10 Best Famous Bequeathed Poems

Here is a collection of the top 10 all-time best famous Bequeathed poems. This is a select list of the best famous Bequeathed poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Bequeathed poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of bequeathed poems.

• All Famous Bequeathed Poems

Written by Thomas Moore | Sublime Was the Warning Sublime was the warning that liberty spoke, And grand was the moment when Spaniards awoke Into life and revenge from the conqueror's chain. Oh, Liberty! let not this spirit have rest, Till it move, like a breeze, o'er the waves of the west -- Give the light of your look to each sorrowing spot, Nor, oh, be the Shamrock of Erin forgot While you add to your garland the Olive of Spain. If the fame of our fathers, bequeathed with their rights, Give to country its charm, and to home its delights; If deceit be a wound, and suspicion a stain, Then, ye men of Iberia, our cause is the same! And oh! may his tomb want a tear and a name, Who would ask for a nobler, a holier death, Than to turn his last sigh into victory's breath, For the Shamrock of Erin and the Olive of Spain! Ye Blakes and O'Donnels, whose fathers resign'd The green hills of their youth, among strangers to find That repose which, at home, they had sigh'd for in vain, Join, join in our hope that the flame, which you light, May be felt yet in Erin, as calm and as bright, And forgive even Albion while blushing she draws, Like a truant, her sword, in the long-slighted cause Of the Shamrock of Erin and Olive of Spain! God prosper the cause! -- oh, it cannot but thrive, While the pulse of one patriot heart is alive, Its devotion to feel, and its rights to maintain; Then, how sainted by sorrow its martyrs will die! The finger of Glory shall point where they lie; While, far from the footstep of coward or slave, The young spirit of Freedom shall shelter their grave, Beneath Shamrocks of Erin and Olives of Spain!

Written by Robert Browning | In A Year Never any more, While I live, Need I hope to see his face As before. Once his love grown chill, Mine may strive: Bitterly we re-embrace, Single still. II. Was it something said, Something done, Vexed him? was it touch of hand, Turn of head? Strange! that very way Love begun: I as little understand Love's decay. III. When I sewed or drew, I recall How he looked as if I sung, ---Sweetly too. If I spoke a word, First of all Up his cheek the colour sprang, Then he heard. IV. Sitting by my side, At my feet, So he breathed but air I breathed, Satisfied! I, too, at love's brim Touched the sweet: I would die if death bequeathed Sweet to him. V. ``Speak, I love thee best!'' He exclaimed: ``Let thy love my own foretell!'' I confessed: ``Clasp my heart on thine ``Now unblamed, ``Since upon thy soul as well ``Hangeth mine!'' VI. Was it wrong to own, Being truth? Why should all the giving prove His alone? I had wealth and ease, Beauty, youth: Since my lover gave me love, I gave these. VII. That was all I meant, ---To be just, And the passion I had raised, To content. Since he chose to change Gold for dust, If I gave him what he praised Was it strange? VIII. Would he loved me yet, On and on, While I found some way undreamed ---Paid my debt! Gave more life and more, Till, all gone, He should smile ``She never seemed ``Mine before. IX. ``What, she felt the while, ``Must I think? ``Love's so different with us men!'' He should smile: ``Dying for my sake--- ``White and pink! ``Can't we touch these bubbles then ``But they break?'' X. Dear, the pang is brief, Do thy part, Have thy pleasure! How perplexed Grows belief! Well, this cold clay clod Was man's heart: Crumble it, and what comes next? Is it God?

Written by Rg Gregory | bird of fire - a caution the dream of the white bird flying offers a freedom as tasty as nectar how our lips purse to the goddess’s pap at the want of such swoops through the air to be rid of the drag on our legs the sloshing through drudgery and mire the daily entangling with bramble the hurt of our hair caught in barbs when there in the bowl of our eye that milky-white shaft through the sun pierces old canopies revealing heights that have never been deemed then to be up and away forgetting icarus has been there before us white heat is the worst of all fires we’re dust before the dream’s gone cold there’s no bird doesn’t need its tree with its leaden roots buried in earth and the earth needs its water - all things that fly with their fine-pointed rage must have cool fruits to come down to before ecstasy and soaring can yield the unimaginable answers sustaining the longings all born are bequeathed

