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Best Famous Amelia Poems

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

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Written by Joyce Kilmer | Create an image from this poem

Roofs

 (For Amelia Josephine Burr)

The road is wide and the stars are out
and the breath of the night is sweet,
And this is the time when wanderlust should seize upon my feet.
But I'm glad to turn from the open road and the starlight on my face, And to leave the splendour of out-of-doors for a human dwelling place.
I never have seen a vagabond who really liked to roam All up and down the streets of the world and not to have a home: The tramp who slept in your barn last night and left at break of day Will wander only until he finds another place to stay.
A gypsy-man will sleep in his cart with canvas overhead; Or else he'll go into his tent when it is time for bed.
He'll sit on the grass and take his ease so long as the sun is high, But when it is dark he wants a roof to keep away the sky.
If you call a gypsy a vagabond, I think you do him wrong, For he never goes a-travelling but he takes his home along.
And the only reason a road is good, as every wanderer knows, Is just because of the homes, the homes, the homes to which it goes.
They say that life is a highway and its milestones are the years, And now and then there's a toll-gate where you buy your way with tears.
It's a rough road and a steep road and it stretches broad and far, But at last it leads to a golden Town where golden Houses are.


Written by Edward Taylor | Create an image from this poem

Happy As The Day Is Long

 I take the long walk up the staircase to my secret room.
Today's big news: they found Amelia Earhart's shoe, size 9.
1992: Charlie Christian is bebopping at Minton's in 1941.
Today, the Presidential primaries have failed us once again.
We'll look for our excitement elsewhere, in the last snow that is falling, in tomorrow's Gospel Concert in Springfield.
It's a good day to be a cat and just sleep.
Or to read the Confessions of Saint Augustine.
Jesus called the sons of Zebedee the Sons of Thunder.
In my secret room, plans are hatched: we'll explore the Smoky Mountains.
Then we'll walk along a beach: Hallelujah! (A letter was just delivered by Overnight Express-- it contained nothing of importance, I slept through it.
) (I guess I'm trying to be "above the fray.
") The Russians, I know, have developed a language called "Lincos" designed for communicating with the inhabitants of other worlds.
That's been a waste of time, not even a postcard.
But then again, there are tree-climbing fish, called anabases.
They climb the trees out of stupidity, or so it is said.
Who am I to judge? I want to break out of here.
A bee is not strong in geometry: it cannot tell a square from a triangle or a circle.
The locker room of my skull is full of panting egrets.
I'm saying that strictly for effect.
In time I will heal, I know this, or I believe this.
The contents and furnishings of my secret room will be labeled and organized so thoroughly it will be a little frightening.
What I thought was infinite will turn out to be just a couple of odds and ends, a tiny miscellany, miniature stuff, fragments of novelties, of no great moment.
But it will also be enough, maybe even more than enough, to suggest an immense ritual and tradition.
And this makes me very happy.
Written by Edgar Lee Masters | Create an image from this poem

Amelia Garrick

 Yes, here I lie close to a stunted rose bush
In a forgotten place near the fence
Where the thickets from Siever's woods
Have crept over, growing sparsely.
And you, you are a leader in New York, The wife of a noted millionaire, A name in the society columns, Beautiful, admired, magnified perhaps By the mirage of distance.
You have succeeded, I have failed In the eyes of the world.
You are alive, I am dead.
Yet I know that I vanquished your spirit; And I know that lying here far from you, Unheard of among your great friends In the brilliant world where you move, I am really the unconquerable power over your life That robs it of complete triumph.
Written by James Tate | Create an image from this poem

Happy As The Day Is Long

 I take the long walk up the staircase to my secret room.
Today's big news: they found Amelia Earhart's shoe, size 9.
1992: Charlie Christian is bebopping at Minton's in 1941.
Today, the Presidential primaries have failed us once again.
We'll look for our excitement elsewhere, in the last snow that is falling, in tomorrow's Gospel Concert in Springfield.
It's a good day to be a cat and just sleep.
Or to read the Confessions of Saint Augustine.
Jesus called the sons of Zebedee the Sons of Thunder.
In my secret room, plans are hatched: we'll explore the Smoky Mountains.
Then we'll walk along a beach: Hallelujah! (A letter was just delivered by Overnight Express-- it contained nothing of importance, I slept through it.
) (I guess I'm trying to be "above the fray.
") The Russians, I know, have developed a language called "Lincos" designed for communicating with the inhabitants of other worlds.
That's been a waste of time, not even a postcard.
But then again, there are tree-climbing fish, called anabases.
They climb the trees out of stupidity, or so it is said.
Who am I to judge? I want to break out of here.
A bee is not strong in geometry: it cannot tell a square from a triangle or a circle.
The locker room of my skull is full of panting egrets.
I'm saying that strictly for effect.
In time I will heal, I know this, or I believe this.
The contents and furnishings of my secret room will be labeled and organized so thoroughly it will be a little frightening.
What I thought was infinite will turn out to be just a couple of odds and ends, a tiny miscellany, miniature stuff, fragments of novelties, of no great moment.
But it will also be enough, maybe even more than enough, to suggest an immense ritual and tradition.
And this makes me very happy.
Written by Andrew Barton Paterson | Create an image from this poem

