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Best Famous Anchorite Poems

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

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Written by Edwin Arlington Robinson | Create an image from this poem

Two Gardens in Linndale

 Two brothers, Oakes and Oliver, 
Two gentle men as ever were, 
Would roam no longer, but abide 
In Linndale, where their fathers died, 
And each would be a gardener.
“Now first we fence the garden through, With this for me and that for you,” Said Oliver.
—“Divine!” said Oakes, “And I, while I raise artichokes, Will do what I was born to do.
” “But this is not the soil, you know,” Said Oliver, “to make them grow: The parent of us, who is dead, Compassionately shook his head Once on a time and told me so.
” “I hear you, gentle Oliver,” Said Oakes, “and in your character I find as fair a thing indeed As ever bloomed and ran to seed Since Adam was a gardener.
“Still, whatsoever I find there, Forgive me if I do not share The knowing gloom that you take on Of one who doubted and is done: For chemistry meets every prayer.
” “Sometimes a rock will meet a plough,” Said Oliver; “but anyhow ’Tis here we are, ’tis here we live, With each to take and each to give: There’s no room for a quarrel now.
“I leave you in all gentleness To science and a ripe success.
Now God be with you, brother Oakes, With you and with your artichokes: You have the vision, more or less.
” “By fate, that gives to me no choice, I have the vision and the voice: Dear Oliver, believe in me, And we shall see what we shall see; Henceforward let us both rejoice.
” “But first, while we have joy to spare We’ll plant a little here and there; And if you be not in the wrong, We’ll sing together such a song As no man yet sings anywhere.
” They planted and with fruitful eyes Attended each his enterprise.
“Now days will come and days will go, And many a way be found, we know,” Said Oakes, “and we shall sing, likewise.
” “The days will go, the years will go, And many a song be sung, we know,” Said Oliver; “and if there be Good harvesting for you and me, Who cares if we sing loud or low?” They planted once, and twice, and thrice, Like amateurs in paradise; And every spring, fond, foiled, elate, Said Oakes, “We are in tune with Fate: One season longer will suffice.
” Year after year ’twas all the same: With none to envy, none to blame, They lived along in innocence, Nor ever once forgot the fence, Till on a day the Stranger came.
He came to greet them where they were, And he too was a Gardener: He stood between these gentle men, He stayed a little while, and then The land was all for Oliver.
’Tis Oliver who tills alone Two gardens that are now his own; ’Tis Oliver who sows and reaps And listens, while the other sleeps, For songs undreamed of and unknown.
’Tis he, the gentle anchorite, Who listens for them day and night; But most he hears them in the dawn, When from his trees across the lawn Birds ring the chorus of the light.
He cannot sing without the voice, But he may worship and rejoice For patience in him to remain, The chosen heir of age and pain, Instead of Oakes—who had no choice.
’Tis Oliver who sits beside The other’s grave at eventide, And smokes, and wonders what new race Will have two gardens, by God’s grace, In Linndale, where their fathers died.
And often, while he sits and smokes, He sees the ghost of gentle Oakes Uprooting, with a restless hand, Soft, shadowy flowers in a land Of asphodels and artichokes.


Written by Victor Hugo | Create an image from this poem

THE PASHA AND THE DERVISH

 ("Un jour Ali passait.") 
 
 {XIII, Nov. 8, 1828.} 


 Ali came riding by—the highest head 
 Bent to the dust, o'ercharged with dread, 
 Whilst "God be praised!" all cried; 
 But through the throng one dervish pressed, 
 Aged and bent, who dared arrest 
 The pasha in his pride. 
 
 "Ali Tepelini, light of all light, 
 Who hold'st the Divan's upper seat by right, 
 Whose fame Fame's trump hath burst— 
 Thou art the master of unnumbered hosts, 
 Shade of the Sultan—yet he only boasts 
 In thee a dog accurst! 
 
 "An unseen tomb-torch flickers on thy path, 
 Whilst, as from vial full, thy spare-naught wrath 
 Splashes this trembling race: 
 These are thy grass as thou their trenchant scythes 
 Cleaving their neck as 'twere a willow withe— 
 Their blood none can efface. 
 
 "But ends thy tether! for Janina makes 
 A grave for thee where every turret quakes, 
 And thou shalt drop below 
 To where the spirits, to a tree enchained, 
 Will clutch thee, there to be 'mid them retained 
 For all to-come in woe! 
 
 "Or if, by happy chance, thy soul might flee 
 Thy victims, after, thou shouldst surely see 
 And hear thy crimes relate; 
 Streaked with the guileless gore drained from their veins, 
 Greater in number than the reigns on reigns 
 Thou hopedst for thy state. 
 
 "This so will be! and neither fleet nor fort 
 Can stay or aid thee as the deathly port 
 Receives thy harried frame! 
 Though, like the cunning Hebrew knave of old, 
 To cheat the angel black, thou didst enfold 
 In altered guise thy name." 
 
 Ali deemed anchorite or saint a pawn— 
 The crater of his blunderbuss did yawn, 
 Sword, dagger hung at ease: 
 But he had let the holy man revile, 
 Though clouds o'erswept his brow; then, with a smile, 
 He tossed him his pelisse. 


 





Book: Shattered Sighs