Written by Robert Browning | The Bishop Orders His Tomb At Saint Praxeds Church Vanity, saith the preacher, vanity! Draw round my bed: is Anselm keeping back? Nephews -- sons mine -- ah God, I know not! Well -- She, men would have to be your mother once, Old Gandolf envied me, so fair she was! What's done is done, and she is dead beside, Dead long ago, and I am Bishop since, And as she died so must we die ourselves, And thence ye may perceive the world's a dream. Life, how and what is it? As here I lie In this state-chamber, dying by degrees, Hours and long hours in the dead night, I ask "Do I live, am I dead?" Peace, peace seems all. Saint Praxed's ever was the church for peace; And so, about this tomb of mine. I fought With tooth and nail to save my niche, ye know: -- Old Gandolf cozened me, despite my care; Shrewd was that snatch from out the corner South He graced his carrion with, God curse the same! Yet still my niche is not so cramped but thence One sees the pulpit o' the epistle-side, And somewhat of the choir, those silent seats, And up into the very dome where live The angels, and a sunbeam's sure to lurk: And I shall fill my slab of basalt there, And 'neath my tabernacle take my rest, With those nine columns round me, two and two, The odd one at my feet where Anselm stands: Peach-blossom marble all, the rare, the ripe As fresh poured red wine of a mighty pulse -- Old Gandolf with his paltry onion-stone, Put me where I may look at him! True peach, Rosy and flawless: how I earned the prize! Draw close: that conflagration of my church -- What then? So much was saved if aught were missed! My sons, ye would not be my death? Go dig The white-grape vineyard where the oil-press stood, Drop water gently till the surface sink, And if ye find -- Ah God, I know not, I! -- Bedded in store of rotten fig-leaves soft, And corded up in a tight olive-frail, Some lump, ah God, of lapis lazuli, Big as a Jew's head cut off at the nape, Blue as a vein o'er the Madonna's breast Sons, all have I bequeathed you, villas, all, That brave Frascati villa with its bath, So, let the blue lump poise between my knees, Like God the Father's globe on both his hands Ye worship in the Jesu Church so gay, For Gandolf shall not choose but see and burst! Swift as a weaver's shuttle fleet our years: Man goeth to the grave, and where is he? Did I say basalt for my slab, sons? Black -- 'Twas ever antique-black I meant! How else Shall ye contrast my frieze to come beneath? The bas-relief in bronze ye promised me. Those Pans and Nymphs ye wot of, and perchance Some tripod, thyrsus, with a vase or so, The Saviour at his sermon on the mount, Saint Praxed in a glory, and one Pan Ready to twitch the Nymph's last garment off, And Moses with the tables -- but I know Ye mark me not! What do they whisper thee, Child of my bowels, Anselm? Ah, ye hope To revel down my villas while I gasp Bricked o'er with beggar's mouldy travertine Which Gandolf from his tomb-top chuckles at! Nay, boys, ye love me -- all of jasper, then! 'Tis jasper ye stand pledged to, lest I grieve. My bath must needs be left behind, alas! One block, pure green as a pistachio-nut, There's plenty jasper somewhere in the world -- And have I not Saint Praxed's ear to pray Horses for ye, and brown Greek manuscripts, And mistresses with great smooth marbly limbs? -- That's if ye carve my epitaph aright, Choice Latin, picked phrase, Tully's every word, No gaudy ware like Gandolf's second line -- Tully, my masters? Ulpian serves his need! And then how I shall lie through centuries, And hear the blessed mutter of the mass, And see God made and eaten all day long, And feel the steady candle-flame, and taste Good strong thick stupefying incense-smoke! For as I lie here, hours of the dead night, Dying in state and by such slow degrees, I fold my arms as if they clasped a crook, And stretch my feet forth straight as stone can point, And let the bedclothes, for a mortcloth, drop Into great laps and folds of sculptor's work: And as yon tapers dwindle, and strange thoughts Grow, with a certain humming in my ears, About the life before I lived this life, And this life too, popes, cardinals and priests, Saint Praxed at his sermon on the mount, Your tall pale mother with her talking eyes, And new-found agate urns as fresh as day, And marble's language, Latin pure, discreet, -- Aha, ELUCESCEBAT quoth our friend? No Tully, said I, Ulpian at the best! Evil and brief hath been my pilgrimage. All lapis, all, sons! Else I give the Pope My villas! Will ye ever eat my heart? Ever your eyes were as a lizard's quick, They glitter like your mother's for my soul, Or ye would heighten my impoverished frieze, Piece out its starved design, and fill my vase With grapes, and add a visor and a Term, And to the tripod ye would tie a lynx That in his struggle throws the thyrsus down, To comfort me on my entablature Whereon I am to lie till I must ask "Do I live, am I dead?" There, leave me, there! For ye have stabbed me with ingratitude To death -- ye wish it -- God, ye wish it! Stone -- Gritstone, a crumble! Clammy squares which sweat As if the corpse they keep were oozing through -- And no more lapis to delight the world! Well, go! I bless ye. Fewer tapers there, But in a row: and, going, turn your backs -- Ay, like departing altar-ministrants, And leave me in my church, the church for peace, That I may watch at leisure if he leers -- Old Gandolf -- at me, from his onion-stone, As still he envied me, so fair she was!

Written by Dylan Thomas | All That I Owe The Fellows Of The Grave All that I owe the fellows of the grave And all the dead bequeathed from pale estates Lies in the fortuned bone, the flask of blood, Like senna stirs along the ravaged roots. O all I owe is all the flesh inherits, My fathers' loves that pull upon my nerves, My sisters tears that sing upon my head My brothers' blood that salts my open wounds Heir to the scalding veins that hold love's drop, My fallen filled, that had the hint of death, Heir to the telling senses that alone Acquaint the flesh with a remembered itch, I round this heritage as rounds the sun His windy sky, and, as the candles moon, Cast light upon my weather. I am heir To women who have twisted their last smile, To children who were suckled on a plague, To young adorers dying on a kiss. All such disease I doctor in my blood, And all such love's a shrub sown in the breath. Then look, my eyes, upon this bonehead fortune And browse upon the postures of the dead; All night and day I eye the ragged globe Through periscopes rightsighted from the grave; All night and day I wander in these same Wax clothes that wax upon the aging ribs; All night my fortune slumbers in its sheet. Then look, my heart, upon the scarlet trove, And look, my grain, upon the falling wheat; All night my fortune slumbers in its sheet.

Written by Claude McKay | Summer Morn in New Hampshire All yesterday it poured, and all night long I could not sleep; the rain unceasing beat Upon the shingled roof like a weird song, Upon the grass like running children's feet. And down the mountains by the dark cloud kissed, Like a strange shape in filmy veiling dressed, Slid slowly, silently, the wraith-like mist, And nestled soft against the earth's wet breast. But lo, there was a miracle at dawn! The still air stirred at touch of the faint breeze, The sun a sheet of gold bequeathed the lawn, The songsters twittered in the rustling trees. And all things were transfigured in the day, But me whom radiant beauty could not move; For you, more wonderful, were far away, And I was blind with hunger for your love.