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Best Famous Attested Poems

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

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Written by Rudyard Kipling | Create an image from this poem

The Land

 When Julius Fabricius, Sub-Prefect of the Weald,
In the days of Diocletian owned our Lower River-field,
He called to him Hobdenius-a Briton of the Clay,
Saying: "What about that River-piece for layin'' in to hay?"

And the aged Hobden answered: "I remember as a lad
My father told your father that she wanted dreenin' bad.
An' the more that you neeglect her the less you'll get her clean.
Have it jest as you've a mind to, but, if I was you, I'd dreen."

So they drained it long and crossways in the lavish Roman style--
Still we find among the river-drift their flakes of ancient tile,
And in drouthy middle August, when the bones of meadows
 show,
We can trace the lines they followed sixteen hundred years ago.

Then Julius Fabricius died as even Prefects do,
And after certain centuries, Imperial Rome died too.
Then did robbers enter Britain from across the Northern main
And our Lower River-field was won by Ogier the Dane.

Well could Ogier work his war-boat --well could Ogier wield his
 brand--
Much he knew of foaming waters--not so much of farming land.
So he called to him a Hobden of the old unaltered blood,
Saying: "What about that River-piece; she doesn't look no good?"

And that aged Hobden answered "'Tain't for me not interfere.
But I've known that bit o' meadow now for five and fifty year.
Have it jest as you've a mind to, but I've proved it time on ' time,
If you want to change her nature you have got to give her lime!"

Ogier sent his wains to Lewes, twenty hours' solemn walk,
And drew back great abundance of the cool, grey, healing chalk.
And old Hobden spread it broadcast, never heeding what was
 in't.--
Which is why in cleaning ditches, now and then we find a flint.

Ogier died. His sons grew English-Anglo-Saxon was their name--
Till out of blossomed Normandy another pirate came;
For Duke William conquered England and divided with his men,
And our Lower River-field he gave to William of Warenne.

But the Brook (you know her habit) rose one rainy autumn night 
And tore down sodden flitches of the bank to left and right.
So, said William to his Bailiff as they rode their dripping rounds:
"Hob, what about that River-bit--the Brook's got up no bounds? "

 And that aged Hobden answered: "'Tain't my business to advise,
But ye might ha' known 'twould happen from the way the valley
 lies.
 Where ye can't hold back the water you must try and save the
 sile.
 Hev it jest as you've a mind to, but, if I was you, I'd spile!"

 They spiled along the water-course with trunks of willow-trees,
 And planks of elms behind 'em and immortal oaken knees.
 And when the spates of Autumn whirl the gravel-beds away
 You can see their faithful fragments, iron-hard in iron clay.
. . . . . . . . . . 
 Georgii Quinti Anno Sexto, I, who own the River-field,
 Am fortified with title-deeds, attested, signed and sealed, 
 Guaranteeing me, my assigns, my executors and heirs
 All sorts of powers and profits which-are neither mine nor theirs,

 I have rights of chase and warren, as my dignity requires.
 I can fish-but Hobden tickles--I can shoot--but Hobden wires.
 I repair, but he reopens, certain gaps which, men allege,
 Have been used by every Hobden since a Hobden swapped a
 hedge.

Shall I dog his morning progress o'er the track-betraying dew?
Demand his dinner-basket into which my pheasant flew?
Confiscate his evening ****** under which my conies ran,
And summons him to judgment? I would sooner summons Pan.

His dead are in the churchyard--thirty generations laid.
Their names were old in history when Domesday Book was made;
 And the passion and the piety and prowess of his line
 Have seeded, rooted, fruited in some land the Law calls mine.

 Not for any beast that burrows, not for any bird that flies,
 Would I lose his large sound council, miss his keen amending
 eyes.
 He is bailiff, woodman, wheelwright, field-surveyor, engineer,
 And if flagrantly a poacher--'tain't for me to interfere.

 "Hob, what about that River-bit?" I turn to him again,
 With Fabricius and Ogier and William of Warenne.
 "Hev it jest as you've a mind to, but"-and here he takes com-
 mand.
 For whoever pays the taxes old Mus' Hobden owns the land.


Written by Robert Burns | Create an image from this poem

104. The Lament

 O THOU pale orb that silent shines
 While care-untroubled mortals sleep!
Thou seest a wretch who inly pines.
 And wanders here to wail and weep!
 With woe I nightly vigils keep,
Beneath thy wan, unwarming beam;
 And mourn, in lamentation deep,
How life and love are all a dream!


