10 Best Famous Blights Poems

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

• All Famous Blights Poems

Love is like the wild rose-briar,
Friendship like the holly-tree—
The holly is dark when the rose-briar blooms
But which will bloom most constantly?

The wild rose-briar is sweet in spring,
Its summer blossoms scent the air;
Yet wait till winter comes again
And who will call the wild-briar fair?

Then scorn the silly rose-wreath now
And deck thee with the holly’s sheen,
That when December blights thy brow
He still may leave thy garland green.

 I wander thro' each charter'd street.
Near where the charter'd Thames does flow
A mark in every face I meet
Marks of weakness, marks of woe.

In every cry of every Man.
In every Infants cry of fear.
In every voice; in every ban.
The mind-forg'd manacles I hear

How the Chimney-sweepers cry
Every blackening Church appalls.
And the hapless Soldiers sigh
Runs in blood down Palace walls

But most thro' midnight streets I hear
How the youthful Harlots curse
Blasts the new-born Infants tear
And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse

 The demon in me's not dead,
He's living, and well.
In the body as in a hold,
In the self as in a cell.
The world is but walls.
The exit's the axe.
("All the world's a stage,"
The actor prates.)
And that hobbling buffoon
Is no joker;
In the body as in glory,
In the body as in a toga.
May you live forever!
Cherish your life,
Only poets in bone
Are as in a lie.
No, my eloquent brothers,
We'll not have much fun,
In the body as with Father's
Dressing-gown on.
We deserve something better.
We wilt in the warm.
In the body as in a byre.
In the self as in a cauldron.
Marvels that perish
We don't collect.
In the body as in a marsh,
In the body as in a crypt.
In the body as in furthest
Exile. It blights.
In the body as in a secret,
In the body as in the vice
Of an iron mask.

 I 

"O Time, whence comes the Mother's moody look amid her labours, 
 As of one who all unwittingly has wounded where she loves? 
 Why weaves she not her world-webs to according lutes and tabors, 
With nevermore this too remorseful air upon her face, 
 As of angel fallen from grace?" 

II 

- "Her look is but her story: construe not its symbols keenly: 
 In her wonderworks yea surely has she wounded where she loves. 
 The sense of ills misdealt for blisses blanks the mien most 
queenly, 
Self-smitings kill self-joys; and everywhere beneath the sun 
 Such deeds her hands have done." 

III 

- "And how explains thy Ancient Mind her crimes upon her creatures, 
 These fallings from her fair beginnings, woundings where she 
loves, 
 Into her would-be perfect motions, modes, effects, and features 
Admitting cramps, black humours, wan decay, and baleful blights, 
 Distress into delights?" 

IV 

- "Ah! know'st thou not her secret yet, her vainly veiled deficience, 
 Whence it comes that all unwittingly she wounds the lives she 
loves? 
 That sightless are those orbs of hers?--which bar to her 
omniscience 
Brings those fearful unfulfilments, that red ravage through her zones 
 Whereat all creation groans. 

V 

"She whispers it in each pathetic strenuous slow endeavour, 
 When in mothering she unwittingly sets wounds on what she loves; 
 Yet her primal doom pursues her, faultful, fatal is she ever; 
Though so deft and nigh to vision is her facile finger-touch 
 That the seers marvel much. 

VI 

"Deal, then, her groping skill no scorn, no note of malediction; 
 Not long on thee will press the hand that hurts the lives it 
loves; 
 And while she dares dead-reckoning on, in darkness of affliction, 
Assist her where thy creaturely dependence can or may, 
 For thou art of her clay."

 Whene'er I see those smiling eyes, 
So full of hope, and joy, and light, 
As if no cloud could ever rise, 
To dim a heaven so purely bright -- 
I sigh to think how soon that brow 
In grief may lose its every ray, 
And that light heart, so joyous now, 
Almost forget it once was gay. 

For time will come with all its blights, 
The ruin'd hope, the friend unkind, 
And love, that leaves, where'er it lights, 
A chill'd or burning heart behind: 
While youth, that now like snow appears, 
Ere sullied by the darkening rain, 
When once 'tis touch'd by sorrow's tears, 
Can never shine so bright again.

 BEAUTEOUS Rosebud, young and gay,
Blooming in thy early May,
Never may’st thou, lovely flower,
Chilly shrink in sleety shower!
Never Boreas’ hoary path,
Never Eurus’ pois’nous breath,
Never baleful stellar lights,
Taint thee with untimely blights!
Never, never reptile thief
Riot on thy virgin leaf!
Nor even Sol too fiercely view
Thy bosom blushing still with dew!


 May’st thou long, sweet crimson gem,
Richly deck thy native stem;
Till some ev’ning, sober, calm,
Dropping dews, and breathing balm,
While all around the woodland rings,
And ev’ry bird thy requiem sings;
Thou, amid the dirgeful sound,
Shed thy dying honours round,
And resign to parent Earth
The loveliest form she e’er gave birth.