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Best Famous Blazon Poems

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

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Written by Robert William Service | Create an image from this poem

The Call Of The Wild

 Have you gazed on naked grandeur where there's nothing else to gaze on,
 Set pieces and drop-curtain scenes galore,
Big mountains heaved to heaven, which the blinding sunsets blazon,
 Black canyons where the rapids rip and roar?
Have you swept the visioned valley with the green stream streaking through it,
 Searched the Vastness for a something you have lost?
Have you strung your soul to silence? Then for God's sake go and do it;
 Hear the challenge, learn the lesson, pay the cost.
Have you wandered in the wilderness, the sagebrush desolation, The bunch-grass levels where the cattle graze? Have you whistled bits of rag-time at the end of all creation, And learned to know the desert's little ways? Have you camped upon the foothills, have you galloped o'er the ranges, Have you roamed the arid sun-lands through and through? Have you chummed up with the mesa? Do you know its moods and changes? Then listen to the Wild -- it's calling you.
Have you known the Great White Silence, not a snow-gemmed twig aquiver? (Eternal truths that shame our soothing lies.
) Have you broken trail on snowshoes? mushed your huskies up the river, Dared the unknown, led the way, and clutched the prize? Have you marked the map's void spaces, mingled with the mongrel races, Felt the savage strength of brute in every thew? And though grim as hell the worst is, can you round it off with curses? Then hearken to the Wild -- it's wanting you.
Have you suffered, starved and triumphed, groveled down, yet grasped at glory, Grown bigger in the bigness of the whole? "Done things" just for the doing, letting babblers tell the story, Seeing through the nice veneer the naked soul? Have you seen God in His splendors, heard the text that nature renders? (You'll never hear it in the family pew.
) The simple things, the true things, the silent men who do things -- Then listen to the Wild -- it's calling you.
They have cradled you in custom, they have primed you with their preaching, They have soaked you in convention through and through; They have put you in a showcase; you're a credit to their teaching -- But can't you hear the Wild? -- it's calling you.
Let us probe the silent places, let us seek what luck betide us; Let us journey to a lonely land I know.
There's a whisper on the night-wind, there's a star agleam to guide us, And the Wild is calling, calling .
.
.
let us go.


Written by Delmira Agustini | Create an image from this poem

Mi Musa Triste (My Sad Muse)

SpanishVagos preludios.
En la noche espléndidaSu voz de perlas una fuente calla,Cuelgan las brisas sus celestes pifanosEn el follaje.
Las cabezas pardasDe los búhos acechan.
Las flores se abren más, como asombradas.
Los cisnes de marfil tienden los cuellosEn las lagunas pálidas.
Selene mira del azul.
Las frondasTiemblan… y todo! hasta el silencio, calla…Es que ella pasa con su boca tristeY el gran misterio de sus ojos de ámbar,A través de la noche, hacia el olvido,Como una estrella fugitiva y blanca.
Como una destronada reina exóticaDe bellos gestos y palabras raras.
Horizontes violados sus ojerasDentro sus ojos–dos estrellas de ámbar–Se abren cansados y húmedos y tristesComo llagas de luz que quejaran.
Es un dolor que vive y que no espera,Es una aurora gris que se levantaDel gran lecho de sombras de la noche,Cansada ya, sin esplendor, sin ansiasY sus canciones son como hadas tristesAlhajadas de lágrimas…              EnglishMurmuring preludes.
On this resplendent nightHer pearled voice quiets a fountain.
The breezes hang their celestial fifesIn the foliage.
The gray headsOf the owls keep watch.
Flowers open themselves, as if surprised.
Ivory swans extend their necksIn the pallid lakes.
Selene watches from the blue.
FrondsTremble…and everything! Even the silence, quiets.
She wanders with her sad mouthAnd the grand mystery of amber eyes,Across the night, toward forgetfulnessLike a star, fugitive and white.
Like a dethroned exotic queenWith comely gestures and rare utterings.
Her undereyes are violated horizonsAnd her irises–two stars of amber–Open wet and weary and sadLike ulcers of light that weep.
She is a grief which thrives and does not hope,She is a gray aurora risingFrom the shadowy bed of night,Exhausted, without splendor, without anxiousness.
And her songs are like dolorous fairiesJeweled in teardrops…                          The strings of lyres                          Are the souls' fibers.
–The blood of bitter vineyards, noble vineyards,In goblets of regal beauty, risesTo her marble hands, to lips carvedLike the blazon of a great lineage.
Strange Princes of Fantasy! TheyHave seen her languid head, once erect,And heard her laugh, for her eyesTremble with the flower of aristocracies!And her soul clean as fire, like a star,Burns in those pupils of amber.
But with a mere glance, scarcely an intimacy,Perhaps the echo of a profane voice,This white and pristine soul shrinksLike a luminous flower, folding herself up!

