Best Famous Amble Poems

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

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• All Famous Amble Poems

Written by Margaret Atwood | In The Secular Night In the secular night you wander around alone in your house. It's two-thirty. Everyone has deserted you, or this is your story; you remember it from being sixteen, when the others were out somewhere, having a good time, or so you suspected, and you had to baby-sit. You took a large scoop of vanilla ice-cream and filled up the glass with grapejuice and ginger ale, and put on Glenn Miller with his big-band sound, and lit a cigarette and blew the smoke up the chimney, and cried for a while because you were not dancing, and then danced, by yourself, your mouth circled with purple. Now, forty years later, things have changed, and it's baby lima beans. It's necessary to reserve a secret vice. This is what comes from forgetting to eat at the stated mealtimes. You simmer them carefully, drain, add cream and pepper, and amble up and down the stairs, scooping them up with your fingers right out of the bowl, talking to yourself out loud. You'd be surprised if you got an answer, but that part will come later. There is so much silence between the words, you say. You say, The sensed absence of God and the sensed presence amount to much the same thing, only in reverse. You say, I have too much white clothing. You start to hum. Several hundred years ago this could have been mysticism or heresy. It isn't now. Outside there are sirens. Someone's been run over. The century grinds on.

Written by Philip Larkin | Autobiography At An Air-Station Delay, well, travellers must expect Delay. For how long? No one seems to know. With all the luggage weighed, the tickets checked, It can't be long... We amble too and fro, Sit in steel chairs, buy cigarettes and sweets And tea, unfold the papers. Ought we to smile, Perhaps make friends? No: in the race for seats You're best alone. Friendship is not worth while. Six hours pass: if I'd gone by boat last night I'd be there now. Well, it's too late for that. The kiosk girl is yawning. I fell stale, Stupified, by inaction - and, as light Begins to ebb outside, by fear, I set So much on this Assumption. Now it's failed.

