Best Famous Blouses Poems

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

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• All Famous Blouses Poems

Written by Anne Sexton | The Ballad Of The Lonely Masturbator The end of the affair is always death. She's my workshop. Slippery eye, out of the tribe of myself my breath finds you gone. I horrify those who stand by. I am fed. At night, alone, I marry the bed. Finger to finger, now she's mine. She's not too far. She's my encounter. I beat her like a bell. I recline in the bower where you used to mount her. You borrowed me on the flowered spread. At night, alone, I marry the bed. Take for instance this night, my love, that every single couple puts together with a joint overturning, beneath, above, the abundant two on sponge and feather, kneeling and pushing, head to head. At night, alone, I marry the bed. I break out of my body this way, an annoying miracle. Could I put the dream market on display? I am spread out. I crucify. My little plum is what you said. At night, alone, I marry the bed. Then my black-eyed rival came. The lady of water, rising on the beach, a piano at her fingertips, shame on her lips and a flute's speech. And I was the knock-kneed broom instead. At night, alone, I marry the bed. She took you the way a women takes a bargain dress off the rack and I broke the way a stone breaks. I give back your books and fishing tack. Today's paper says that you are wed. At night, alone, I marry the bed. The boys and girls are one tonight. They unbutton blouses. They unzip flies. They take off shoes. They turn off the light. The glimmering creatures are full of lies. They are eating each other. They are overfed. At night, alone, I marry the bed.

Written by Ralph Waldo Emerson | Initial Love Venus, when her son was lost, Cried him up and down the coast, In hamlets, palaces, and parks, And told the truant by his marks, Golden curls, and quiver, and bow;— This befell long ago. Time and tide are strangely changed, Men and manners much deranged; None will now find Cupid latent By this foolish antique patent. He came late along the waste, Shod like a traveller for haste, With malice dared me to proclaim him, That the maids and boys might name him. Boy no more, he wears all coats, Frocks, and blouses, capes, capôtes, He bears no bow, or quiver, or wand, Nor chaplet on his head or hand: Leave his weeds and heed his eyes, All the rest he can disguise. In the pit of his eyes a spark Would bring back day if it were dark, And,—if I tell you all my thought, Though I comprehend it not,— In those unfathomable orbs Every function he absorbs; He doth eat, and drink, and fish, and shoot, And write, and reason, and compute, And ride, and run, and have, and hold, And whine, and flatter, and regret, And kiss, and couple, and beget, By those roving eye-balls bold; Undaunted are their courages, Right Cossacks in their forages; Fleeter they than any creature, They are his steeds and not his feature, Inquisitive, and fierce, and fasting, Restless, predatory, hasting,— And they pounce on other eyes, As lions on their prey; And round their circles is writ, Plainer than the day, Underneath, within, above, Love, love, love, love. He lives in his eyes, There doth digest, and work, and spin, And buy, and sell, and lose, and win; He rolls them with delighted motion, Joy-tides swell their mimic ocean. Yet holds he them with tortest rein, That they may seize and entertain The glance that to their glance opposes, Like fiery honey sucked from roses. He palmistry can understand, Imbibing virtue by his hand As if it were a living root; The pulse of hands will make him mute; With all his force he gathers balms Into those wise thrilling palms. Cupid is a casuist, A mystic, and a cabalist, Can your lurking Thought surprise, And interpret your device; Mainly versed in occult science, In magic, and in clairvoyance. Oft he keeps his fine ear strained, And reason on her tiptoe pained, For aery intelligence, And for strange coincidence. But it touches his quick heart When Fate by omens takes his part, And chance-dropt hints from Nature's sphere Deeply soothe his anxious ear. Heralds high before him run, He has ushers many a one, Spreads his welcome where he goes, And touches all things with his rose. All things wait for and divine him,— How shall I dare to malign him, Or accuse the god of sport?— I must end my true report, Painting him from head to foot, In as far as I took note, Trusting well the matchless power Of this young-eyed emperor Will clear his fame from every cloud, With the bards, and with the crowd. He is wilful, mutable, Shy, untamed, inscrutable, Swifter-fashioned than the fairies, Substance mixed of pure contraries, His vice some elder virtue's token, And his good is evil spoken. Failing sometimes of his own, He is headstrong and alone; He affects the wood and wild, Like a flower-hunting child, Buries himself in summer waves, In trees, with beasts, in mines, and caves, Loves nature like a horned cow, Bird, or deer, or cariboo. Shun him, nymphs, on the fleet horses! He has a total world of wit, O how wise are his discourses! But he is the arch-hypocrite, And through all science and all art, Seeks alone his counterpart. He is a Pundit of the east, He is an augur and a priest, And his soul will melt in prayer, But word and wisdom are a snare; Corrupted by the present toy, He follows joy, and only joy. There is no mask but he will wear, He invented oaths to swear, He paints, he carves, he chants, he prays, And holds all stars in his embrace, Godlike, —but 'tis for his fine pelf, The social quintessence of self. Well, said I, he is hypocrite, And folly the end of his subtle wit, He takes a sovran privilege Not allowed to any liege, For he does go behind all law, And right into himself does draw, For he is sovranly allied. Heaven's oldest blood flows in his side, And interchangeably at one With every king on every throne, That no God dare say him nay, Or see the fault, or seen betray; He has the Muses by the heart, And the Parcæ all are of his part. His many signs cannot be told, He has not one mode, but manifold, Many fashions and addresses, Piques, reproaches, hurts, caresses, Action, service, badinage, He will preach like a friar, And jump like Harlequin, He will read like a crier, And fight like a Paladin. Boundless is his memory, Plans immense his term prolong, He is not of counted age, Meaning always to be young. And his wish is intimacy, Intimater intimacy, And a stricter privacy, The impossible shall yet be done, And being two shall still be one. As the wave breaks to foam on shelves, Then runs into a wave again, So lovers melt their sundered selves, Yet melted would be twain.