Written by Amy Lowell | Create an image from this poem

Apology

 Be not angry with me that I bear
Your colours everywhere,
All through each crowded street,
And meet
The wonder-light in every eye,
As I go by.
Each plodding wayfarer looks up to gaze, Blinded by rainbow haze, The stuff of happiness, No less, Which wraps me in its glad-hued folds Of peacock golds.
Before my feet the dusty, rough-paved way Flushes beneath its gray.
My steps fall ringed with light, So bright, It seems a myriad suns are strown About the town.
Around me is the sound of steepled bells, And rich perfumed smells Hang like a wind-forgotten cloud, And shroud Me from close contact with the world.
I dwell impearled.
You blazon me with jewelled insignia.
A flaming nebula Rims in my life.
And yet You set The word upon me, unconfessed To go unguessed.
Written by Thomas Hardy | Create an image from this poem

The Sick God

 I 

 In days when men had joy of war, 
A God of Battles sped each mortal jar; 
 The peoples pledged him heart and hand, 
 From Israel's land to isles afar.
II His crimson form, with clang and chime, Flashed on each murk and murderous meeting-time, And kings invoked, for rape and raid, His fearsome aid in rune and rhyme.
III On bruise and blood-hole, scar and seam, On blade and bolt, he flung his fulgid beam: His haloes rayed the very gore, And corpses wore his glory-gleam.
IV Often an early King or Queen, And storied hero onward, knew his sheen; 'Twas glimpsed by Wolfe, by Ney anon, And Nelson on his blue demesne.
V But new light spread.
That god's gold nimb And blazon have waned dimmer and more dim; Even his flushed form begins to fade, Till but a shade is left of him.
VI That modern meditation broke His spell, that penmen's pleadings dealt a stroke, Say some; and some that crimes too dire Did much to mire his crimson cloak.
VII Yea, seeds of crescive sympathy Were sown by those more excellent than he, Long known, though long contemned till then - The gods of men in amity.
VIII Souls have grown seers, and thought out-brings The mournful many-sidedness of things With foes as friends, enfeebling ires And fury-fires by gaingivings! IX He scarce impassions champions now; They do and dare, but tensely--pale of brow; And would they fain uplift the arm Of that faint form they know not how.
X Yet wars arise, though zest grows cold; Wherefore, at whiles, as 'twere in ancient mould He looms, bepatched with paint and lath; But never hath he seemed the old! XI Let men rejoice, let men deplore.
The lurid Deity of heretofore Succumbs to one of saner nod; The Battle-god is god no more.
Written by John Greenleaf Whittier | Create an image from this poem

A Word for the Hour

 The firmament breaks up.
In black eclipse Light after light goes out.
One evil star, Luridly glaring through the smoke of war, As in the dream of the Apocalypse, Drags others down.
Let us not weakly weep Nor rashly threaten.
Give us grace to keep Our faith and patience; wherefore should we leap On one hand into fratricidal fight, Or, on the other, yield eternal right, Frame lies of laws, and good and ill confound? What fear we? Safe on freedom's vantage ground Our feet are planted; let us there remain In unrevengeful calm, no means untried Which truth can sanction, no just claim denied, The sad spectators of a suicide! They break the lines of Union: shall we light The fires of hell to weld anew the chain On that red anvil where each blow is pain? Draw we not even now a freer breath, As from our shoulders falls a load of death Loathsome as that the Tuscan's victim bore When keen with life to a dead horror bound? Why take we up the accursed thing again? Pity, forgive, but urge them back no more Who, drunk with passion, flaunt disunion's rag With its vile reptile blazon.
Let us press The golden cluster on our brave old flag In closer union, and, if numbering less, Brighter shall shine the stars which still remain.


