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Best Famous Augurs Poems

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

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

The Unforgiven

 When he, who is the unforgiven, 
Beheld her first, he found her fair: 
No promise ever dreamt in heaven 
Could have lured him anywhere 
That would have nbeen away from there; 
And all his wits had lightly striven, 
Foiled with her voice, and eyes, and hair.

There's nothing in the saints and sages 
To meet the shafts her glances had, 
Or such as hers have had for ages 
To blind a man till he be glad, 
And humble him till he be mad. 
The story would have many pages, 
And would be neither good nor bad.

And, having followed, you would find him 
Where properly the play begins; 
But look for no red light behind him-- 
No fumes of many-colored sins, 
Fanned high by screaming violins. 
God knows what good it was to blind him 
Or whether man or woman wins.

And by the same eternal token, 
Who knows just how it will all end?-- 
This drama of hard words unspoken, 
This fireside farce without a friend 
Or enemy to comprehend 
What augurs when two lives are broken, 
And fear finds nothing left to mend.

He stares in vain for what awaits him, 
And sees in Love a coin to toss; 
He smiles, and her cold hush berates him 
Beneath his hard half of the cross; 
They wonder why it ever was; 
And she, the unforgiving, hates him 
More for her lack than for her loss.

He feeds with pride his indecision, 
And shrinks from what wil not occur, 
Bequeathing with infirm derision 
His ashes to the days that were, 
Before she made him prisoner; 
And labors to retrieve the vision 
That he must once have had of her.

He waits, and there awaits an ending, 
And he knows neither what nor when; 
But no magicians are attending 
To make him see as he saw then, 
And he will never find again 
The face that once had been the rending 
Of all his purpose among men.

He blames her not, nor does he chide her, 
And she has nothing new to say; 
If he was Bluebeard he could hide her, 
But that's not written in the play, 
And there will be no change to-day; 
Although, to the serene outsider, 
There still would seem to be a way.


Written by William Shakespeare | Create an image from this poem

Sonnet 107: Not mine own fears nor the prophetic soul

 Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul
Of the wide world, dreaming on things to come
Can yet the lease of my true love control,
Supposed as forfeit to a confined doom.
The mortal moon hath her eclipse endured,
And the sad augurs mock their own presage;
Incertainties now crown themselves assured,
And peace proclaims olives of endless age.
Now with the drops of this most balmy time
My love looks fresh, and Death to me subscribes,
Since spite of him I'll live in this poor rhyme,
While he insults o'er dull and speechless tribes;
And thou in this shalt find thy monument,
When tyrants' crests and tombs of brass are spent.
Written by Omar Khayyam | Create an image from this poem

The stars, who dwell on heaven's exalted stage,

The stars, who dwell on heaven's exalted stage,
Baffle the wise diviners of our age;
Take heed, hold fast the rope of mother wit.
These augurs all distrust their own presage.
Written by Eliza Cook | Create an image from this poem

The Quiet Eye

 THE ORB I like is not the one 
That dazzles with its lightning gleam; 
That dares to look upon the sun, 
As though it challenged brighter beam. 
That orb may sparkle, flash, and roll; 
Its fire may blaze, its shaft may fly; 
But not for me: I prize the soul 
That slumbers in a quiet eye. 

There ’s something in its placid shade 
That tells of calm, unworldly thought; 
Hope may be crown’d, or joy delay’d— 
No dimness steals, no ray is caught. 
Its pensive language seems to say, 
“I know that I must close and die;” 
And death itself, come when it may,
Can hardly change the quiet eye. 

There ’s meaning in its steady glance, 
Of gentle blame or praising love, 
That makes me tremble to advance 
A word, that meaning might reprove.
The haughty threat, the fiery look, 
My spirit proudly can defy, 
But never yet could meet and brook 
The upbraiding of a quiet eye. 

There ’s firmness in its even light,
That augurs of a breast sincere: 
And, oh! take watch how ye excite 
That firmness till it yield a tear. 
Some bosoms give an easy sigh, 
Some drops of grief will freely start,
But that which sears the quiet eye 
Hath its deep fountain in the heart.
Written by Victor Hugo | Create an image from this poem

The Morrow Of Grandeur

 ("Non, l'avenir n'est à personne!") 
 
