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Best Famous At The End Of The Day Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous At The End Of The Day poems. This is a select list of the best famous At The End Of The Day poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous At The End Of The Day poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of at the end of the day poems.

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Written by Rabindranath Tagore | Create an image from this poem

Endless Time

 Time is endless in thy hands, my lord.
There is none to count thy minutes.
Days and nights pass and ages bloom and fade like flowers.
Thou knowest how to wait.
Thy centuries follow each other perfecting a small wild flower.
We have no time to lose, and having no time we must scramble for a chance.
We are too poor to be late.
And thus it is that time goes by while I give it to every querulous man who claims it, and thine altar is empty of all offerings to the last.
At the end of the day I hasten in fear lest thy gate be shut; but I find that yet there is time.

Written by Barry Tebb | Create an image from this poem


 Here is a silence I had not hoped for

This side of paradise, I am an old believer

In nature’s bounty as God’s grace

To us poor mortals, fretting and fuming

At frustrated lust or the scent of fame 

Coming too late to make a difference

Blue with white vertebrae of cloud forms

Riming the spectrum of green dark of poplars

Lined like soldiers, paler the hue of hawthorn 

With the heather beginning to bud blue

Before September purple, yellow ragwort

Sways in the wind as distantly a plane hums

And a lazy bee bumbles by.
A day in Brenda’s flat, mostly play with Eydie, My favourite of her seven cats, they soothe better Than Diazepan for panic Seroxat for grief Zopiclone to make me sleep.
I smoke my pipe and sip blackcurrant tea Aware of the ticking clock: I have to be back To talk to my son’s key nurse when she comes on For the night shift.
Always there are things to sort, Misapprehensions to untangle, delusions to decipher, Lies to expose, statistics to disclose, Trust Boards And team meetings to attend, ‘Mental Health Monthly’ To peruse, funds for my press to raise – the only one I ever got will leave me out of pocket.
A couple sat on the next bench Are earnestly discussing child custody, broken marriages, Failed affairs, social service interventions – Even here I cannot escape complexity "I should never have slept with her once we split" "The kids are what matters when it comes to the bottom line" "Is he poisoning their minds against me?" Part of me nags to offer help but I’ve too much On already and the clock keeps ticking.
"It’s a pity she won’t turn round and clip his ear" But better not to interfere.
Damn my bloody superego Nattering like an old woman or Daisy nagging About my pipe and my loud voice on buses – No doubt she’s right – smoking’s not good And hearing about psychosis, medication and end-on-sections Isn’t what people are on buses for.
I long for a girl in summer, pubescent With a twinkle in her eye to come and say "Come on, let’s do it!" I was always shy in adolescence, too busy reading Baudelaire To find a decent whore and learn to score And now I’m probably impotent with depression So I’d better forget sex and read more of Andr? Green On metaphor from Hegel to Lacan and how the colloquium At Bonneval changed analytic history, a mystery I’ll not unravel if I live to ninety.
Ignorance isn’t bliss, I know enough to talk the piss From jumped-up SHO’s and locums who’d miss vital side effects And think all’s needed is a mother’s kiss.
I’ll wait till the heather’s purple and bring nail scissors To cut and suture neatly and renew my stocks Of moor momentoes vased in unsunny Surrey.
Can you believe it? Some arseholes letting off fireworks On the moor? Suburban excesses spread like the sores Of syphilis and more regulations in a decade of Blair Than in the century before.
"Shop your neighbours.
Prove it.
Bring birth certificates to A&E If you want NHS treatment free.
Be careful not to bleed to death While finding the certificate.
Blunkett wants us all to have ID Photo cards, genetic codes, DNA database, eye scans, the lot – And kiss good-bye to the last bits of freedom we’ve got" "At the end of the day she shopped me and all I’d done Was take a few pound from the till ’cos Jenny was ill And I didn’t have thirteen quid to get the bloody prescription done" To-morrow I’ll be back in the Great Wen, Two days of manic catching up and then Thistledown, wild wheat, a dozen kinds of grass, The mass of beckoning hills I’d love to make A poet’s map of but never will.
"Oh to break loose" Lowell’s magic lines Entice me still but slimy Fenton had to have his will And slate it in the NYB, arguing that panetone Isn’t tin foil as Lowell thought.
James you are a dreadful bore, A pedantic creep like hundreds more, five A4 pages Of sniping and nit-picking for how many greenbacks? A thousand or two I’d guess, they couldn’t pay you less For churning out such a king-size mess But not even you can spoil this afternoon Of watching Haworth heather bloom.
Written by Jorie Graham | Create an image from this poem