Written by William Shakespeare | Create an image from this poem

Sonnet 106: When in the chronicle of wasted time

 When in the chronicle of wasted time
I see descriptions of the fairest wights,
And beauty making beautiful old rhyme
In praise of ladies dead, and lovely knights,
Then, in the blazon of sweet beauty's best,
Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow,
I see their antique pen would have expressed
Even such a beauty as you master now.
So all their praises are but prophecies Of this our time, all you prefiguring; And, for they looked but with divining eyes, They had not skill enough your worth to sing.
For we, which now behold these present days, Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.
Written by Philip Larkin | Create an image from this poem

An Arundel Tomb

 Side by side, their faces blurred,
The earl and countess lie in stone,
Their proper habits vaguely shown
As jointed armour, stiffened pleat,
And that faint hint of the absurd -
The little dogs under their feet.
Such plainness of the pre-baroque Hardly involves the eye, until It meets his left-hand gauntlet, still Clasped empty in the other; and One sees, with a sharp tender shock, His hand withdrawn, holding her hand.
They would not think to lie so long.
Such faithfulness in effigy Was just a detail friends would see: A sculptor's sweet commissioned grace Thrown off in helping to prolong The Latin names around the base.
They would no guess how early in Their supine stationary voyage The air would change to soundless damage, Turn the old tenantry away; How soon succeeding eyes begin To look, not read.
Rigidly they Persisted, linked, through lengths and breadths Of time.
Snow fell, undated.
Light Each summer thronged the grass.
A bright Litter of birdcalls strewed the same Bone-littered ground.
And up the paths The endless altered people came, Washing at their identity.
Now, helpless in the hollow of An unarmorial age, a trough Of smoke in slow suspended skeins Above their scrap of history, Only an attitude remains: Time has transfigures them into Untruth.
The stone fidelity They hardly meant has come to be Their final blazon, and to prove Our almost-instinct almost true: What will survive of us is love.
Written by Christopher Marlowe | Create an image from this poem

