakes on the fragrant grass, He finds night day.
Written by Francesco Petrarch | Create an image from this poem



Al cader d' una pianta che si svelse.


As a fair plant, uprooted by oft blows
Of trenchant spade, or which the blast upheaves,
Scatters on earth its green and lofty leaves,
And its bare roots to the broad sunlight shows;
Love such another for my object chose,
Of whom for me the Muse a subject weaves,
Who in my captured heart her home achieves,
As on some wall or tree the ivy grows
That living laurel—where their chosen nest
My high thoughts made, where sigh'd mine ardent grief,
Yet never stirr'd of its fair boughs a leaf—
To heaven translated, in my heart, her rest,
Left deep its roots, whence ever with sad cry
I call on her, who ne'er vouchsafes reply.
Written by T Wignesan | Create an image from this poem

Breath of the Informer an Allegory

Remorseful, the noonday sun
Frizzles with the stealthy wind
Under the rubbery mountain green.
A calmness has come to rest From having tossed in its sleep.
The forest has taken leave Of the hunted horn and drum.
No more the tapper late of nap Scurries to the haven of a nest.
No more the rattle whisper fades To nothingness in a lonesome rest.
No more, no more, for the heavens Sleep and all the troops sleep too.
The sinewy python stretched past Clumsily the ragged rock and branch.
The Owl has called its reveille at last.
And the forest sleeps with the wind Gently fanning some whisper closer And closer, every wave, a venomous flick Of a serpent, a kiss of rest.

Book: Shattered Sighs