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Best Famous Battalions Poems

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Written by Andrew Barton Paterson | Create an image from this poem

Song of the Wheat

 We have sung the song of the droving days, 
Of the march of the travelling sheep; 
By silent stages and lonely ways 
Thin, white battalions creep.
But the man who now by the land would thrive Must his spurs to a plough-share beat.
Is there ever a man in the world alive To sing the song of the Wheat! It's west by south of the Great Divide The grim grey plains run out, Where the old flock-masters lived and died In a ceaseless fight with drought.
Weary with waiting and hope deferred They were ready to own defeat, Till at last they heard the master-word— And the master-word was Wheat.
Yarran and Myall and Box and Pine— ’Twas axe and fire for all; They scarce could tarry to blaze the line Or wait for the trees to fall, Ere the team was yoked, and the gates flung wide, And the dust of the horses’ feet Rose up like a pillar of smoke to guide The wonderful march of Wheat.
Furrow by furrow, and fold by fold, The soil is turned on the plain; Better than silver and better than gold Is the surface-mine of the grain; Better than cattle and better than sheep In the fight with drought and heat; For a streak of stubbornness, wide and deep, Lies hid in a grain of Wheat.
When the stock is swept by the hand of fate, Deep down in his bed of clay The brave brown Wheat will lie and wait For the resurrection day: Lie hid while the whole world thinks him dead; But the Spring-rain, soft and sweet, Will over the steaming paddocks spread The first green flush of the Wheat.
Green and amber and gold it grows When the sun sinks late in the West; And the breeze sweeps over the rippling rows Where the quail and the skylark nest.
Mountain or river or shining star, There’s never a sight can beat— Away to the sky-line stretching far— A sea of the ripening Wheat.
When the burning harvest sun sinks low, And the shadows stretch on the plain, The roaring strippers come and go Like ships on a sea of grain; Till the lurching, groaning waggons bear Their tale of the load complete.
Of the world’s great work he has done his share Who has gathered a crop of wheat.
Princes and Potentates and Czars, They travel in regal state, But old King Wheat has a thousand cars For his trip to the water-gate; And his thousand steamships breast the tide And plough thro’ the wind and sleet To the lands where the teeming millions bide That say: “Thank God for Wheat!”


Written by Henry Van Dyke | Create an image from this poem

America for Me

 'Tis fine to see the Old World and travel up and down 
Among the famous palaces and cities of renown, 
To admire the crumblyh castles and the statues and kings 
But now I think I've had enough of antiquated things.
So it's home again, and home again, America for me! My heart is turning home again and there I long to be, In the land of youth and freedom, beyond the ocean bars, Where the air is full of sunlight and the flag is full of stars.
Oh, London is a man's town, there's power in the air; And Paris is a woman's town, with flowers in her hair; And it's sweet to dream in Venice, and it's great to study Rome; But when it comes to living there is no place like home.
I like the German fir-woods in green battalions drilled; I like the gardens of Versailles with flashing foutains filled; But, oh, to take your had, my dear, and ramble for a day In the friendly western woodland where Nature has her sway! I know that Europe's wonderful, yet something seems to lack! The Past is too much with her, and the people looking back.
But the glory of the Present is to make the Future free-- We love our land for what she is and what she is to be.
Oh, it's home again, and home again, America for me! I want a ship that's westward bound to plough the rolling sea, To the blessed Land of Room Enough, beyond the ocean bars, Where the air is full of sunlight and the flag is full of stars.
Written by Sylvia Plath | Create an image from this poem

The Thin People

 They are always with us, the thin people
Meager of dimension as the gray people

On a movie-screen.
They Are unreal, we say: It was only in a movie, it was only In a war making evil headlines when we Were small that they famished and Grew so lean and would not round Out their stalky limbs again though peace Plumped the bellies of the mice Under the meanest table.
It was during the long hunger-battle They found their talent to persevere In thinness, to come, later, Into our bad dreams, their menace Not guns, not abuses, But a thin silence.
Wrapped in flea-ridded donkey skins, Empty of complaint, forever Drinking vinegar from tin cups: they wore The insufferable nimbus of the lot-drawn Scapegoat.
But so thin, So weedy a race could not remain in dreams, Could not remain outlandish victims In the contracted country of the head Any more than the old woman in her mud hut could Keep from cutting fat meat Out of the side of the generous moon when it Set foot nightly in her yard Until her knife had pared The moon to a rind of little light.
Now the thin people do not obliterate Themselves as the dawn Grayness blues, reddens, and the outline Of the world comes clear and fills with color.
They persist in the sunlit room: the wallpaper Frieze of cabbage-roses and cornflowers pales Under their thin-lipped smiles, Their withering kingship.
How they prop each other up! We own no wilderness rich and deep enough For stronghold against their stiff Battalions.
See, how the tree boles flatten And lose their good browns If the thin people simply stand in the forest, Making the world go thin as a wasp's nest And grayer; not even moving their bones.
Written by Siegfried Sassoon | Create an image from this poem