Written by Vachel Lindsay | The Santa-Fe Trail (A Humoresque) I asked the old *****, "What is that bird that sings so well?" He answered: "That is the Rachel-Jane." "Hasn't it another name, lark, or thrush, or the like?" "No. Jus' Rachel-Jane." I. IN WHICH A RACING AUTO COMES FROM THE EAST This is the order of the music of the morning: — First, from the far East comes but a crooning. The crooning turns to a sunrise singing. Hark to the calm -horn, balm -horn, psalm -horn. Hark to the faint -horn, quaint -horn, saint -horn. . . . Hark to the pace -horn, chase -horn, race -horn. And the holy veil of the dawn has gone. Swiftly the brazen ear comes on. It burns in the East as the sunrise burns. I see great flashes where the far trail turns. Its eyes are lamps like the eyes of dragons. It drinks gasoline from big red flagons. Butting through the delicate mists of the morning, It comes like lightning, goes past roaring. It will hail all the wind-mills, taunting, ringing, Dodge the cyclones, Count the milestones, On through the ranges the prairie-dog tills— Scooting past the cattle on the thousand hills. . . . Ho for the tear-horn, scare-horn, dare-horn, Ho for the gay -horn, bark -horn, bay -horn. Ho for Kansas, land that restores us When houses choke us, and great books bore us! Sunrise Kansas, harvester's Kansas, A million men have found you before us. II. IN WHICH MANY AUTOS PASS WESTWARD I want live things in their pride to remain. I will not kill one grasshopper vain Though he eats a hole in my shirt like a door. I let him out, give him one chance more. Perhaps, while he gnaws my hat in his whim, Grasshopper lyrics occur to him. I am a tramp by the long trail's border, Given to squalor, rags and disorder. I nap and amble and yawn and look, Write fool-thoughts in my grubby book, Recite to the children, explore at my ease, Work when I work, beg when I please, Give crank-drawings, that make folks stare To the half-grown boys in the sunset glare, And get me a place to sleep in the hay At the end of a live-and-let-live day. I find in the stubble of the new-cut weeds A whisper and a feasting, all one needs: The whisper of the strawberries, white and red Here where the new-cut weeds lie dead. But I would not walk all alone till I die Without some life-drunk horns going by. Up round this apple-earth they come Blasting the whispers of the morning dumb:— Cars in a plain realistic row. And fair dreams fade When the raw horns blow. On each snapping pennant A big black name:— The careering city Whence each car came. They tour from Memphis, Atlanta, Savannah, Tallahassee and Texarkana. They tour from St. Louis, Columbus, Manistee, They tour from Peoria, Davenport, Kankakee. Cars from Concord, Niagara, Boston, Cars from Topeka, Emporia, and Austin. Cars from Chicago, Hannibal, Cairo. Cars from Alton, Oswego, Toledo. Cars from Buffalo, Kokomo, Delphi, Cars from Lodi, Carmi, Loami. Ho for Kansas, land that restores us When houses choke us, and great books bore us! While I watch the highroad And look at the sky, While I watch the clouds in amazing grandeur Roll their legions without rain Over the blistering Kansas plain— While I sit by the milestone And watch the sky, The United States Goes by. Listen to the iron-horns, ripping, racking. Listen to the quack-horns, slack and clacking. Way down the road, trilling like a toad, Here comes the dice -horn, here comes the vice -horn, Here comes the snarl -horn, brawl -horn, lewd -horn, Followed by the prude -horn, bleak and squeaking: — (Some of them from Kansas, some of themn from Kansas.) Here comes the hod -horn, plod -horn, sod -horn, Nevermore-to-roam -horn, loam -horn, home -horn. (Some of them from Kansas, some of them from Kansas.) Far away the Rachel-Jane Not defeated by the horns Sings amid a hedge of thorns:— "Love and life, Eternal youth— Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet, Dew and glory, Love and truth, Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet." WHILE SMOKE-BLACK FREIGHTS ON THE DOUBLE-TRACKED RAILROAD, DRIVEN AS THOUGH BY THE FOUL-FIEND'S OX-GOAD, SCREAMING TO THE WEST COAST, SCREAMING TO THE EAST, CARRY OFF A HARVEST, BRING BACK A FEAST, HARVESTING MACHINERY AND HARNESS FOR THE BEAST. THE HAND-CARS WHIZ, AND RATTLE ON THE RAILS, THE SUNLIGHT FLASHES ON THE TIN DINNER-PAILS. And then, in an instant, Ye modern men, Behold the procession once again, Listen to the iron-horns, ripping, racking, Listen to the wise -horn, desperate-to-advise horn, Listen to the fast -horn, kill -horn, blast -horn. . . . Far away the Rachel-Jane Not defeated by the horns Sings amid a hedge of thorns:— Love and life, Eternal youth, Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet, Dew and glory, Love and truth. Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet. The mufflers open on a score of cars With wonderful thunder, CRACK, CRACK, CRACK, CRACK-CRACK, CRACK-CRACK, CRACK-CRACK-CRACK, . . . Listen to the gold-horn . . . Old-horn . . . Cold-horn . . . And all of the tunes, till the night comes down On hay-stack, and ant-hill, and wind-bitten town. Then far in the west, as in the beginning, Dim in the distance, sweet in retreating, Hark to the faint-horn, quaint-horn, saint-horn, Hark to the calm-horn, balm-horn, psalm-horn. . . . They are hunting the goals that they understand:— San-Francisco and the brown sea-sand. My goal is the mystery the beggars win. I am caught in the web the night-winds spin. The edge of the wheat-ridge speaks to me. I talk with the leaves of the mulberry tree. And now I hear, as I sit all alone In the dusk, by another big Santa-Fe stone, The souls of the tall corn gathering round And the gay little souls of the grass in the ground. Listen to the tale the cotton-wood tells. Listen to the wind-mills, singing o'er the wells. Listen to the whistling flutes without price Of myriad prophets out of paradise. Harken to the wonder That the night-air carries. . . . Listen . . . to . . . the . . . whisper . . . Of . . . the . . . prairie . . . fairies Singing o'er the fairy plain:— "Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet. Love and glory, Stars and rain, Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet . . . . "

