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Best Famous Ambrose Bierce Poems

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

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Written by Ambrose Bierce | Create an image from this poem


 Freedom, as every schoolboy knows,
Once shrieked as Kosciusko fell;
On every wind, indeed, that blows
I hear her yell.
She screams whenever monarchs meet, And parliaments as well, To bind the chains about her feet And toll her knell.
And when the sovereign people cast The votes they cannot spell, Upon the pestilential blast Her clamors swell.
For all to whom the power's given To sway or to compel, Among themselves apportion Heaven And give her Hell.

Written by Ambrose Bierce | Create an image from this poem


 The cur foretells the knell of parting day;
The loafing herd winds slowly o'er the lea;
The wise man homewards plods; I only stay
To fiddle-faddle in a minor key.
Written by Ambrose Bierce | Create an image from this poem


 Once I seen a human ruin
In a elevator-well.
And his members was bestrewin' All the place where he had fell.
And I says, apostrophisin' That uncommon woful wreck: "Your position's so surprisin' That I tremble for your neck!" Then that ruin, smilin' sadly And impressive, up and spoke: "Well, I wouldn't tremble badly, For it's been a fortnight broke.
" Then, for further comprehension Of his attitude, he begs I will focus my attention On his various arms and legs-- How they all are contumacious; Where they each, respective, lie; How one trotter proves ungracious, T' other one an alibi.
These particulars is mentioned For to show his dismal state, Which I wasn't first intentioned To specifical relate.
None is worser to be dreaded That I ever have heard tell Than the gent's who there was spreaded In that elevator-well.
Now this tale is allegoric-- It is figurative all, For the well is metaphoric And the feller didn't fall.
I opine it isn't moral For a writer-man to cheat, And despise to wear a laurel As was gotten by deceit.
For 'tis Politics intended By the elevator, mind, It will boost a person splendid If his talent is the kind.
Bryan had the talent (For the busted man is him) And it shot him up right gallant Till his head began to swim.
Then the rope it broke above him And he painful came to earth Where there's nobody to love him For his detrimented worth.
Though he's living' none would know him, Or at leastwise not as such.
Moral of this woful poem: Frequent oil your safety-clutch.
Written by Ambrose Bierce | Create an image from this poem


 Once I dipt into the future far as human eye could see,
And I saw the Chief Forecaster, dead as any one can be--
Dead and damned and shut in Hades as a liar from his birth,
With a record of unreason seldome paralleled on earth.
While I looked he reared him solemnly, that incandescent youth, From the coals that he'd preferred to the advantages of truth.
He cast his eyes about him and above him; then he wrote On a slab of thin asbestos what I venture here to quote-- For I read it in the rose-light of the everlasting glow: "Cloudy; variable winds, with local showers; cooler; snow.
Written by Ambrose Bierce | Create an image from this poem


 The pig is taught by sermons and epistles
To think the God of Swine has snout and bristles.

Written by Ambrose Bierce | Create an image from this poem

The Statesmen

 How blest the land that counts among
Her sons so many good and wise,
To execute great feats of tongue
When troubles rise.
Behold them mounting every stump, By speech our liberty to guard.
Observe their courage--see them jump, And come down hard! 'Walk up, walk up!' each cries aloud, 'And learn from me what you must do To turn aside the thunder cloud, The earthquake too.
'Beware the wiles of yonder quack Who stuffs the ears of all that pass.
I--I alone can show that black Is white as grass.
' They shout through all the day and break The silence of the night as well.
They'd make--I wish they'd go and make-- Of Heaven a Hell.
A advocates free silver, B Free trade and C free banking laws.
Free board, clothes, lodging would from me Win wamr applause.
Lo, D lifts up his voice: 'You see The single tax on land would fall On all alike.
' More evenly No tax at all.
'With paper money,' bellows E, 'We'll all be rich as lords.
' No doubt-- And richest of the lot will be The chap without.
As many 'cures' as addle-wits Who know not what the ailment is! Meanwhile the patient foams and spits Like a gin fizz.
Alas, poor Body Politic, Your fate is all too clearly read: To be not altogether quick, Nor very dead.
You take your exercise in squirms, Your rest in fainting fits between.
'Tis plain that your disorder's worms-- Worms fat and lean.
Worm Capital, Worm Labor dwell Within your maw and muscle's scope.
Their quarrels make your life a Hell, Your death a hope.
God send you find not such an end To ills however sharp and huge! God send you convalesce! God send You vermifuge.
Written by Ambrose Bierce | Create an image from this poem


 Thou shalt no God but me adore:
'Twere too expensive to have more.
No images nor idols make For Roger Ingersoll to break.
Take not God's name in vain: select A time when it will have effect.
Work not on Sabbath days at all, But go to see the teams play ball.
Honor thy parents.
That creates For life insurance lower rates.
Kill not, abet not those who kill; Thou shalt not pay thy butcher's bill.
Kiss not thy neighbor's wife, unless Thine own thy neighbor doth caress.
Don't steal; thou'lt never thus compete Successfully in business.
Bear not false witness--that is low-- But "hear 'tis rumored so and so.
" Covet thou naught that thou hast got By hook or crook, or somehow, got.
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 The rimer quenches his unheeded fires,
The sound surceases and the sense expires.
Then the domestic dog, to east and west, Expounds the passions burning in his breast.
The rising moon o'er that enchanted land Pauses to hear and yearns to understand.
Written by Ambrose Bierce | Create an image from this poem

To the Bartholdi Statue

 O Liberty, God-gifted--
Young and immortal maid--
In your high hand uplifted,
The torch declares your trade.
Its crimson menace, flaming Upon the sea and shore, Is, trumpet-like, proclaiming That Law shall be no more.
Austere incendiary, We're blinking in the light; Where is your customary Grenade of dynamite? Where are your staves and switches For men of gentle birth? Your mask and dirk for riches? Your chains for wit and worth? Perhaps, you've brought the halters You used in the old days, When round religion's altars You stabled Cromwell's bays? Behind you, unsuspected, Have you the axe, fair wench, Wherewith you once collected A poll-tax for the French? America salutes you-- Preparing to 'disgorge.
' Take everything that suits you, And marry Henry George.
Written by Ambrose Bierce | Create an image from this poem

With a Book

 Words shouting, singing, smiling, frowning--
Sense lacking.
Ah, nothing, more obscure than Browning, Save blacking.