Autumn

 October's bellowing anger breaks and cleaves 
The bronzed battalions of the stricken wood 
In whose lament I hear a voice that grieves 
For battle’s fruitless harvest, and the feud 
Of outraged men.
Their lives are like the leaves Scattered in flocks of ruin, tossed and blown Along the westering furnace flaring red.
O martyred youth and manhood overthrown, The burden of your wrongs is on my head.
Written by Barry Tebb | Create an image from this poem

LAMENT

 How I loathe this land of my exile,

Concrete upon concrete,

Steel upon steel,

Glass upon glass

In massed battalions

And no way back.
My mind moves to a far-off place To a hill-top where the wind is my succour, Its blow and howl and rage Over the springing turf and heather Calms as the song of a mother And the last light’s glimmer.


Written by Carl Sandburg | Create an image from this poem

Memoir

 We look on the shoulders filling the stage of the Chicago Auditorium.
A fat mayor has spoken much English and the mud of his speech is crossed with quicksilver hisses elusive and rapid from floor and gallery.
A neat governor speaks English and the listeners ring chimes to his clear thoughts.
Joffre speaks a few words in French; this is a voice of the long firing line that runs from the salt sea dunes of Flanders to the white spear crags of the Swiss mountains.
This is the man on whose yes and no has hung the death of battalions and brigades; this man speaks of the tricolor of his country now melted in a great resolve with the starred bunting of Lincoln and Washington.
This is the hero of the Marne, massive, irreckonable; he lets tears roll down his cheek; they trickle a wet salt off his chin onto the blue coat.
There is a play of American hands and voices equal to sea-breakers and a lift of white sun on a stony beach.
Written by Stephen Crane | Create an image from this poem

When a people reach the top of a hill

 When a people reach the top of a hill,
Then does God lean toward them,
Shortens tongues and lengthens arms.
A vision of their dead comes to the weak.
The moon shall not be too old Before the new battalions rise, Blue battalions.
The moon shall not be too old When the children of change shall fall Before the new battalions, The blue battalions.
Mistakes and virtues will be trampled deep.
A church and a thief shall fall together.
A sword will come at the bidding of the eyeless, The God-led, turning only to beckon, Swinging a creed like a censer At the head of the new battalions, Blue battalions.
March the tools of nature's impulse, Men born of wrong, men born of right, Men of the new battalions, The blue battalions.
The clang of swords is Thy wisdom, The wounded make gestures like Thy Son's; The feet of mad horses is one part -- Ay, another is the hand of a mother on the brow of a youth.
Then, swift as they charge through a shadow, The men of the new battalions, Blue battalions -- God lead them high, God lead them far, God lead them far, God lead them high, These new battalions, The blue battalions.
THE END
Written by Alexander Pope | Create an image from this poem