Hero and Leander: The First Sestiad

 1 On Hellespont, guilty of true love's blood,
2 In view and opposite two cities stood,
3 Sea-borderers, disjoin'd by Neptune's might;
4 The one Abydos, the other Sestos hight.
5 At Sestos Hero dwelt; Hero the fair, 6 Whom young Apollo courted for her hair, 7 And offer'd as a dower his burning throne, 8 Where she could sit for men to gaze upon.
9 The outside of her garments were of lawn, 10 The lining purple silk, with gilt stars drawn; 11 Her wide sleeves green, and border'd with a grove, 12 Where Venus in her naked glory strove 13 To please the careless and disdainful eyes 14 Of proud Adonis, that before her lies; 15 Her kirtle blue, whereon was many a stain, 16 Made with the blood of wretched lovers slain.
17 Upon her head she ware a myrtle wreath, 18 From whence her veil reach'd to the ground beneath; 19 Her veil was artificial flowers and leaves, 20 Whose workmanship both man and beast deceives; 21 Many would praise the sweet smell as she past, 22 When 'twas the odour which her breath forth cast; 23 And there for honey bees have sought in vain, 24 And beat from thence, have lighted there again.
25 About her neck hung chains of pebble-stone, 26 Which lighten'd by her neck, like diamonds shone.
27 She ware no gloves; for neither sun nor wind 28 Would burn or parch her hands, but, to her mind, 29 Or warm or cool them, for they took delight 30 To play upon those hands, they were so white.
31 Buskins of shells, all silver'd, used she, 32 And branch'd with blushing coral to the knee; 33 Where sparrows perch'd, of hollow pearl and gold, 34 Such as the world would wonder to behold: 35 Those with sweet water oft her handmaid fills, 36 Which as she went, would chirrup through the bills.
37 Some say, for her the fairest Cupid pin'd, 38 And looking in her face, was strooken blind.
39 But this is true; so like was one the other, 40 As he imagin'd Hero was his mother; 41 And oftentimes into her bosom flew, 42 About her naked neck his bare arms threw, 43 And laid his childish head upon her breast, 44 And with still panting rock'd there took his rest.
45 So lovely-fair was Hero, Venus' nun, 46 As Nature wept, thinking she was undone, 47 Because she took more from her than she left, 48 And of such wondrous beauty her bereft: 49 Therefore, in sign her treasure suffer'd wrack, 50 Since Hero's time hath half the world been black.
51 Amorous Leander, beautiful and young 52 (Whose tragedy divine Mus?us sung), 53 Dwelt at Abydos; since him dwelt there none 54 For whom succeeding times make greater moan.
55 His dangling tresses, that were never shorn, 56 Had they been cut, and unto Colchos borne, 57 Would have allur'd the vent'rous youth of Greece 58 To hazard more than for the golden fleece.
59 Fair Cynthia wish'd his arms might be her sphere; 60 Grief makes her pale, because she moves not there.
61 His body was as straight as Circe's wand; 62 Jove might have sipt out nectar from his hand.
63 Even as delicious meat is to the taste, 64 So was his neck in touching, and surpast 65 The white of Pelops' shoulder: I could tell ye, 66 How smooth his breast was, and how white his belly; 67 And whose immortal fingers did imprint 68 That heavenly path with many a curious dint 69 That runs along his back; but my rude pen 70 Can hardly blazon forth the loves of men, 71 Much less of powerful gods: let it suffice 72 That my slack Muse sings of Leander's eyes; 73 Those orient cheeks and lips, exceeding his 74 That leapt into the water for a kiss 75 Of his own shadow, and, despising many, 76 Died ere he could enjoy the love of any.
77 Had wild Hippolytus Leander seen, 78 Enamour'd of his beauty had he been.
79 His presence made the rudest peasant melt, 80 That in the vast uplandish country dwelt; 81 The barbarous Thracian soldier, mov'd with nought, 82 Was mov'd with him, and for his favour sought.
83 Some swore he was a maid in man's attire, 84 For in his looks were all that men desire,-- 85 A pleasant smiling cheek, a speaking eye, 86 A brow for love to banquet royally; 87 And such as knew he was a man, would say, 88 "Leander, thou art made for amorous play; 89 Why art thou not in love, and lov'd of all? 90 Though thou be fair, yet be not thine own thrall.
" 91 The men of wealthy Sestos every year, 92 For his sake whom their goddess held so dear, 93 Rose-cheek'd Adonis, kept a solemn feast.
94 Thither resorted many a wandering guest 95 To meet their loves; such as had none at all 96 Came lovers home from this great festival; 97 For every street, like to a firmament, 98 Glister'd with breathing stars, who, where they went, 99 Frighted the melancholy earth, which deem'd 100 Eternal heaven to burn, for so it seem'd 101 As if another Pha{"e}ton had got 102 The guidance of the sun's rich chariot.