I joyless view thy rays adorn
 The faintly-marked, distant hill;
I joyless view thy trembling horn,
 Reflected in the gurgling rill:
 My fondly-fluttering heart, be still!
Thou busy pow’r, remembrance, cease!
 Ah! must the agonizing thrill
For ever bar returning peace!


No idly-feign’d, poetic pains,
 My sad, love-lorn lamentings claim:
No shepherd’s pipe—Arcadian strains;
 No fabled tortures, quaint and tame.
 The plighted faith, the mutual flame,
The oft-attested pow’rs above,
 The promis’d father’s tender name;
These were the pledges of my love!


Encircled in her clasping arms,
 How have the raptur’d moments flown!
How have I wish’d for fortune’s charms,
 For her dear sake, and her’s alone!
 And, must I think it! is she gone,
My secret heart’s exulting boast?
 And does she heedless hear my groan?
And is she ever, ever lost?


Oh! can she bear so base a heart,
 So lost to honour, lost to truth,
As from the fondest lover part,
 The plighted husband of her youth?
 Alas! life’s path may be unsmooth!
Her way may lie thro’ rough distress!
 Then, who her pangs and pains will soothe
Her sorrows share, and make them less?


Ye wingèd hours that o’er us pass’d,
 Enraptur’d more, the more enjoy’d,
Your dear remembrance in my breast
 My fondly-treasur’d thoughts employ’d:
 That breast, how dreary now, and void,
For her too scanty once of room!
 Ev’n ev’ry ray of hope destroy’d,
And not a wish to gild the gloom!


The morn, that warns th’ approaching day,
 Awakes me up to toil and woe;
I see the hours in long array,
 That I must suffer, lingering, slow:
 Full many a pang, and many a throe,
Keen recollection’s direful train,
 Must wring my soul, were Phoebus, low,
Shall kiss the distant western main.


And when my nightly couch I try,
 Sore harass’d out with care and grief,
My toil-beat nerves, and tear-worn eye,
 Keep watchings with the nightly thief:
 Or if I slumber, fancy, chief,
Reigns, haggard-wild, in sore affright:
 Ev’n day, all-bitter, brings relief
From such a horror-breathing night.


O thou bright queen, who o’er th’ expanse
 Now highest reign’st, with boundless sway
Oft has thy silent-marking glance
 Observ’d us, fondly-wand’ring, stray!
 The time, unheeded, sped away,
While love’s luxurious pulse beat high,
 Beneath thy silver-gleaming ray,
To mark the mutual-kindling eye.


Oh! scenes in strong remembrance set!
 Scenes, never, never to return!
Scenes, if in stupor I forget,
 Again I feel, again I burn!
 From ev’ry joy and pleasure torn,
Life’s weary vale I’ll wander thro’;
 And hopeless, comfortless, I’ll mourn
A faithless woman’s broken vow!
Written by Emily Dickinson | Create an image from this poem

A Dew sufficed itself --

 A Dew sufficed itself --
And satisfied a Leaf
And felt "how vast a destiny" --
"How trivial is Life!"

The Sun went out to work --
The Day went out to play
And not again that Dew be seen
By Physiognomy

Whether by Day Abducted
Or emptied by the Sun
Into the Sea in passing
Eternally unknown

Attested to this Day
That awful Tragedy
By Transport's instability
And Doom's celerity.
Written by Carl Sandburg | Create an image from this poem

Brass Keys

 JOY … weaving two violet petals for a coat lapel … painting on a slab of night sky a Christ face … slipping new brass keys into rusty iron locks and shouldering till at last the door gives and we are in a new room … forever and ever violet petals, slabs, the Christ face, brass keys and new rooms.

are we near or far?… is there anything else?… who comes back?… and why does love ask nothing and give all? and why is love rare as a tailed comet shaking guesses out of men at telescopes ten feet long? why does the mystery sit with its chin on the lean forearm of women in gray eyes and women in hazel eyes? 

are any of these less proud, less important, than a cross-examining lawyer? are any of these less perfect than the front page of a morning newspaper?

the answers are not computed and attested in the back of an arithmetic for the verifications of the lazy

there is no authority in the phone book for us to call and ask the why, the wherefore, and the howbeit it’s … a riddle … by God.

Book: Radiant Verses: A Journey Through Inspiring Poetry