The Rape of the Lock: Canto 3

 Close by those meads, for ever crown'd with flow'rs, 
Where Thames with pride surveys his rising tow'rs,
There stands a structure of majestic frame,
Which from the neighb'ring Hampton takes its name.
Here Britain's statesmen oft the fall foredoom Of foreign tyrants and of nymphs at home; Here thou, great Anna! whom three realms obey, Dost sometimes counsel take--and sometimes tea.
Hither the heroes and the nymphs resort, To taste awhile the pleasures of a court; In various talk th' instructive hours they pass'd, Who gave the ball, or paid the visit last; One speaks the glory of the British queen, And one describes a charming Indian screen; A third interprets motions, looks, and eyes; At ev'ry word a reputation dies.
Snuff, or the fan, supply each pause of chat, With singing, laughing, ogling, and all that.
Meanwhile, declining from the noon of day, The sun obliquely shoots his burning ray; The hungry judges soon the sentence sign, And wretches hang that jury-men may dine; The merchant from th' Exchange returns in peace, And the long labours of the toilet cease.
Belinda now, whom thirst of fame invites, Burns to encounter two adventrous knights, At ombre singly to decide their doom; And swells her breast with conquests yet to come.
Straight the three bands prepare in arms to join, Each band the number of the sacred nine.
Soon as she spreads her hand, th' aerial guard Descend, and sit on each important card: First Ariel perch'd upon a Matadore, Then each, according to the rank they bore; For Sylphs, yet mindful of their ancient race, Are, as when women, wondrous fond of place.
Behold, four Kings in majesty rever'd, With hoary whiskers and a forky beard; And four fair Queens whose hands sustain a flow'r, Th' expressive emblem of their softer pow'r; Four Knaves in garbs succinct, a trusty band, Caps on their heads, and halberds in their hand; And parti-colour'd troops, a shining train, Draw forth to combat on the velvet plain.
The skilful nymph reviews her force with care: "Let Spades be trumps!" she said, and trumps they were.
Now move to war her sable Matadores, In show like leaders of the swarthy Moors.
Spadillio first, unconquerable lord! Led off two captive trumps, and swept the board.
As many more Manillio forc'd to yield, And march'd a victor from the verdant field.
Him Basto follow'd, but his fate more hard Gain'd but one trump and one plebeian card.
With his broad sabre next, a chief in years, The hoary Majesty of Spades appears; Puts forth one manly leg, to sight reveal'd; The rest, his many-colour'd robe conceal'd.
The rebel Knave, who dares his prince engage, Proves the just victim of his royal rage.
Ev'n mighty Pam, that kings and queens o'erthrew And mow'd down armies in the fights of loo, Sad chance of war! now destitute of aid, Falls undistinguish'd by the victor Spade! Thus far both armies to Belinda yield; Now to the baron fate inclines the field.
His warlike Amazon her host invades, Th' imperial consort of the crown of Spades.
The Club's black tyrant first her victim died, Spite of his haughty mien, and barb'rous pride: What boots the regal circle on his head, His giant limbs, in state unwieldy spread; That long behind he trails his pompous robe, And of all monarchs, only grasps the globe? The baron now his diamonds pours apace; Th' embroider'd King who shows but half his face, And his refulgent Queen, with pow'rs combin'd Of broken troops an easy conquest find.
Clubs, Diamonds, Hearts, in wild disorder seen, With throngs promiscuous strow the level green.
Thus when dispers'd a routed army runs, Of Asia's troops, and Afric's sable sons, With like confusion diff'rent nations fly, Of various habit, and of various dye, The pierc'd battalions disunited fall.
In heaps on heaps; one fate o'erwhelms them all.
The Knave of Diamonds tries his wily arts, And wins (oh shameful chance!) the Queen of Hearts.
At this, the blood the virgin's cheek forsook, A livid paleness spreads o'er all her look; She sees, and trembles at th' approaching ill, Just in the jaws of ruin, and codille.
And now (as oft in some distemper'd state) On one nice trick depends the gen'ral fate.
An Ace of Hearts steps forth: The King unseen Lurk'd in her hand, and mourn'd his captive Queen: He springs to vengeance with an eager pace, And falls like thunder on the prostrate Ace.
The nymph exulting fills with shouts the sky; The walls, the woods, and long canals reply.
Oh thoughtless mortals! ever blind to fate, Too soon dejected, and too soon elate! Sudden, these honours shall be snatch'd away, And curs'd for ever this victorious day.
For lo! the board with cups and spoons is crown'd, The berries crackle, and the mill turns round.
On shining altars of Japan they raise The silver lamp; the fiery spirits blaze.
From silver spouts the grateful liquors glide, While China's earth receives the smoking tide.
At once they gratify their scent and taste, And frequent cups prolong the rich repast.
Straight hover round the fair her airy band; Some, as she sipp'd, the fuming liquor fann'd, Some o'er her lap their careful plumes display'd, Trembling, and conscious of the rich brocade.
Coffee, (which makes the politician wise, And see through all things with his half-shut eyes) Sent up in vapours to the baron's brain New stratagems, the radiant lock to gain.
Ah cease, rash youth! desist ere 'tis too late, Fear the just gods, and think of Scylla's fate! Chang'd to a bird, and sent to flit in air, She dearly pays for Nisus' injur'd hair! But when to mischief mortals bend their will, How soon they find fit instruments of ill! Just then, Clarissa drew with tempting grace A two-edg'd weapon from her shining case; So ladies in romance assist their knight Present the spear, and arm him for the fight.
He takes the gift with rev'rence, and extends The little engine on his fingers' ends; This just behind Belinda's neck he spread, As o'er the fragrant steams she bends her head.
Swift to the lock a thousand sprites repair, A thousand wings, by turns, blow back the hair, And thrice they twitch'd the diamond in her ear, Thrice she look'd back, and thrice the foe drew near.
Just in that instant, anxious Ariel sought The close recesses of the virgin's thought; As on the nosegay in her breast reclin'd, He watch'd th' ideas rising in her mind, Sudden he view'd, in spite of all her art, An earthly lover lurking at her heart.
Amaz'd, confus'd, he found his pow'r expir'd, Resign'd to fate, and with a sigh retir'd.
The peer now spreads the glitt'ring forfex wide, T' inclose the lock; now joins it, to divide.
Ev'n then, before the fatal engine clos'd, A wretched Sylph too fondly interpos'd; Fate urg'd the shears, and cut the Sylph in twain, (But airy substance soon unites again).
The meeting points the sacred hair dissever From the fair head, for ever, and for ever! Then flash'd the living lightning from her eyes, And screams of horror rend th' affrighted skies.
Not louder shrieks to pitying Heav'n are cast, When husbands or when lap-dogs breathe their last, Or when rich China vessels, fall'n from high, In glitt'ring dust and painted fragments lie! "Let wreaths of triumph now my temples twine," The victor cried, "the glorious prize is mine! While fish in streams, or birds delight in air, Or in a coach and six the British fair, As long at Atalantis shall be read, Or the small pillow grace a lady's bed, While visits shall be paid on solemn days, When num'rous wax-lights in bright order blaze, While nymphs take treats, or assignations give, So long my honour, name, and praise shall live! What time would spare, from steel receives its date, And monuments, like men, submit to fate! Steel could the labour of the gods destroy, And strike to dust th' imperial tow'rs of Troy; Steel could the works of mortal pride confound, And hew triumphal arches to the ground.
What wonder then, fair nymph! thy hairs should feel The conqu'ring force of unresisted steel?"
Written by Thomas Hardy | Create an image from this poem