103 But far above the loveliest, Hero shin'd, 104 And stole away th' enchanted gazer's mind; 105 For like sea-nymphs' inveigling harmony, 106 So was her beauty to the standers-by; 107 Nor that night-wandering, pale, and watery star 108 (When yawning dragons draw her thirling car 109 From Latmus' mount up to the gloomy sky, 110 Where, crown'd with blazing light and majesty, 111 She proudly sits) more over-rules the flood 112 Than she the hearts of those that near her stood.
113 Even as when gaudy nymphs pursue the chase, 114 Wretched Ixion's shaggy-footed race, 115 Incens'd with savage heat, gallop amain 116 From steep pine-bearing mountains to the plain, 117 So ran the people forth to gaze upon her, 118 And all that view'd her were enamour'd on her.
119 And as in fury of a dreadful fight, 120 Their fellows being slain or put to flight, 121 Poor soldiers stand with fear of death dead-strooken, 122 So at her presence all surpris'd and tooken, 123 Await the sentence of her scornful eyes; 124 He whom she favours lives; the other dies.
125 There might you see one sigh, another rage, 126 And some, their violent passions to assuage, 127 Compile sharp satires; but, alas, too late, 128 For faithful love will never turn to hate.
129 And many, seeing great princes were denied, 130 Pin'd as they went, and thinking on her, died.
131 On this feast-day--O cursed day and hour!-- 132 Went Hero thorough Sestos, from her tower 133 To Venus' temple, where unhappily, 134 As after chanc'd, they did each other spy.
135 So fair a church as this had Venus none: 136 The walls were of discolour'd jasper-stone, 137 Wherein was Proteus carved; and over-head 138 A lively vine of green sea-agate spread, 139 Where by one hand light-headed Bacchus hung, 140 And with the other wine from grapes out-wrung.
141 Of crystal shining fair the pavement was; 142 The town of Sestos call'd it Venus' glass: 143 There might you see the gods in sundry shapes, 144 Committing heady riots, incest, rapes: 145 For know, that underneath this radiant flower 146 Was Danae's statue in a brazen tower, 147 Jove slyly stealing from his sister's bed, 148 To dally with Idalian Ganimed, 149 And for his love Europa bellowing loud, 150 And tumbling with the rainbow in a cloud; 151 Blood-quaffing Mars heaving the iron net, 152 Which limping Vulcan and his Cyclops set; 153 Love kindling fire, to burn such towns as Troy, 154 Sylvanus weeping for the lovely boy 155 That now is turn'd into a cypress tree, 156 Under whose shade the wood-gods love to be.
157 And in the midst a silver altar stood: 158 There Hero, sacrificing turtles' blood, 159 Vail'd to the ground, veiling her eyelids close; 160 And modestly they opened as she rose.
161 Thence flew Love's arrow with the golden head; 162 And thus Leander was enamoured.
163 Stone-still he stood, and evermore he gazed, 164 Till with the fire that from his count'nance blazed 165 Relenting Hero's gentle heart was strook: 166 Such force and virtue hath an amorous look.
167 It lies not in our power to love or hate, 168 For will in us is over-rul'd by fate.
169 When two are stript, long ere the course begin, 170 We wish that one should lose, the other win; 171 And one especially do we affect 172 Of two gold ingots, like in each respect: 173 The reason no man knows, let it suffice, 174 What we behold is censur'd by our eyes.
175 Where both deliberate, the love is slight: 176 Who ever lov'd, that lov'd not at first sight?
Written by Dorothy Parker | Create an image from this poem

Philosophy

 If I should labor through daylight and dark,
Consecrate, valorous, serious, true,
Then on the world I may blazon my mark;
And what if I don't, and what if I do?
Written by Francesco Petrarch | Create an image from this poem

SONNET XLI

SONNET XLI.

L' alto e novo miracol ch' a dì nostri.

IT IS IMPOSSIBLE FOR HIM TO DESCRIBE HER EXCELLENCES.

The wonder, high and new, that, in our days,
Dawn'd on the world, yet would not there remain,
Which heaven but show'd to us to snatch again
Better to blazon its own starry ways;
That to far times I her should paint and praise
Love wills, who prompted first my passionate strain;
But now wit, leisure, pen, page, ink in vain
To the fond task a thousand times he sways.
My slow rhymes struggle not to life the while;
I feel it, and whoe'er to-day below,
Or speak or write of love will prove it so.
Who justly deems the truth beyond all style,
Here silent let him muse, and sighing say,
Blessèd the eyes who saw her living day!
Macgregor.

Book: Reflection on the Important Things