The Mylora Elopement

 By the winding Wollondilly where the weeping willows weep, 
And the shepherd, with his billy, half awake and half asleep, 
Folds his fleecy flocks that linger homewards in the setting sun 
Lived my hero, Jim the Ringer, "cocky" on Mylora Run.
Jimmy loved the super's daughter, Miss Amelia Jane McGrath.
Long and earnestly he sought her, but he feared her stern papa; And Amelia loved him truly -- but the course of love, if true, Never yet ran smooth or duly, as I think it ought to do.
Pondering o'er his predilection, Jimmy watched McGrath, the boss, Riding past his lone selection, looking for a station 'oss That was running in the ranges with a mob of outlaws wild.
Mac the time of day exchanges -- off goes Jim to see his child; Says, "The old man's after Stager, which he'll find is no light job, And tomorrow I will wager he will try and yard the mob.
Will you come with me tomorrow? I will let the parson know, And for ever, joy or sorrow, he will join us here below.
"I will bring the nags so speedy, Crazy Jane and Tambourine, One more kiss -- don't think I'm greedy -- good-bye, lass, before I'm seen -- Just one more -- God bless you, dearie! Don't forget to meet me here, Life without you is but weary; now, once more, good-bye, my dear.
" * * * * * The daylight shines on figures twain That ride across Mylora Plain, Laughing and talking -- Jim and Jane.
"Steady, darling.
There's lots of time, Didn't we slip the old man prime! I knew he'd tackle that Bowneck mob, I reckon he'll find it too big a job.
They've beaten us all.
I had a try, But the warrigal devils seem to fly.
That Sambo's a real good but of stuff No doubt, but not quite good enough.
He'll have to gallop the livelong day, To cut and come, to race and stay.
I hope he yards 'em, 'twill do him good; To see us going I don't think would.
" A turn in the road and, fair and square, They meet the old man standing there.
"What's up?" "Why, running away, of course," Says Jim, emboldened.
The old man turned, His eye with wild excitement burned.
"I've raced all day through the scorching heat After old Bowneck: and now I'm beat.
But over that range I think you'll find The Bowneck mob all run stone-blind.
Will you go, and leave the mob behind? Which will you do? Take the girl away, Or ride like a white man should today, And yard old Bowneck? Go or stay?" Says Jim, "I can't throw this away, We can bolt some other day, of course -- Amelia Jane, get off that horse! Up you get, Old Man.
Whoop, halloo! Here goes to put old Bowneck through!" Two distant specks om the mountain side, Two stockwhips echoing far and wide.
.
.
.
Amelia Jane sat down and cried.
* * * * * "Sakes, Amelia, what's up now? Leading old Sambo, too, I vow, And him deadbeat.
Where have you been? 'Bolted with Jim!' What do you mean> 'Met the old man with Sambo, licked From running old Bowneck.
' Well, I'm kicked -- 'Ran 'em till Sambo nearly dropped?' What did Jim do when you were stopped? Did you bolt from father across the plain? 'Jim made you get off Crazy Jane! And father got on, and away again The two of 'em went to the ranges grim.
' Good boy, Jimmy! Oh, well done, Jim! They're sure to get them now, of course, That Tambourine is a spanking horse.
And Crazy Jane is good as gold.
And Jim, they say, rides pretty bold -- Not like your father, but very fair.
Jim will have to follow the mare.
" "It never was yet in father's hide To best my Jim on the mountain side.
Jim can rally, and Jim can ride.
" But here again Amelia cried.
* * * * * The sound of whip comes faint and far, A rattle of hoofs, and here they are, In all their tameless pride.
The fleet wild horses snort and fear, And wheel and break as the yard draws near.
Now, Jim the Ringer, ride! Wheel 'em! wheel 'em! Whoa back there, whoa! And the foam flakes fly like the driven snow, As under the whip the horses go Adown the mountain side.
And Jim, hands down, and teeth firm set, On a horse that never has failed him yet, Is after them down the range.
Well ridden! well ridden! they wheel -- whoa back! And long and loud the stockwhips crack, Their flying course they change; "Steadily does it -- let Sambo go! Open those sliprails down below.
Smart! or you'll be too late.
* * * * * "They'll follow old Sambo up -- look out! Whee! that black horse -- give Sam a clout.
They're in! Make fast the gate.
" * * * * * The mob is safely in the yard! The old man mounts delighted guard.
No thought has he but for his prize.
* * * * * Jim catches poor Amelia's eyes.
"Will you come after all? The job is done, And Crazy Jane is fit to run For a prince's life -- now don't say no; Slip on while the old man's down below At the inner yard, and away we'll go.
Will you come, my girl?" "I will, you bet; We'll manage this here elopement yet.
" * * * * * By the winding Wollondilly stands the hut of Ringer Jim.
And his loving little Meely makes a perfect god of him.
He has stalwart sons and daughters, and, I think, before he's done, There'll be numerous "Six-fortys" taken on Mylora Run.


Written by Edward Lear | Create an image from this poem

There was an old person of China

There was an old person of China,
Whose daughters were Jiska and Dinah,
Amelia and Fluffy, Olivia and Chuffy,
And all of them settled in China.