Best Famous Artlessly Poems

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

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• All Famous Artlessly Poems

Written by Elizabeth Bishop | The Imaginary Iceberg We'd rather have the iceberg than the ship, although it meant the end of travel. Although it stood stock-still like cloudy rock and all the sea were moving marble. We'd rather have the iceberg than the ship; we'd rather own this breathing plain of snow though the ship's sails were laid upon the sea as the snow lies undissolved upon the water. O solemn, floating field, are you aware an iceberg takes repose with you, and when it wakes may pasture on your snows? This is a scene a sailor'd give his eyes for. The ship's ignored. The iceberg rises and sinks again; its glassy pinnacles correct elliptics in the sky. This is a scene where he who treads the boards is artlessly rhetorical. The curtain is light enough to rise on finest ropes that airy twists of snow provide. The wits of these white peaks spar with the sun. Its weight the iceberg dares upon a shifting stage and stands and stares. The iceberg cuts its facets from within. Like jewelry from a grave it saves itself perpetually and adorns only itself, perhaps the snows which so surprise us lying on the sea. Good-bye, we say, good-bye, the ship steers off where waves give in to one another's waves and clouds run in a warmer sky. Icebergs behoove the soul (both being self-made from elements least visible) to see them so: fleshed, fair, erected indivisible.

Written by Francesco Petrarch | Canzone II CANZONE II. Amor, se vuoi ch' i' torni al giogo antico. UNLESS LOVE CAN RESTORE HER TO LIFE, HE WILL NEVER AGAIN BE HIS SLAVE. If thou wouldst have me, Love, thy slave again,One other proof, miraculous and new,Must yet be wrought by you,Ere, conquer'd, I resume my ancient chain—Lift my dear love from earth which hides her now,For whose sad loss thus beggar'd I remain;Once more with warmth endowThat wise chaste heart where wont my life to dwell;And if as some divine, thy influence so,From highest heaven unto the depths of hell,Prevail in sooth—for what its scope below,'Mid us of common race,Methinks each gentle breast may answer well—Rob Death of his late triumph, and replaceThy conquering ensign in her lovely face! Relume on that fair brow the living light,Which was my honour'd guide, and the sweet flame.Though spent, which still the sameKindles me now as when it burn'd most bright;For thirsty hind with such desire did ne'erLong for green pastures or the crystal brook,As I for the dear look,Whence I have borne so much, and—if arightI read myself and passion—more must bear:This makes me to one theme my thoughts thus bind,An aimless wanderer where is pathway none,With weak and wearied mind[Pg 237]Pursuing hopes which never can be won.Hence to thy summons answer I disdain,Thine is no power beyond thy proper reign. Give me again that gentle voice to hear,As in my heart are heard its echoes still,Which had in song the skillHate to disarm, rage soften, sorrow cheer,To tranquillize each tempest of the mind,And from dark lowering clouds to keep it clear;Which sweetly then refinedAnd raised my verse where now it may not soar.And, with desire that hope may equal vie,Since now my mind is waked in strength, restoreTheir proper business to my ear and eye,Awanting which life mustAll tasteless be and harder than to die.Vainly with me to your old power you trust,While my first love is shrouded still in dust. Give her dear glance again to bless my sight,Which, as the sun on snow, beam'd still for me;Open each window brightWhere pass'd my heart whence no return can be;Resume thy golden shafts, prepare thy bow,And let me once more drink with old delightOf that dear voice the sound,Whence what love is I first was taught to know.And, for the lures, which still I covet so,Were rifest, richest there my soul that bound,Waken to life her tongue, and on the breezeLet her light silken hair,Loosen'd by Love's own fingers, float at ease;Do this, and I thy willing yoke will bear,Else thy hope faileth my free will to snare. Oh! never my gone heart those links of gold,Artlessly negligent, or curl'd with grace,Nor her enchanting face,Sweetly severe, can captive cease to hold;These, night and day, the amorous wish in meKept, more than laurel or than myrtle, green,When, doff'd or donn'd, we seeOf fields the grass, of woods their leafy screen.[Pg 238]And since that Death so haughty stands and sternThe bond now broken whence I fear'd to flee,Nor thine the art, howe'er the world may turn,To bind anew the chain,What boots it, Love, old arts to try again?Their day is pass'd: thy power, since lost the armsWhich were my terror once, no longer harms. Thy arms were then her eyes, unrivall'd, whenceLive darts were freely shot of viewless flame;No help from reason came,For against Heaven avails not man's defence;Thought, Silence, Feeling, Gaiety, Wit, Sense,Modest demeanour, affable discourse,In words of sweetest forceWhence every grosser nature gentle grew,That angel air, humble to all and kind,Whose praise, it needs not mine, from all we find;Stood she, or sat, a grace which often threwDoubt on the gazer's mindTo which the meed of highest praise was due—O'er hardest hearts thy victory was sure,With arms like these, which lost I am secure. The minds which Heaven abandons to thy reign,Haply are bound in many times and ways,But mine one only chain,Its wisdom shielding me from more, obeys;Yet freedom brings no joy, though that he burst.Rather I mournful ask, "Sweet pilgrim mine,Alas! what doom divineMe earliest bound to life yet frees thee first:God, who has snatch'd thee from the world so soon,Only to kindle our desires, the boonOf virtue, so complete and lofty, gaveNow, Love, I may derideThy future wounds, nor fear to be thy slave;In vain thy bow is bent, its bolts fall wide,When closed her brilliant eyes their virtue died. "Death from thy every law my heart has freed;She who my lady was is pass'd on high,Leaving me free to count dull hours drag by,To solitude and sorrow still decreed." Macgregor.

