Best Famous Ballade Poems

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

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Poems are below...

Written by Dorothy Parker | Create an image from this poem

Ballade at Thirty-five

 This, no song of an ingénue, 
This, no ballad of innocence; 
This, the rhyme of a lady who 
Followed ever her natural bents.
This, a solo of sapience, This, a chantey of sophistry, This, the sum of experiments, -- I loved them until they loved me.
Decked in garments of sable hue, Daubed with ashes of myriad Lents, Wearing shower bouquets of rue, Walk I ever in penitence.
Oft I roam, as my heart repents, Through God's acre of memory, Marking stones, in my reverence, "I loved them until they loved me.
" Pictures pass me in long review,-- Marching columns of dead events.
I was tender, and, often, true; Ever a prey to coincidence.
Always knew I the consequence; Always saw what the end would be.
We're as Nature has made us -- hence I loved them until they loved me.
Written by Oscar Wilde | Create an image from this poem

Ballade De Marguerite (Normande)

 I am weary of lying within the chase
When the knights are meeting in market-place.
Nay, go not thou to the red-roofed town Lest the hoofs of the war-horse tread thee down.
But I would not go where the Squires ride, I would only walk by my Lady's side.
Alack! and alack! thou art overbold, A Forester's son may not eat off gold.
Will she love me the less that my Father is seen Each Martinmas day in a doublet green? Perchance she is sewing at tapestrie, Spindle and loom are not meet for thee.
Ah, if she is working the arras bright I might ravel the threads by the fire-light.
Perchance she is hunting of the deer, How could you follow o'er hill and mere? Ah, if she is riding with the court, I might run beside her and wind the morte.
Perchance she is kneeling in St.
Denys, (On her soul may our Lady have gramercy!) Ah, if she is praying in lone chapelle, I might swing the censer and ring the bell.
Come in, my son, for you look sae pale, The father shall fill thee a stoup of ale.
But who are these knights in bright array? Is it a pageant the rich folks play? 'T is the King of England from over sea, Who has come unto visit our fair countrie.
But why does the curfew toll sae low? And why do the mourners walk a-row? O 't is Hugh of Amiens my sister's son Who is lying stark, for his day is done.
Nay, nay, for I see white lilies clear, It is no strong man who lies on the bier.
O 't is old Dame Jeannette that kept the hall, I knew she would die at the autumn fall.
Dame Jeannette had not that gold-brown hair, Old Jeannette was not a maiden fair.
O 't is none of our kith and none of our kin, (Her soul may our Lady assoil from sin!) But I hear the boy's voice chaunting sweet, 'Elle est morte, la Marguerite.
' Come in, my son, and lie on the bed, And let the dead folk bury their dead.
O mother, you know I loved her true: O mother, hath one grave room for two?
Written by Dorothy Parker | Create an image from this poem

Ballade of Unfortunate Mammals

 Love is sharper than stones or sticks;
Lone as the sea, and deeper blue;
Loud in the night as a clock that ticks;
Longer-lived than the Wandering Jew.
Show me a love was done and through, Tell me a kiss escaped its debt! Son, to your death you'll pay your due- Women and elephants never forget.
Ever a man, alas, would mix, Ever a man, heigh-ho, must woo; So he's left in the world-old fix, Thus is furthered the sale of rue.
Son, your chances are thin and few- Won't you ponder, before you're set? Shoot if you must, but hold in view Women and elephants never forget.
Down from Caesar past Joynson-Hicks Echoes the warning, ever new: Though they're trained to amusing tricks, Gentler, they, than the pigeon's coo, Careful, son, of the curs'ed two- Either one is a dangerous pet; Natural history proves it true- Women and elephants never forget.
L'ENVOI Prince, a precept I'd leave for you, Coined in Eden, existing yet: Skirt the parlor, and shun the zoo- Women and elephants never forget.
Written by William Ernest Henley | Create an image from this poem

