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Best Famous Attentively Poems

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

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Written by William Strode | Create an image from this poem

A Translation Of The Nightingale Out Of Strada

 Now the declining sun 'gan downwards bend
From higher heavens, and from his locks did send
A milder flame, when near to Tiber's flow
A lutinist allay'd his careful woe
With sounding charms, and in a greeny seat
Of shady oake took shelter from the heat.
A Nightingale oreheard him, that did use To sojourn in the neighbour groves, the muse That fill'd the place, the Syren of the wood; Poore harmless Syren, stealing neare she stood Close lurking in the leaves attentively Recording that unwonted melody: Shee cons it to herselfe and every strayne His finger playes her throat return'd again.
The lutinist perceives an answeare sent From th' imitating bird and was content To shewe her play; more fully then in hast He tries his lute, and (giving her a tast Of the ensuing quarrel) nimbly beats On all his strings; as nimbly she repeats, And (wildely ranging ore a thousand keys) Sends a shrill warning of her after-layes.
With rolling hand the Lutinist then plies His trembling threads; sometimes in scornful wise He brushes down the strings and keemes them all With one even stroke; then takes them severall And culles them ore again.
His sparkling joynts (With busy descant mincing on the points) Reach back with busy touch: that done hee stayes, The bird replies, and art with art repayes, Sometimes as one unexpert or in doubt How she might wield her voice, shee draweth out Her tone at large and doth at first prepare A solemne strayne not weav'd with sounding ayre, But with an equall pitch and constant throate Makes clear the passage of her gliding noate; Then crosse division diversly shee playes, And loudly chanting out her quickest layes Poises the sounds, and with a quivering voice Falls back again: he (wondering how so choise, So various harmony should issue out From such a little throate) doth go about Some harder lessons, and with wondrous art Changing the strings, doth upp the treble dart, And downwards smites the base; with painefull stroke Hee beats, and as the trumpet doth provoke Sluggards to fight, even so his wanton skill With mingled discords joynes the hoarse and shrill: The Bird this also tunes, and while she cutts Sharp notes with melting voice, and mingled putts Measures of middle sound, then suddenly Shee thunders deepe, and juggs it inwardly, With gentle murmurs, cleare and dull shee sings, By course, as when the martial warning rings: Beleev't the minstrel blusht; with angry mood Inflam'd, quoth hee, thou chauntresse of the wood, Either from thee Ile beare the prize away, Or vanquisht break my lute without delay.
Inimitable accents then hee straynes; His hand flyes ore the strings: in one hee chaynes Four different numbers, chasing here and there, And all the strings belabour'd everywhere: Both flatt and sharpe hee strikes, and stately grows To prouder straynes, and backwards as he goes Doubly divides, and closing upp his layes Like a full quire a shouting consort playes; Then pausing stood in expectation If his corrival now dares answeare on; But shee when practice long her throate had whett, Induring not to yield, at once doth sett Her spiritt all of worke, and all in vayne; For while shee labours to express againe With nature's simple touch such diverse keyes, With slender pipes such lofty noates as these, Orematcht with high designes, orematcht with woe, Just at the last encounter of her foe Shee faintes, shee dies, falls on his instrument That conquer'd her; a fitting monument.
So far even little soules are driven on, Struck with a vertuous emulation.


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

Old King Cole

 In Tilbury Town did Old King Cole 
A wise old age anticipate, 
Desiring, with his pipe and bowl, 
No Khan’s extravagant estate.
No crown annoyed his honest head, No fiddlers three were called or needed; For two disastrous heirs instead Made music more than ever three did.
Bereft of her with whom his life Was harmony without a flaw, He took no other for a wife, Nor sighed for any that he saw; And if he doubted his two sons, And heirs, Alexis and Evander, He might have been as doubtful once Of Robert Burns and Alexander.
Alexis, in his early youth, Began to steal—from old and young.
Likewise Evander, and the truth Was like a bad taste on his tongue.
Born thieves and liars, their affair Seemed only to be tarred with evil— The most insufferable pair Of scamps that ever cheered the devil.
The world went on, their fame went on, And they went on—from bad to worse; Till, goaded hot with nothing done, And each accoutred with a curse, The friends of Old King Cole, by twos, And fours, and sevens, and elevens, Pronounced unalterable views Of doings that were not of heaven’s.
And having learned again whereby Their baleful zeal had come about, King Cole met many a wrathful eye So kindly that its wrath went out— Or partly out.
Say what they would, He seemed the more to court their candor; But never told what kind of good Was in Alexis and Evander.
And Old King Cole, with many a puff That haloed his urbanity, Would smoke till he had smoked enough, And listen most attentively.
He beamed as with an inward light That had the Lord’s assurance in it; And once a man was there all night, Expecting something every minute.
But whether from too little thought, Or too much fealty to the bowl, A dim reward was all he got For sitting up with Old King Cole.
“Though mine,” the father mused aloud, “Are not the sons I would have chosen, Shall I, less evilly endowed, By their infirmity be frozen? “They’ll have a bad end, I’ll agree, But I was never born to groan; For I can see what I can see, And I’m accordingly alone.
With open heart and open door, I love my friends, I like my neighbors; But if I try to tell you more, Your doubts will overmatch my labors.
“This pipe would never make me calm, This bowl my grief would never drown.
For grief like mine there is no balm In Gilead, or in Tilbury Town.
And if I see what I can see, I know not any way to blind it; Nor more if any way may be For you to grope or fly to find it.
“There may be room for ruin yet, And ashes for a wasted love; Or, like One whom you may forget, I may have meat you know not of.
And if I’d rather live than weep Meanwhile, do you find that surprising? Why, bless my soul, the man’s asleep! That’s good.
The sun will soon be rising.

Book: Reflection on the Important Things