Best Famous Barbarian Poems

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

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Written by Li Bai | Moon over Mountain Pass A bright moon rising above Tian Shan Mountain, Lost in a vast ocean of clouds. The long wind, across thousands upon thousands of miles, Blows past the Jade-gate Pass. The army of Han has gone down the Baiteng Road, As the barbarian hordes probe at Qinghai Bay. It is known that from the battlefield Few ever live to return. Men at Garrison look on the border scene, Home thoughts deepen sorrow on their faces. In the towered chambers tonight, Ceaseless are the women's sighs.

Written by Charlotte Bronte | Pilates Wifes Dream I've quenched my lamp, I struck it in that start Which every limb convulsed, I heard it fall­ The crash blent with my sleep, I saw depart Its light, even as I woke, on yonder wall; Over against my bed, there shone a gleam Strange, faint, and mingling also with my dream. It sunk, and I am wrapt in utter gloom; How far is night advanced, and when will day Retinge the dusk and livid air with bloom, And fill this void with warm, creative ray ? Would I could sleep again till, clear and red, Morning shall on the mountain-tops be spread! I'd call my women, but to break their sleep, Because my own is broken, were unjust; They've wrought all day, and well-earned slumbers steep Their labours in forgetfulness, I trust; Let me my feverish watch with patience bear, Thankful that none with me its sufferings share. Yet, Oh, for light ! one ray would tranquilise My nerves, my pulses, more than effort can; I'll draw my curtain and consult the skies: These trembling stars at dead of night look wan, Wild, restless, strange, yet cannot be more drear Than this my couch, shared by a nameless fear. All black­one great cloud, drawn from east to west, Conceals the heavens, but there are lights below; Torches burn in Jerusalem, and cast On yonder stony mount a lurid glow. I see men stationed there, and gleaming spears; A sound, too, from afar, invades my ears. Dull, measured, strokes of axe and hammer ring From street to street, not loud, but through the night Distinctly heard­and some strange spectral thing Is now upreared­and, fixed against the light Of the pale lamps; defined upon that sky, It stands up like a column, straight and high. I see it all­I know the dusky sign­ A cross on Calvary, which Jews uprear While Romans watch; and when the dawn shall shine Pilate, to judge the victim will appear, Pass sentence­yield him up to crucify; And on that cross the spotless Christ must die. Dreams, then, are true­for thus my vision ran; Surely some oracle has been with me, The gods have chosen me to reveal their plan, To warn an unjust judge of destiny: I, slumbering, heard and saw; awake I know, Christ's coming death, and Pilate's life of woe. I do not weep for Pilate­who could prove Regret for him whose cold and crushing sway No prayer can soften, no appeal can move; Who tramples hearts as others trample clay, Yet with a faltering, an uncertain tread, That might stir up reprisal in the dead. Forced to sit by his side and see his deeds; Forced to behold that visage, hour by hour, In whose gaunt lines, the abhorrent gazer reads A triple lust of gold, and blood, and power; A soul whom motives, fierce, yet abject, urge Rome's servile slave, and Judah's tyrant scourge. How can I love, or mourn, or pity him ? I, who so long my fettered hands have wrung; I, who for grief have wept my eye-sight dim; Because, while life for me was bright and young, He robbed my youth­he quenched my life's fair ray­ He crushed my mind, and did my freedom slay. And at this hour­although I be his wife­ He has no more of tenderness from me Than any other wretch of guilty life; Less, for I know his household privacy­ I see him as he is­without a screen; And, by the gods, my soul abhors his mien ! Has he not sought my presence, dyed in blood­ Innocent, righteous blood, shed shamelessly ? And have I not his red salute withstood ? Aye,­when, as erst, he plunged all Galilee In dark bereavement­in affliction sore, Mingling their very offerings with their gore. Then came he­in his eyes a serpent-smile, Upon his lips some false, endearing word, And, through the streets of Salem, clanged the while, His slaughtering, hacking, sacrilegious sword­ And I, to see a man cause men such woe, Trembled with ire­I did not fear to show. And now, the envious Jewish priests have brought Jesus­whom they in mockery call their king­ To have, by this grim power, their vengeance wrought; By this mean reptile, innocence to sting. Oh ! could I but the purposed doom avert, And shield the blameless head from cruel hurt! Accessible is Pilate's heart to fear, Omens will shake his soul, like autumn leaf; Could he this night's appalling vision hear, This just man's bonds were loosed, his life were safe, Unless that bitter priesthood should prevail, And make even terror to their malice quail. Yet if I tell the dream­but let me pause. What dream ? Erewhile the characters were clear, Graved on my brain­at once some unknown cause Has dimmed and rased the thoughts, which now appear, Like a vague remnant of some by-past scene;­ Not what will be, but what, long since, has been. I suffered many things, I heard foretold A dreadful doom for Pilate,­lingering woes, In far, barbarian climes, where mountains cold Built up a solitude of trackless snows, There, he and grisly wolves prowled side by side, There he lived famished­there methought he died; But not of hunger, nor by malady; I saw the snow around him, stained with gore; I said I had no tears for such as he, And, lo ! my cheek is wet­mine eyes run o'er; I weep for mortal suffering, mortal guilt, I weep the impious deed­the blood self-spilt. More I recall not, yet the vision spread Into a world remote, an age to come­ And still the illumined name of Jesus shed A light, a clearness, through the enfolding gloom­ And still I saw that sign, which now I see, That cross on yonder brow of Calvary. What is this Hebrew Christ ? To me unknown, His lineage­doctrine­mission­yet how clear, Is God-like goodness, in his actions shewn ! How straight and stainless is his life's career ! The ray of Deity that rests on him, In my eyes makes Olympian glory dim. The world advances, Greek, or Roman rite Suffices not the inquiring mind to stay; The searching soul demands a purer light To guide it on its upward, onward way; Ashamed of sculptured gods­Religion turns To where the unseen Jehovah's altar burns. Our faith is rotten­all our rites defiled, Our temples sullied, and methinks, this man, With his new ordinance, so wise and mild, Is come, even as he says, the chaff to fan And sever from the wheat; but will his faith Survive the terrors of to-morrow's death ? * * * * * I feel a firmer trust­a higher hope Rise in my soul­it dawns with dawning day; Lo ! on the Temple's roof­on Moriah's slope Appears at length that clear, and crimson ray, Which I so wished for when shut in by night; Oh, opening skies, I hail, I bless your light ! Part, clouds and shadows ! glorious Sun appear ! Part, mental gloom ! Come insight from on high ! Dusk dawn in heaven still strives with daylight clear, The longing soul, doth still uncertain sigh. Oh ! to behold the truth­that sun divine, How doth my bosom pant, my spirit pine ! This day, time travails with a mighty birth, This day, Truth stoops from heaven and visits earth, Ere night descends, I shall more surely know What guide to follow, in what path to go; I wait in hope­I wait in solemn fear, The oracle of God­the sole­true God­to hear.