Ballade of Dead Actors

 Where are the passions they essayed,
And where the tears they made to flow?
Where the wild humours they portrayed
For laughing worlds to see and know?
Othello's wrath and Juliet's woe?
Sir Peter's whims and Timon's gall?
And Millamant and Romeo?
Into the night go one and all.
Where are the braveries, fresh or frayed? The plumes, the armours -- friend and foe? The cloth of gold, the rare brocade, The mantles glittering to and fro? The pomp, the pride, the royal show? The cries of war and festival? The youth, the grace, the charm, the glow? Into the night go one and all.
The curtain falls, the play is played: The Beggar packs beside the Beau; The Monarch troops, and troops the Maid; The Thunder huddles with the Snow.
Where are the revellers high and low? The clashing swords? The lover's call? The dancers gleaming row on row? Into the night go one and all.
Written by Dorothy Parker | Create an image from this poem

Ballade Of A Great Weariness

 There's little to have but the things I had,
There's little to bear but the things I bore.
There's nothing to carry and naught to add, And glory to Heaven, I paid the score.
There's little to do but I did before, There's little to learn but the things I know; And this is the sum of a lasting lore: Scratch a lover, and find a foe.
And couldn't it be I was young and mad If ever my heart on my sleeve I wore? There's many to claw at a heart unclad, And little the wonder it ripped and tore.
There's one that'll join in their push and roar, With stories to jabber, and stones to throw; He'll fetch you a lesson that costs you sore: Scratch a lover, and find a foe.
So little I'll offer to you, my lad; It's little in loving I set my store.
There's many a maid would be flushed and glad, And better you'll knock at a kindlier door.
I'll dig at my lettuce, and sweep my floor, Forever, forever I'm done with woe.
And happen I'll whistle about my chore, "Scratch a lover, and find a foe.
" L'ENVOI Oh, beggar or prince, no more, no more! Be off and away with your strut and show.
The sweeter the apple, the blacker the core: Scratch a lover, and find a foe!
Written by Amy Levy | Create an image from this poem

Ballade of a Special Edition

 He comes; I hear him up the street--
Bird of ill omen, flapping wide
The pinion of a printed sheet,
His hoarse note scares the eventide.
Of slaughter, theft, and suicide He is the herald and the friend; Now he vociferates with pride-- A double murder in Mile End! A hanging to his soul is sweet; His gloating fancy's fain to bide Where human-freighted vessels meet, And misdirected trains collide.
With Shocking Accidents supplied, He tramps the town from end to end.
How often have we heard it cried-- A double murder in Mile End.
War loves he; victory or defeat, So there be loss on either side.
His tale of horrors incomplete, Imagination's aid is tried.
Since no distinguished man has died, And since the Fates, relenting, send No great catastrophe, he's spied This double murder in Mile End.
Fiend, get thee gone! no more repeat Those sounds which do mine ears offend.
It is apocryphal, you cheat, Your double murder in Mile End.
Written by Francois Villon | Create an image from this poem

Ballade To Our Lady


Dame du ciel, regents terrienne, 
Emperiere des infemaux palus.
Lady of Heaven and earth, and therewithal Crowned Empress of the nether clefts of Hell,— I, thy poor Christian, on thy name do call, Commending me to thee, with thee to dwell, Albeit in nought I be commendable.
But all mine undeserving may not mar Such mercies as thy sovereign mercies are; Without the which (as true words testify) No soul can reach thy Heaven so fair and far.
Even in this faith I choose to live and die.
Unto thy Son say thou that I am His, And to me graceless make Him gracious.
Said Mary of Egypt lacked not of that bliss, Nor yet the sorrowful clerk Theopbilus, Whose bitter sins were set aside even thus Though to the Fiend his bounden service was.
Oh help me, lest in vain for me should pass (Sweet Virgin that shalt have no loss thereby!) The blessed Host and sacring of the Mass Even in this faith I choose to live and die.
A pitiful poor woman, shrunk and old, I am, and nothing learn'd in letter-lore.
Within my parish-cloister I behold A painted Heaven where harps and lutes adore, And eke an Hell whose damned folk seethe full sore: One bringeth fear, the other joy to me.
That joy, great Goddess, make thou mine to be,— Thou of whom all must ask it even as I; And that which faith desires, that let it see.
For in this faith I choose to live and die.
O excellent Virgin Princess! thou didst bear King Jesus, the most excellent comforter, Who even of this our weakness craved a share And for our sake stooped to us from on high, Offering to death His young life sweet and fair.
Such as He is, Our Lord, I Him declare, And in this faith I choose to live and die.
Dante Gabriel Rossetti, trans.
Written by Ellis Parker Butler | Create an image from this poem

The Ballade Of The Mistletoe Bough

 I am standing under the mistletoe,
 And I smile, but no answering smile replies
For her haughty glance bids me plainly know
 That not for me is the thing I prize;
Instead, from her coldly scornful eyes,
 Indifference looks on my barefaced guile;
She knows, of course, what my act implies—
 But look at those lips! Do they hint a smile?

