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Best Famous Black As Pitch Poems

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

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Written by Ogden Nash | Create an image from this poem

Adventures Of Isabel

 Isabel met an enormous bear,
Isabel, Isabel, didn't care;
The bear was hungry, the bear was ravenous,
The bear's big mouth was cruel and cavernous.
The bear said, Isabel, glad to meet you, How do, Isabel, now I'll eat you! Isabel, Isabel, didn't worry.
Isabel didn't scream or scurry.
She washed her hands and she straightened her hair up, Then Isabel quietly ate the bear up.
Once in a night as black as pitch Isabel met a wicked old witch.
the witch's face was cross and wrinkled, The witch's gums with teeth were sprinkled.
Ho, ho, Isabel! the old witch crowed, I'll turn you into an ugly toad! Isabel, Isabel, didn't worry, Isabel didn't scream or scurry, She showed no rage and she showed no rancor, But she turned the witch into milk and drank her.
Isabel met a hideous giant, Isabel continued self reliant.
The giant was hairy, the giant was horrid, He had one eye in the middle of his forhead.
Good morning, Isabel, the giant said, I'll grind your bones to make my bread.
Isabel, Isabel, didn't worry, Isabel didn't scream or scurry.
She nibled the zwieback that she always fed off, And when it was gone, she cut the giant's head off.
Isabel met a troublesome doctor, He punched and he poked till he really shocked her.
The doctor's talk was of coughs and chills And the doctor's satchel bulged with pills.
The doctor said unto Isabel, Swallow this, it will make you well.
Isabel, Isabel, didn't worry, Isabel didn't scream or scurry.
She took those pills from the pill concocter, And Isabel calmly cured the doctor.

Written by Siegfried Sassoon | Create an image from this poem

The Redeemer

 Darkness: the rain sluiced down; the mire was deep; 
It was past twelve on a mid-winter night, 
When peaceful folk in beds lay snug asleep; 
There, with much work to do before the light, 
We lugged our clay-sucked boots as best we might 
Along the trench; sometimes a bullet sang, 
And droning shells burst with a hollow bang; 
We were soaked, chilled and wretched, every one; 
Darkness; the distant wink of a huge gun.
I turned in the black ditch, loathing the storm; A rocket fizzed and burned with blanching flare, And lit the face of what had been a form Floundering in mirk.
He stood before me there; I say that He was Christ; stiff in the glare, And leaning forward from His burdening task, Both arms supporting it; His eyes on mine Stared from the woeful head that seemed a mask Of mortal pain in Hell's unholy shine.
No thorny crown, only a woollen cap He wore--an English soldier, white and strong, Who loved his time like any simple chap, Good days of work and sport and homely song; Now he has learned that nights are very long, And dawn a watching of the windowed sky.
But to the end, unjudging, he'll endure Horror and pain, not uncontent to die That Lancaster on Lune may stand secure.
He faced me, reeling in his weariness, Shouldering his load of planks, so hard to bear.
I say that He was Christ, who wrought to bless All groping things with freedom bright as air, And with His mercy washed and made them fair.
Then the flame sank, and all grew black as pitch, While we began to struggle along the ditch; And someone flung his burden in the muck, Mumbling: 'O Christ Almighty, now I'm stuck!'