 {V. ii., August, 1832.} 


 Sire, beware, the future's range 
 Is of God alone the power, 
 Naught below but augurs change, 
 E'en with ev'ry passing hour. 
 Future! mighty mystery! 
 All the earthly goods that be, 
 Fortune, glory, war's renown, 
 King or kaiser's sparkling crown, 
 Victory! with her burning wings, 
 Proud ambition's covetings,— 
 These may our grasp no more detain 
 Than the free bird who doth alight 
 Upon our roof, and takes its flight 
 High into air again. 
 
 Nor smile, nor tear, nor haughtiest lord's command, 
 Avails t' unclasp the cold and closèd hand. 
 Thy voice to disenthrall, 
 Dumb phantom, shadow ever at our side! 
 Veiled spectre, journeying with us stride for stride, 
 Whom men "To-morrow" call. 
 
 Oh, to-morrow! who may dare 
 Its realities to scan? 
 God to-morrow brings to bear 
 What to-day is sown by man. 
 'Tis the lightning in its shroud, 
 'Tis the star-concealing cloud, 
 Traitor, 'tis his purpose showing, 
 Engine, lofty tow'rs o'erthrowing, 
 Wand'ring star, its region changing, 
 "Lady of kingdoms," ever ranging. 
 To-morrow! 'Tis the rude display 
 Of the throne's framework, blank and cold, 
 That, rich with velvet, bright with gold, 
 Dazzles the eye to-day. 
 
 To-morrow! 'tis the foaming war-horse falling; 
 To-morrow! thy victorious march appalling, 
 'Tis the red fires from Moscow's tow'rs that wave; 
 'Tis thine Old Guard strewing the Belgian plain; 
 'Tis the lone island in th' Atlantic main: 
 To-morrow! 'tis the grave! 
 
 Into capitals subdued 
 Thou mayst ride with gallant rein, 
 Cut the knots of civil feud 
 With the trenchant steel in twain; 
 With thine edicts barricade 
 Haughty Thames' o'er-freighted trade; 
 Fickle Victory's self enthrall, 
 Captive to thy trumpet call; 
 Burst the stoutest gates asunder; 
 Leave the names of brightest wonder, 
 Pale and dim, behind thee far; 
 And to exhaustless armies yield 
 Thy glancing spur,—o'er Europe's field 
 A glory-guiding star. 
 
 God guards duration, if lends space to thee, 
 Thou mayst o'er-range mundane immensity, 
 Rise high as human head can rise sublime, 
 Snatch Europe from the stamp of Charlemagne, 
 Asia from Mahomet; but never gain 
 Power o'er the Morrow from the Lord of Time! 
 
 Fraser's Magazine. 


 






Written by William Shakespeare | Create an image from this poem

Sonnet CVII

 Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul
Of the wide world dreaming on things to come,
Can yet the lease of my true love control,
Supposed as forfeit to a confined doom.
The mortal moon hath her eclipse endured
And the sad augurs mock their own presage;
Incertainties now crown themselves assured
And peace proclaims olives of endless age.
Now with the drops of this most balmy time
My love looks fresh, and death to me subscribes,
Since, spite of him, I'll live in this poor rhyme,
While he insults o'er dull and speechless tribes:
And thou in this shalt find thy monument,
When tyrants' crests and tombs of brass are spent.
Written by William Shakespeare | Create an image from this poem

Sonnet CVII: Not Mine Own Fears Nor the Prophetic Soul

 Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul
Of the wide world dreaming on things to come,
Can yet the lease of my true love control,
Suppos'd as forfeit to a confin'd doom.
The mortal moon hath her eclipse endur'd
And the sad augurs mock their own presage;
Incertainties now crown themselves assur'd
And peace proclaims olives of endless age.
Now with the drops of this most balmy time
My love looks fresh, and Death to me subscribes,
Since, spite of him, I'll live in this poor rhyme,
While he insults o'er dull and speechless tribes;
And thou in this shalt find thy monument,
When tyrants' crests and tombs of brass are spent.

Book: Radiant Verses: A Journey Through Inspiring Poetry