Written by Guillaume Apollinaire | Zone ZONE In the end you are tired of this ancient world Shepherd oh Eiffel Tower the herd of bridges is bleating this morning You've had enough of living in Greek and Roman antiquity Here even the cars look antique Only religion has stayed new religion Has stayed simple like the hangars at Port-Aviation You alone in Europe are not ancient oh Christianity The most modern European is you Pope Pius X And shame keeps you whom the windows are watching From entering a church and going to confession this morning You read the flyers catalogues posters that shout out There's the morning's poetry and as for prose there are the newspapers There are 25 cent tabloids full of crimes Celebrity items and a thousand different headlines This morning I saw a pretty street whose name I forget New and clean it was the sun's herald Executives workers and beautiful stenos Cross it four times a day from Monday morning to Saturday evening In the morning the siren moans three times An angry bell barks at noon The inscriptions on the signs and walls The billboards the notices squawk like parrots I love the charm of this industrial street In Paris between the Rue Aumont-Thiéville and the Avenue des Ternes There's the young street and you're still just a little boy Your mother dresses you only in blue and white You're very pious and along with your oldest friend René Dalize You like nothing better than the rituals of the Church It is nine o'clock the gas is low and blue you sneak out of the dormitory You pray all night in the school's chapel While in eternal adorable amethyst depths The flaming glory of Christ revolves forever It's the beautiful lily we all cultivate It's the torch with red hair the wind can't blow out It's the pale rosy son of the grieving mother It's the tree always leafy with prayers It's the paired gallows of honor and eternity It's the star with six branches It's God who dies on Friday and comes back to life on Sunday It's Christ who climbs to the sky better than any pilot He holds the world record for altitude Apple Christ of the eye Twentieth pupil of the centuries he knows how to do it And changed into a bird this century like Jesus climbs into the air Devils in their depths raise their heads to look at him They say he's copying Simon Magus in Judea They shout if he's so good at flying let's call him a fugitive Angels gyre around the handsome gymnast Icarus Enoch Elijah Apollonius of Tyana Hover around the first airplane They scatter sometimes to let the ones carrying the Eucharist pass Those priests that are forever ascending carrying the host Finally the plane lands without folding its wings And the sky is full of millions of swallows Crows falcons owls come in full flight Ibises flamingos storks come from Africa The Roc Bird made famous by storytellers and poets Soars holding in its claws Adam's skull the first head The eagle swoops screaming from the horizon And from America the little hummingbird comes From China the long agile peehees have come They have only one wing and fly in pairs Now here's the dove immaculate spirit Escorted by the lyre-bird and the spotted peacock The phoenix that self-engendering pyre For an instant hides all with its burning ash Sirens leaving the dangerous straits Arrive singing beautifully all three And all eagle phoenix peehees from China Hang out with the flying Machine Now you're walking in Paris all alone in the crowd Herds of buses amble by you mooing The anguish of love tightens your throat As if you were never going to be loved again If you lived in the old days you would enter a monastery You are ashamed when you catch yourself saying a prayer You make fun of yourself and your laughter crackles like the fire of Hell The sparks of your laughter gild the abyss of your life It is a painting hung in a dark museum And sometimes you go look at it close up Today you're walking in Paris the women have turned blood-red It was and I wish I didn't remember it was at the waning of beauty Surrounded by fervent flames Our Lady looked at me in Chartres The blood of your Sacred Heart drenched me in Montmartre I am sick from hearing blissful phrases The love I suffer from is a shameful sickness And the image that possesses you makes you survive in insomnia and anguish It is always near you this image that passes Now you're on the shores of the Mediterranean Under the lemon trees that are in flower all year long You go boating with some friends One is from Nice there's one from Menton and two from La Turbie We look with dread at the octopus of the deep And among the seaweed fish are swimming symbols of the Savior You are in the garden of an inn just outside of Prague You feel so happy a rose is on the table And you observe instead of writing your story in prose The Japanese beetle sleeping in the heart of the rose Terrified you see yourself drawn in the agates of Saint Vitus You were sad enough to die the day you saw yourself You look like Lazarus thrown into a panic by the daylight The hands on the clock in the Jewish district go counter-clockwise And you too are going slowly backwards in your life Climbing up to Hradcany and listening at night To Czech songs being sung in taverns Here you are in Marseilles in the middle of watermelons Here you are in Coblenz at the Giant Hotel Here you are in Rome sitting under a Japanese medlar tree Here you are in Amsterdam with a young woman you think is beautiful she is ugly She is engaged to a student from Leyden There they rent rooms in Latin Cubicula Locanda I remember I spent three days there and just as many in Gouda You are in Paris getting interrogated They're arresting you like a criminal You made some miserable and happy journeys Before you became aware of lies and of age You suffered from love at twenty and at thirty I've lived like a madman and I've wasted my time You don't dare look at your hands anymore and all the time I want to cry Over you over the women I love over everything that's terrified you Your tear-filled eyes watch the poor emigrants They believe in God they pray the women breast-feed the children They fill the waiting-room at the St. Lazaire station with their smell They have faith in their star like the Magi They hope to earn money in Argentina And go back to their country after making their fortune One family is carrying a red eiderdown the way you carry your heart The eiderdown and our dreams are equally unreal Some of these emigrants stay here and put up at the Rue des Rosiers or the Rue des Ecouffes in hovels I've seen them often at night they're out for a breath of air in the street And like chess pieces they rarely move They are mostly Jews the wives wearing wigs Sit still bloodless at the back of store-fronts You're standing in front of the counter at a sleazy bar You're having coffee for two sous with the down-and-out At night you're in a big restaurant These women aren't mean but they do have their troubles All of them even the ugliest has made her lover suffer She is a Jersey policeman's daughter Her hands that I hadn't seen are hard and chapped I feel immense pity for the scars on her belly I humble my mouth now to a poor hooker with a horrible laugh You are alone morning is approaching Milkmen clink their cans in the streets Night withdraws like a half-caste beauty Ferdine the false or thoughtful Leah And you drink this alcohol burning like your life Your life that you drink like an eau-de-vie You walk towards Auteuil you want to go home on foot To sleep surrounded by your fetishes from the South Seas and from Guinea They are Christs in another form and from a different creed They are lower Christs of dim expectations Goodbye Goodbye Sun neck cut from Alcools, 1913 Translation copyright Charlotte Mandell