Written by Rg Gregory | natural therapy the great thing about the tall white daisy is that it knows how to laugh at itself some flowers for all their rich displays won't preen themselves without a primness in their sap - nor let their stalks abide bending this way that way in the thick wind the large daisy is happy to be slapdash is not snooty about the company it keeps it does have a flair for being noticed it's the way it lets its petals out (ragged and not wanting everyone the same) that appeals to nervous garden sufferers (weary with pretending flowers per se are god's gift to the dull earth and somehow the human race is privileged to be there) the daisy knows everything there is to know about not taking yourself too seriously - about relaxation and how to be naturally yogic how to be part of the rough common stock yet have a whiff of the immortal about you a patch of such daisies growing artlessly contains the dreams of all good health

Written by A S J Tessimond | Attack On The Ad-Man This trumpeter of nothingness, employed To keep our reason dull and null and void. This man of wind and froth and flux will sell The wares of any who reward him well. Praising whatever he is paid to praise, He hunts for ever-newer, smarter ways To make the gilt seen gold; the shoddy, silk; To cheat us legally; to bluff and bilk By methods which no jury can prevent Because the law's not broken, only bent. This mind for hire, this mental prostitute Can tell the half-lie hardest to refute; Knows how to hide an inconvenient fact And when to leave a doubtful claim unbacked; Manipulates the truth but not too much, And if his patter needs the Human Touch, Skillfully artless, artlessly naive, Wears his convenient heart upon his sleeve. He uses words that once were strong and fine, Primal as sun and moon and bread and wine, True, honourable, honoured, clear and keen, And leaves them shabby, worn, diminished, mean. He takes ideas and trains them to engage In the long little wars big combines wage... He keeps his logic loose, his feelings flimsy; Turns eloquence to cant and wit to whimsy; Trims language till it fits his clients, pattern And style's a glossy tart or limping slattern. He studies our defences, finds the cracks And where the wall is weak or worn, attacks. lie finds the fear that's deep, the wound that's tender, And mastered, outmanouevered, we surrender. We who have tried to choose accept his choice And tired succumb to his untiring voice. The dripping tap makes even granite soften We trust the brand-name we have heard so often And join the queue of sheep that flock to buy; We fools who know our folly, you and I.

Written by Emile Verhaeren | O the splendour of our joy O the splendour of our joy, woven of gold in the silken air! Here is our pleasant house and its airy gables, and the garden and the orchard. Here is the bench beneath the apple-trees, whence the white spring is shed in slow, caressing petals. Here flights of luminous wood-pigeons, like harbingers, soar in the clear sky of the countryside. Here, kisses fallen upon earth from the mouth of the frail azure, are two blue ponds, simple and pure, artlessly bordered with involuntary flowers. O the splendour of our joy and of ourselves in this garden where we live upon our emblems.

Written by Emile Verhaeren | Everything that lives about us Everything that lives about us in the fragile and gentle light, frail grasses, tender branches, hollyhocks, and the shadow that brushes them lightly by, and the wind that knots them, and the singing and hopping birds that swarm riotously in the sun like clusters of jewels,— everything that lives in the fine ruddy garden loves us artlessly, and we—we love everything. We worship the lilies we see growing; and the tall sunflowers, brighter than the Nadir— circles surrounded by petals of flames—burn our souls through their glow. The simplest flowers, the phlox and the lilac, grow along the walls among the feverfew, to be nearer to our footsteps; and the involuntary weeds in the turf over which we have passed open their eyes wet with dew. And we live thus with the flowers and the grass, simple and pure, glowing and exalted, lost in our love, like the sheaves in the gold of the corn, and proudly allowing the imperious summer to pierce our bodies, our hearts and our two wills with its full brightness.

Written by Emile Verhaeren | For fifteen years For fifteen years our thoughts have run together, and our fine and serene ardour has vanquished habit, the dull-voiced shrew whose slow, rough hands wear out the most stubborn and the strongest love. I look at you and I discover you each day, so intimate is your gentleness or your pride: time indeed obscures the eyes of your beauty, but it exalts your heart, whose golden depths peep open. Artlessly, you allow yourself to be probed and known, and your soul always appears fresh and new; with gleaming masts, like an eager caravel, our happiness covers the seas of our desires. It is in us alone that we anchor our faith, to naked sincerity and simple goodness; we move and live in the brightness of a joyous and translucent trust. Your strength is to be infinitely pure and frail; to cross with burning heart all dark roads, and to have preserved, in spite of mist or darkness, all the rays of the dawn in your childlike soul.