Written by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | The Metamorphosis Of Plants THOU art confused, my beloved, at, seeing the thousandfold union Shown in this flowery troop, over the garden dispers'd; any a name dost thou hear assign'd; one after another Falls on thy list'ning ear, with a barbarian sound. None resembleth another, yet all their forms have a likeness; Therefore, a mystical law is by the chorus proclaim'd; Yes, a sacred enigma! Oh, dearest friend, could I only Happily teach thee the word, which may the mystery solve! Closely observe how the plant, by little and little progressing, Step by step guided on, changeth to blossom and fruit! First from the seed it unravels itself, as soon as the silent Fruit-bearing womb of the earth kindly allows Its escape, And to the charms of the light, the holy, the ever-in-motion, Trusteth the delicate leaves, feebly beginning to shoot. Simply slumber'd the force in the seed; a germ of the future, Peacefully lock'd in itself, 'neath the integument lay, Leaf and root, and bud, still void of colour, and shapeless; Thus doth the kernel, while dry, cover that motionless life. Upward then strives it to swell, in gentle moisture confiding, And, from the night where it dwelt, straightway ascendeth to light. Yet still simple remaineth its figure, when first it appeareth; And 'tis a token like this, points out the child 'mid the plants. Soon a shoot, succeeding it, riseth on high, and reneweth, Piling-up node upon node, ever the primitive form; Yet not ever alike: for the following leaf, as thou seest, Ever produceth itself, fashioned in manifold ways. Longer, more indented, in points and in parts more divided, Which. all-deform'd until now, slept in the organ below, So at length it attaineth the noble and destined perfection, Which, in full many a tribe, fills thee with wondering awe. Many ribb'd and tooth'd, on a surface juicy and swelling, Free and unending the shoot seemeth in fullness to be; Yet here Nature restraineth, with powerful hands, the formation, And to a perfecter end, guideth with softness its growth, Less abundantly yielding the sap, contracting the vessels, So that the figure ere long gentler effects doth disclose. Soon and in silence is check'd the growth of the vigorous branches, And the rib of the stalk fuller becometh in form. Leafless, however, and quick the tenderer stem then up-springeth, And a miraculous sight doth the observer enchant. Ranged in a circle, in numbers that now are small, and now countless, Gather the smaller-sized leaves, close by the side of their like. Round the axis compress'd the sheltering calyx unfoldeth, And, as the perfectest type, brilliant-hued coronals forms. Thus doth Nature bloom, in glory still nobler and fuller, Showing, in order arranged, member on member uprear'd. Wonderment fresh dost thou feel, as soon as the stem rears the flower Over the scaffolding frail of the alternating leaves. But this glory is only the new creation's foreteller, Yes, the leaf with its hues feeleth the hand all divine, And on a sudden contracteth itself; the tenderest figures Twofold as yet, hasten on, destined to blend into one. Lovingly now the beauteous pairs are standing together, Gather'd in countless array, there where the altar is raised. Hymen hovereth o'er them, and scents delicious and mighty Stream forth their fragrance so sweet, all things enliv'ning around. Presently, parcell'd out, unnumber'd germs are seen swelling, Sweetly conceald in the womb, where is made perfect the fruit. Here doth Nature close the ring of her forces eternal; Yet doth a new one, at once, cling to the one gone before, So that the chain be prolonged for ever through all generations, And that the whole may have life, e'en as enjoy'd by each part. Now, my beloved one, turn thy gaze on the many-hued thousands Which, confusing no more, gladden the mind as they wave. Every plant unto thee proclaimeth the laws everlasting, Every flowered speaks louder and louder to thee; But if thou here canst decipher the mystic words of the goddess, Everywhere will they be seen, e'en though the features are changed. Creeping insects may linger, the eager butterfly hasten,-- Plastic and forming, may man change e'en the figure decreed! Oh, then, bethink thee, as well, how out of the germ of acquaintance, Kindly intercourse sprang, slowly unfolding its leaves; Soon how friendship with might unveil'd itself in our bosoms, And how Amor, at length, brought forth blossom and fruit Think of the manifold ways wherein Nature hath lent to our feelings, Silently giving them birth, either the first or the last! Yes, and rejoice in the present day! For love that is holy Seeketh the noblest of fruits,--that where the thoughts are the same, Where the opinions agree,--that the pair may, in rapt contemplation, Lovingly blend into one,--find the more excellent world. 1797.