 I watched them once, at dusk, on television, run,
in our motel room half-way through
Nebraska, quick, glittering, past beauty, past
the importance of beauty.
, archaic, not even hungry, not even endangered, driving deeper and deeper into less.
They leapt up falls, ladders, and rock, tearing and leaping, a gold river, and a blue river traveling in opposite directions.
They would not stop, resolution of will and helplessness, as the eye is helpless when the image forms itself, upside-down, backward, driving up into the mind, and the world unfastens itself from the deep ocean of the given.
Justice, aspen leaves, mother attempting suicide, the white night-flying moth the ants dismantled bit by bit and carried in right through the crack in my wall.
How helpless the still pool is, upstream, awaiting the gold blade of their hurry.
Once, indoors, a child, I watched, at noon, through slatted wooden blinds, a man and woman, naked, eyes closed, climb onto each other, on the terrace floor, and ride--two gold currents wrapping round and round each other, fastening, unfastening.
I hardly knew what I saw.
Whatever shadow there was in that world it was the one each cast onto the other, the thin black seam they seemed to be trying to work away between them.
I held my breath.
as far as I could tell, the work they did with sweat and light was good.
I'd say they traveled far in opposite directions.
What is the light at the end of the day, deep, reddish-gold, bathing the walls, the corridors, light that is no longer light, no longer clarifies, illuminates, antique, freed from the body of that air that carries it.
What is it for the space of time where it is useless, merely beautiful? When they were done, they made a distance one from the other and slept, outstretched, on the warm tile of the terrace floor, smiling, faces pressed against the stone.
Written by William Topaz McGonagall | Create an image from this poem

The Tragic Death of the Rev. A.H. Mackonochie

 Friends of humanity, of high and low degree,
I pray ye all come listen to me;
And truly I will relate to ye,
The tragic fate of the Rev.
Alexander Heriot Mackonochie.
Who was on a visit to the Bishop of Argyle, For the good of his health, for a short while; Because for the last three years his memory had been affected, Which prevented him from getting his thoughts collected.
'Twas on Thursday, the 15th of December, in the year of 1887, He left the Bishop's house to go and see Loch Leven; And he was accompanied by a little skye terrier and a deerhound, Besides the Bishop's two dogs, that knew well the ground.
And as he had taken the same walk the day before, The Bishop's mind was undisturbed and easy on that score; Besides the Bishop had been told by some men, That they saw him making his way up a glen.
From which a river flows down with a mighty roar, From the great mountains of the Mamore; And this route led him towards trackless wastes eastward, And no doubt to save his life he had struggled very hard.
And as Mr Mackonochie had not returned at dinner time, The Bishop ordered two men to search for him, which they didn't decline; Then they searched for him along the road he should have returned, But when they found him not, they sadly mourned.
And when the Bishop heard it, he procured a carriage and pair, While his heart was full of woe, and in a state of despair; He organised three search parties without delay, And headed one of the parties in person without dismay.
And each party searched in a different way, But to their regret at the end of the day; Most unfortunately no discovery had been made, Then they lost hope of finding him, and began to be afraid.
And as a last hope, two night searches were planned, And each party with well lighted lamps in hand Started on their perilous mission, Mr Mackonochie to try and find, In the midst of driving hail, and the howling wind.
One party searched a distant sporting lodge with right good will, Besides through brier, and bush, and snow, on the hill; And the Bishop's party explored the Devil's Staircase with hearts full of woe, A steep pass between the Kinloch hills, and the hills of Glencoe.
Oh! it was a pitch dark and tempestuous night, And the searchers would have lost their way without lamp light; But the brave searchers stumbled along for hours, but slow, Over rocks, and ice, and sometimes through deep snow.
And as the Bishop's party were searching they met a third party from Glencoe side, Who had searched bracken and burn, and the country wide; And sorrow was depicted in each one's face, Because of the Rev.
Mr Mackonochie they could get no trace.
But on Saturday morning the Bishop set off again, Hoping that the last search wouldn't prove in vain; Accompanied with a crowd of men and dogs, All resolved to search the forest and the bogs.
And the party searched with might and main, Until they began to think their search would prove in vain; When the Bishop's faithful dogs raised a pitiful cry, Which was heard by the searchers near by.
Then the party pressed on right manfully, And sure enough there were the dogs guarding the body of Mackonochie; And the corpse was cold and stiff, having been long dead, Alas! almost frozen, and a wreath of snow around the head.
And as the searchers gathered round the body in pity they did stare, Because his right foot was stained with blood, and bare; But when the Bishop o'er the corpse had offered up a prayer, He ordered his party to'carry the corpse to his house on a bier.
So a bier of sticks was most willingly and quickly made, Then the body was most tenderly upon it laid; And they bore the corpse and laid inside the Bishop's private chapel, Then the party took one sorrowful look and bade the corpse, farewell.