I stand here, eager, and beam and glow,
 And she only looks a refined surprise
As clear and crisp and as cold as snow,
 And as—Stop! I will never criticise!
I know what her cold glance signifies;
 But I’ll stand just here as I am awhile
Till a smile to my pleading look replies—
 But look at those lips! Do they hint a smile?

Just look at those lips, now! I claim they show
 A spirit unmeet under Christmas skies;
I claim that such lips on such maidens owe
 A—something—the custom justifies;
I claim that the mistletoe rule applies
 To her as well as the rank and file;
We should meet these things in a cheerful guise—
 But look at those lips! Do they hint a smile?


These customs of Christmas may shock the wise,
 And mistletoe boughs may be out of style,
And a kiss be a thing that all maids despise—
 But look at those lips, do! They hint a smile!
Written by William Ernest Henley | Create an image from this poem

Double Ballade on the Nothingness of Things

 The big teetotum twirls,
And epochs wax and wane
As chance subsides or swirls;
But of the loss and gain
The sum is always plain.
Read on the mighty pall, The weed of funeral That covers praise and blame, The -isms and the -anities, Magnificence and shame:-- "O Vanity of Vanities!" The Fates are subtle girls! They give us chaff for grain.
And Time, the Thunderer, hurls, Like bolted death, disdain At all that heart and brain Conceive, or great or small, Upon this earthly ball.
Would you be knight and dame? Or woo the sweet humanities? Or illustrate a name? O Vanity of Vanities! We sound the sea for pearls, Or drown them in a drain; We flute it with the merles, Or tug and sweat and strain; We grovel, or we reign; We saunter, or we brawl; We search the stars for Fame, Or sink her subterranities; The legend's still the same:-- "O Vanity of Vanities!" Here at the wine one birls, There some one clanks a chain.
The flag that this man furls That man to float is fain.
Pleasure gives place to pain: These in the kennel crawl, While others take the wall.
She has a glorious aim, He lives for the inanities.
What come of every claim? O Vanity of Vanities! Alike are clods and earls.
For sot, and seer, and swain, For emperors and for churls, For antidote and bane, There is but one refrain: But one for king and thrall, For David and for Saul, For fleet of foot and lame, For pieties and profanities, The picture and the frame:-- "O Vanity of Vanities!" Life is a smoke that curls-- Curls in a flickering skein, That winds and whisks and whirls, A figment thin and vain, Into the vast Inane.
One end for hut and hall! One end for cell and stall! Burned in one common flame Are wisdoms and insanities.
For this alone we came:-- "O Vanity of Vanities!" Envoy Prince, pride must have a fall.
What is the worth of all Your state's supreme urbanities? Bad at the best's the game.
Well might the Sage exclaim:-- "O Vanity of Vanities!"
Written by Amy Levy | Create an image from this poem

Ballade of an Omnibus

 "To see my love suffices me.
" --Ballades in Blue China.
Some men to carriages aspire; On some the costly hansoms wait; Some seek a fly, on job or hire; Some mount the trotting steed, elate.
I envy not the rich and great, A wandering minstrel, poor and free, I am contented with my fate -- An omnibus suffices me.
In winter days of rain and mire I find within a corner strait; The 'busmen know me and my lyre From Brompton to the Bull-and-Gate.
When summer comes, I mount in state The topmost summit, whence I see Crœsus look up, compassionate -- An omnibus suffices me.
I mark, untroubled by desire, Lucullus' phaeton and its freight.
The scene whereof I cannot tire, The human tale of love and hate, The city pageant, early and late Unfolds itself, rolls by, to be A pleasure deep and delicate.
An omnibus suffices me.
Princess, your splendour you require, I, my simplicity; agree Neither to rate lower nor higher.
An omnibus suffices me.