Written by Stephen Vincent Benet | Music My friend went to the piano; spun the stool A little higher; left his pipe to cool; Picked up a fat green volume from the chest; And propped it open. Whitely without rest, His fingers swept the keys that flashed like swords, . . . And to the brute drums of barbarian hordes, Roaring and thunderous and weapon-bare, An army stormed the bastions of the air! Dreadful with banners, fire to slay and parch, Marching together as the lightnings march, And swift as storm-clouds. Brazen helms and cars Clanged to a fierce resurgence of old wars Above the screaming horns. In state they passed, Trampling and splendid on and sought the vast -- Rending the darkness like a leaping knife, The flame, the noble pageant of our life! The burning seal that stamps man's high indenture To vain attempt and most forlorn adventure; Romance, and purple seas, and toppling towns, And the wind's valiance crying o'er the downs; That nerves the silly hand, the feeble brain, From the loose net of words to deeds again And to all courage! Perilous and sharp The last chord shook me as wind shakes a harp! . . . And my friend swung round on his stool, and from gods we were men, "How pretty!" we said; and went on with our talk again.

Written by G K Chesterton | The Logical Vegetarian "Why shouldn't I have a purely vegetarian drink? Why shouldn't I take vegetables in their highest form, so to speak? The modest vegetarians ought to stick to wine or beer, plain vegetable drinks, instead of filling their goblets with the blood of bulls and elephants, as all conventional meat-eaters do, I suppose"--Dalroy. You will find me drinking rum, Like a sailor in a slum, You will find me drinking beer like a Bavarian You will find me drinking gin In the lowest kind of inn Because I am a rigid Vegetarian. So I cleared the inn of wine, And I tried to climb the sign, And I tried to hail the constable as "Marion." But he said I couldn't speak, And he bowled me to the Beak Because I was a Happy Vegetarian. Oh, I know a Doctor Gluck, And his nose it had a hook, And his attitudes were anything but Aryan; So I gave him all the pork That I had, upon a fork Because I am myself a Vegetarian. I am silent in the Club, I am silent in the pub., I am silent on a bally peak in Darien; For I stuff away for life Shoving peas in with a knife, Because I am a rigid Vegetarian. No more the milk of cows Shall pollute my private house Than the milk of the wild mares of the Barbarian I will stick to port and sherry, For they are so very, very, So very, very, very, Vegetarian.

Written by Li Po | Moon over Mountain Pass A bright moon rising above Tian Shan Mountain, Lost in a vast ocean of clouds. The long wind, across thousands upon thousands of miles, Blows past the Jade-gate Pass. The army of Han has gone down the Baiteng Road, As the barbarian hordes probe at Qinghai Bay. It is known that from the battlefield Few ever live to return. Men at Garrison look on the border scene, Home thoughts deepen sorrow on their faces. In the towered chambers tonight, Ceaseless are the women's sighs.