Embarcation

 Southampton Docks: October 1899 


Here, where Vespasian's legions struck the sands, 
And Cendric with the Saxons entered in, 
And Henry's army lept afloat to win 
Convincing triumphs over neighboring lands,

Vaster battalions press for further strands, 
To argue in the selfsame bloody mode 
Which this late age of thought, and pact, and code, 
Still fails to mend.
--Now deckward tramp the bands, Yellow as autumn leaves, alive as spring; And as each host draws out upon the sea Beyond which lies the tragical To-be, None dubious of the cause, none murmuring, Wives, sisters, parents, wave white hands and smile, As if they knew not that they weep the while.
Written by Henry Van Dyke | Create an image from this poem

An American in Europe

 'Tis fine to see the Old World, and travel up and down
Among the famous palaces and cities of renown, 
To admire the crumbly castles and the statues of the kings, --
But now I think I've had enough of antiquated things.
So it's home again, and home again, America for me! My heart is turning home again, and there I long to be, In the land of youth and freedom beyond the ocean bars, Where the air is full of sunlight and the flag is full of stars.
Oh, London is a man's town, there's power in the air; And Paris is a woman's town, with flowers in her hair; And it's sweet to dream in Venice, and it's great to study Rome; But when it comes to living there is no place like home.
I like the German fir-woods, in green battalions drilled; I like the gardens of Versailles with flashing fountains filled; But, oh, to take your hand, my dear, and ramble for a day In the friendly western woodland where Nature has her way! I know that Europe's wonderful, yet something seems to lack: The Past is too much with her, and the people looking back.
But the glory of the Present is to make the Future free, -- We love our land for what she is and what she is to be.
So it's home again, and home again, America for me! I want a ship that's westward bound to plough the rolling sea, To the blessed Land of Room Enough beyond the ocean bars, Where the air is full of sunlight and the flag is full of stars.

Book: Reflection on the Important Things