Written by Robert William Service | Titine Although I have a car of class, A limousine, I also have a jenny ass I call Titine. And if I had in sober sense To choose between, I know I'd give the preference To sleek Titine. My chauffeur drives my Cadillac In uniform. I wear a worn coat on my back That he would scorn. He speeds with umpty equine power, Like an express; I amble at eight miles an hour, Or even less. My wife can use our fancy bus To cut a dash; She very definitely does, And blows my cash. But this old codger seeks the sane And simple scene; Content to jog along a lane With old Titine. So as in country ways I go Wife loves the town; But though I'm slow, serene I know I won't break down. With brawn and bone I reckon mine The best machine: Old folks and donkeys best combine, --"Giddup, Titine!"

Written by Mother Goose | Here Goes My Lord       Here goes my lordA trot, a trot, a trot, a trot,      Here goes my ladyA canter, a canter, a canter, a canter!      Here goes my young masterJockey-hitch, jockey-hitch, jockey-hitch, jockey-hitch!      Here goes my young missAn amble, an amble, an amble, an amble!The footman lags behind to tipple ale and wine,And goes gallop, a gallop, a gallop, to make up his time.

Written by Paul Laurence Dunbar | De Way T'ings Come De way t'ings come, hit seems to me, Is des' one monst'ous mystery; De way hit seem to strike a man, Dey ain't no sense, dey ain't no plan; Ef trouble sta'ts a pilin' down, It ain't no use to rage er frown, It ain't no use to strive er pray, Hit's mortal boun' to come dat way. Now, ef you 's hongry, an' yo' plate Des' keep on sayin' to you, "Wait," Don't mek no diffunce how you feel, 'T won't do no good to hunt a meal, Fu' dat ah meal des' boun' to hide Ontwell de devil's satisfied, An' 'twell dey's some'p'n by to cyave You 's got to ease yo'se'f an' sta've. But ef dey 's co'n meal on de she'f You need n't bothah 'roun' yo'se'f,[Pg 226] Somebody's boun' to amble in An' 'vite you to dey co'n meal bin; An' ef you 's stuffed up to be froat Wid co'n er middlin', fowl er shoat, Des' look out an' you 'll see fu' sho A 'possum faint befo' yo' do'. De way t'ings happen, huhuh, chile, Dis worl' 's done puzzled me one w'ile; I 's mighty skeered I 'll fall in doubt, I des' won't try to reason out De reason why folks strive an' plan A dinnah fu' a full-fed man, An' shet de do' an' cross de street F'om one dat raaly needs to eat.