Written by Richard Wilbur | Love Calls Us To The Things Of This World The eyes open to a cry of pulleys, And spirited from sleep, the astounded soul Hangs for a moment bodiless and simple As false dawn. Outside the open window The morning air is all awash with angels. Some are in bed-sheets, some are in blouses, Some are in smocks: but truly there they are. Now they are rising together in calm swells Of halcyon feeling, filling whatever they wear With the deep joy of their impersonal breathing; Now they are flying in place, conveying The terrible speed of their omnipresence, moving And staying like white water; and now of a sudden They swoon down in so rapt a quiet That nobody seems to be there. The soul shrinks From all that it is about to remember, From the punctual rape of every blessed day, And cries, "Oh, let there be nothing on earth but laundry, Nothing but rosy hands in the rising steam And clear dances done in the sight of heaven." Yet, as the sun acknowledges With a warm look the world's hunks and colors, The soul descends once more in bitter love To accept the waking body, saying now In a changed voice as the man yawns and rises, "Bring them down from their ruddy gallows; Let there be clean linen for the backs of thieves; Let lovers go fresh and sweet to be undone, And the heaviest nuns walk in a pure floating Of dark habits, keeping their difficult balance."

Written by Robert William Service | Milking Time There's a drip of honeysuckle in the deep green lane; There's old Martin jogging homeward on his worn old wain; There are cherry petals falling, and a cuckoo calling, calling, And a score of larks (God bless 'em) . . . but it's all pain, pain. For you see I am not really there at all, not at all; For you see I'm in the trenches where the crump-crumps fall; And the bits o' shells are screaming and it's only blessed dreaming That in fancy I am seeming back in old Saint Pol. Oh I've thought of it so often since I've come down here; And I never dreamt that any place could be so dear; The silvered whinstone houses, and the rosy men in blouses, And the kindly, white-capped women with their eyes spring-clear. And mother's sitting knitting where her roses climb, And the angelus is calling with a soft, soft chime, And the sea-wind comes caressing, and the light's a golden blessing, And Yvonne, Yvonne is guessing that it's milking time. Oh it's Sunday, for she's wearing of her broidered gown; And she draws the pasture pickets and the cows come down; And their feet are powdered yellow, and their voices honey-mellow, And they bring a scent of clover, and their eyes are brown. And Yvonne is dreaming after, but her eyes are blue; And her lips are made for laughter, and her white teeth too; And her mouth is like a cherry, and a dimple mocking merry Is lurking in the very cheek she turns to you. So I walk beside her kindly, and she laughs at me; And I heap her arms with lilac from the lilac tree; And a golden light is welling, and a golden peace is dwelling, And a thousand birds are telling how it's good to be. And what are pouting lips for if they can't be kissed? And I've filled her arms with blossom so she can't resist; And the cows are sadly straying, and her mother must be saying That Yvonne is long delaying . . . God! How close that missed. A nice polite reminder that the Boche are nigh; That we're here to fight like devils, and if need-be die; That from kissing pretty wenches to the frantic firing-benches Of the battered, tattered trenches is a far, far cry. Yet still I'm sitting dreaming in the glare and grime; And once again I'm hearing of them church-bells chime; And how I wonder whether in the golden summer weather We will fetch the cows together when it's milking time. . . . (English voice, months later): -- "Ow Bill! A rottin' Frenchy. Whew! 'E ain't 'arf prime."