Written by Li Po | Nefarious War Last year we fought by the head-stream of the Sang-kan, This year we are fighting on the Tsung-ho road. We have washed our armor in the waves of the Chiao-chi lake, We have pastured our horses on Tien-shan's snowy slopes. The long, long war goes on ten thousand miles from home, Our three armies are worn and grown old. The barbarian does man-slaughter for plowing; On this yellow sand-plains nothing has been seen but blanched skulls and bones. Where the Chin emperor built the walls against the Tartars, There the defenders of Han are burning beacon fires. The beacon fires burn and never go out, There is no end to war!— In the battlefield men grapple each other and die; The horses of the vanquished utter lamentable cries to heaven, While ravens and kites peck at human entrails, Carry them up in their flight, and hang them on the branches of dead trees. So, men are scattered and smeared over the desert grass, And the generals have accomplished nothing. Oh, nefarious war! I see why arms Were so seldom used by the benign sovereigns.

Written by Anna Akhmatova | For Osip Mandelstam And the town is frozen solid in a vice, Trees, walls, snow, beneath a glass. Over crystal, on slippery tracks of ice, the painted sleighs and I, together, pass. And over St Peter’s there are poplars, crows there’s a pale green dome there that glows, dim in the sun-shrouded dust. The field of heroes lingers in my thought, Kulikovo’s barbarian battleground. The frozen poplars, like glasses for a toast, clash now, more noisily, overhead. As though it was our wedding, and the crowd were drinking to our health and happiness. But Fear and the Muse take turns to guard the room where the exiled poet is banished, and the night, marching at full pace, of the coming dawn, has no knowledge.

Written by Robert Duncan | The Song of the Borderguard The man with his lion under the shed of wars sheds his belief as if he shed tears. The sound of words waits - a barbarian host at the borderline of sense. The enamord guards desert their posts harkening to the lion-smell of a poem that rings in their ears. -Dreams, a certain guard said were never designd so to re-arrange an empire. Along about six o'clock I take out my guitar and sing to a lion who sleeps like a line of poetry in the shed of wars. The man shedding his belief knows that the lion is not asleep, does not dream, is never asleep, is a wide-awake poem waiting like a lover for the disrobing of the guard; the beautil boundaries of the empire naked, rapt round in the smell of a lion. (The barbarians have passt over the significant phrase) -When I was asleep, a certain guard says, a man shed his clothes as if he shed tears and appeard as a lonely lion waiting for a song under the shed-roof of wars. I sang the song that he waited to hear, I, the Prize-Winner, the Poet Acclaimd. Dear, Dear, Dear, Dear, I sang, believe, believe, believe, believe. The shed of wars is splendid as the sky, houses our waiting like a pure song housing in its words the lion-smell of the beloved disrobed. I sang: believe, believe, believe. I the guard because of my guitar belive. I am the certain guard, certain of the Beloved, certain of the lion, certain of the Empire. I with my guitar. Dear, Dear, Dear, Dear, I sing. I, the Prize-Winner, the Poet on Guard. The borderlines of sense in the morning light are naked as a line of poetry in a war.

Written by Andrew Barton Paterson | Only a Jockey Out in the grey cheerless chill of the morning light, Out on the track where the night shades still lurk, ere the first gleam of the sungod's returning light Round come the racehorses early at work. Reefing and pulling and racing so readily, Close sit the jockey-boys holding them hard, "Steady the stallion there -- canter him steadily, Don't let him gallop so much as a yard." Fiercely he fights while the others run wide of him, Reefs at the bit that would hold him in thrall, Plunges and bucks till the boy that's astride of him Goes to the ground with a terrible fall. "Stop him there! Block him there! Drive him in carefully, Lead him about till he's quiet and cool. Sound as a bell! though he's blown himself fearfully, Now let us pick up this poor little fool. "Stunned? Oh, by Jove, I'm afraid it's a case with him; Ride for the doctor! keep bathing his head! Send for a cart to go down to our place with him" -- No use! One long sigh and the little chap's dead. Only a jockey-boy, foul-mouthed and bad you see, Ignorant, heathenish, gone to his rest. Parson or Presbyter, Pharisee, Sadducee, What did you do for him? -- bad was the best. ******* and foreigners, all have a claim on you; Yearly you send your well-advertised hoard, But the poor jockey-boy -- shame on you, shame on you, "Feed ye My little ones" -- what said the Lord? Him ye held less than the outer barbarian, Left him to die in his ignorant sin; Have you no principles, humanitarian? Have you no precept -- "Go gather them in?" Knew he God's name? In his brutal profanity That name was an oath -- out of many but one. What did he get from our famed Christianity? Where has his soul -- if he had any -- gone? Fourteen years old, and what was he taught of it? What did he know of God's infinite Grace? Draw the dark curtain of shame o'er the thought of it Draw the shroud over the jockey-boy's face.