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Best Famous Beehive Poems

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

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Written by Anne Sexton | Create an image from this poem

Christmas Eve

 Oh sharp diamond, my mother! 
I could not count the cost 
of all your faces, your moods-- 
that present that I lost.
Sweet girl, my deathbed, my jewel-fingered lady, your portrait flickered all night by the bulbs of the tree.
Your face as calm as the moon over a mannered sea, presided at the family reunion, the twelve grandchildren you used to wear on your wrist, a three-months-old baby, a fat check you never wrote, the red-haired toddler who danced the twist, your aging daughters, each one a wife, each one talking to the family cook, each one avoiding your portrait, each one aping your life.
Later, after the party, after the house went to bed, I sat up drinking the Christmas brandy, watching your picture, letting the tree move in and out of focus.
The bulbs vibrated.
They were a halo over your forehead.
Then they were a beehive, blue, yellow, green, red; each with its own juice, each hot and alive stinging your face.
But you did not move.
I continued to watch, forcing myself, waiting, inexhaustible, thirty-five.
I wanted your eyes, like the shadows of two small birds, to change.
But they did not age.
The smile that gathered me in, all wit, all charm, was invincible.
Hour after hour I looked at your face but I could not pull the roots out of it.
Then I watched how the sun hit your red sweater, your withered neck, your badly painted flesh-pink skin.
You who led me by the nose, I saw you as you were.
Then I thought of your body as one thinks of murder-- Then I said Mary-- Mary, Mary, forgive me and then I touched a present for the child, the last I bred before your death; and then I touched my breast and then I touched the floor and then my breast again as if, somehow, it were one of yours.


Written by John Keats | Create an image from this poem

Fancy

EVER let the Fancy roam, 
Pleasure never is at home: 
At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth, 
Like to bubbles when rain pelteth; 
Then let wing¨¨d Fancy wander 5 
Through the thought still spread beyond her: 
Open wide the mind's cage-door, 
She'll dart forth, and cloudward soar.
O sweet Fancy! let her loose; Summer's joys are spoilt by use, 10 And the enjoying of the Spring Fades as does its blossoming; Autumn's red-lipp'd fruitage too, Blushing through the mist and dew, Cloys with tasting: What do then? 15 Sit thee by the ingle, when The sear ****** blazes bright, Spirit of a winter's night; When the soundless earth is muffled, And the cak¨¨d snow is shuffled 20 From the ploughboy's heavy shoon; When the Night doth meet the Noon In a dark conspiracy To banish Even from her sky.
Sit thee there, and send abroad, 25 With a mind self-overawed, Fancy, high-commission'd:¡ªsend her! She has vassals to attend her: She will bring, in spite of frost, Beauties that the earth hath lost; 30 She will bring thee, all together, All delights of summer weather; All the buds and bells of May, From dewy sward or thorny spray; All the heap¨¨d Autumn's wealth, 35 With a still, mysterious stealth: She will mix these pleasures up Like three fit wines in a cup, And thou shalt quaff it:¡ªthou shalt hear Distant harvest-carols clear; 40 Rustle of the reap¨¨d corn; Sweet birds antheming the morn: And, in the same moment¡ªhark! 'Tis the early April lark, Or the rooks, with busy caw, 45 Foraging for sticks and straw.
Thou shalt, at one glance, behold The daisy and the marigold; White-plumed lilies, and the first Hedge-grown primrose that hath burst; 50 Shaded hyacinth, alway Sapphire queen of the mid-May; And every leaf, and every flower Pearl¨¨d with the self-same shower.
Thou shalt see the fieldmouse peep 55 Meagre from its cell¨¨d sleep; And the snake all winter-thin Cast on sunny bank its skin; Freckled nest-eggs thou shalt see Hatching in the hawthorn-tree, 60 When the hen-bird's wing doth rest Quiet on her mossy nest; Then the hurry and alarm When the beehive casts its swarm; Acorns ripe down-pattering 65 While the autumn breezes sing.
O sweet Fancy! let her loose; Every thing is spoilt by use: Where 's the cheek that doth not fade, Too much gazed at? Where 's the maid 70 Whose lip mature is ever new? Where 's the eye, however blue, Doth not weary? Where 's the face One would meet in every place? Where 's the voice, however soft, 75 One would hear so very oft? At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth Like to bubbles when rain pelteth.
Let, then, wing¨¨d Fancy find Thee a mistress to thy mind: 80 Dulcet-eyed as Ceres' daughter, Ere the God of Torment taught her How to frown and how to chide; With a waist and with a side White as Hebe's, when her zone 85 Slipt its golden clasp, and down Fell her kirtle to her feet, While she held the goblet sweet, And Jove grew languid.
¡ªBreak the mesh Of the Fancy's silken leash; 90 Quickly break her prison-string, And such joys as these she'll bring.
¡ª Let the wing¨¨d Fancy roam, Pleasure never is at home.
Written by Antonio Machado | Create an image from this poem

Last Night As I Was Sleeping

 Last night as I was sleeping,
I dreamt—marvelous error!—
that a spring was breaking
out in my heart.
I said: Along which secret aqueduct, Oh water, are you coming to me, water of a new life that I have never drunk? Last night as I was sleeping, I dreamt—marvelous error!— that I had a beehive here inside my heart.
And the golden bees were making white combs and sweet honey from my old failures.
Last night as I was sleeping, I dreamt—marvelous error!— that a fiery sun was giving light inside my heart.
It was fiery because I felt warmth as from a hearth, and sun because it gave light and brought tears to my eyes.
Last night as I slept, I dreamt—marvelous error!— that it was God I had here inside my heart.
Written by Les Murray | Create an image from this poem

Inside Ayers Rock

 Inside Ayers Rock is lit
with paired fluorescent lights
on steel pillars supporting the ceiling
of haze-blue marquee cloth
high above the non-slip pavers.
Curving around the cafeteria throughout vast inner space is a Milky way of plastic chairs in foursomes around tables all the way to the truck drivers' enclave.
Dusted coolabah trees grow to the ceiling, TVs talk in gassy colours, and round the walls are Outback shop fronts: the Beehive Bookshop for brochures, Casual Clobber, the bottled Country Kitchen and the sheet-iron Dreamtime Experience that is turned off at night.
A high bank of medal-ribbony lolly jars preside over island counters like opened crates, one labelled White Mugs, and covered with them.
A two-dimensional policeman discourages shoplifting of gifts and near the entrance, where you pay for fuel, there stands a tribal man in rib-paint and pubic tassel.
It is all gentle and kind.
In beyond the children's playworld there are fossils, like crumpled old drawings of creatures in rock.
Written by Mother Goose | Create an image from this poem

About The Bush

 

About the bush, Willie,
    About the beehive,
About the bush, Willie,
    I'll meet thee alive.