Written by Robert William Service | Tri-Colour Poppies, you try to tell me, glowing there in the wheat; Poppies! Ah no! You mock me: It's blood, I tell you, it's blood. It's gleaming wet in the grasses; it's glist'ning warm in the wheat; It dabbles the ferns and the clover; it brims in an angry flood; It leaps to the startled heavens; it smothers the sun; it cries With scarlet voices of triumph from blossom and bough and blade. See the bright horror of it! It's roaring out of the skies, And the whole red world is a-welter. . . . Oh God! I'm afraid! I'm afraid! Cornflowers, you say, just cornflowers, gemming the golden grain; Ah no! You can't deceive me. Can't I believe my eyes? Look! It's the dead, my comrades, stark on the dreadful plain, All in their dark-blue blouses, staring up at the skies. Comrades of canteen laughter, dumb in the yellow wheat. See how they sprawl and huddle! See how their brows are white! Goaded on to the shambles, there in death and defeat. . . . Father of Pity, hide them! Hasten, O God, Thy night! Lillies (the light is waning), only lilies you say, Nestling and softly shining there where the spear-grass waves. No, my friend, I know better; brighter I see than day: It's the poor little wooden crosses over their quiet graves. Oh, how they're gleaming, gleaming! See! Each cross has a crown. Yes, it's true I am dying; little will be the loss. . . . Darkness . . . but look! In Heaven a light, and it's shining down. . . . God's accolade! Lift me up, friends. I'm going to win -- my Cross.

Written by Carl Sandburg | Iron GUNS, Long, steel guns, Pointed from the war ships In the name of the war god. Straight, shining, polished guns, Clambered over with jackies in white blouses, Glory of tan faces, tousled hair, white teeth, Laughing lithe jackies in white blouses, Sitting on the guns singing war songs, war chanties. Shovels, Broad, iron shovels, Scooping out oblong vaults, Loosening turf and leveling sod. I ask you To witness-- The shovel is brother to the gun.

Written by D. H. Lawrence | The Schoolmaster I =A Snowy Day in School= All the slow school hours, round the irregular hum of the class, Have pressed immeasurable spaces of hoarse silence Muffling my mind, as snow muffles the sounds that pass Down the soiled street. We have pattered the lessons ceaselessly-- But the faces of the boys, in the brooding, yellow light Have shone for me like a crowded constellation of stars, Like full-blown flowers dimly shaking at the night, Like floating froth on an ebbing shore in the moon. Out of each star, dark, strange beams that disquiet: In the open depths of each flower, dark restless drops: Twin bubbles, shadow-full of mystery and challenge in the foam's whispering riot: --How can I answer the challenge of so many eyes! The thick snow is crumpled on the roof, it plunges down Awfully. Must I call back those hundred eyes?--A voice Wakes from the hum, faltering about a noun-- My question! My God, I must break from this hoarse silence That rustles beyond the stars to me.--There, I have startled a hundred eyes, and I must look Them an answer back. It is more than I can bear. The snow descends as if the dull sky shook In flakes of shadow down; and through the gap Between the ruddy schools sweeps one black rook. The rough snowball in the playground stands huge and still With fair flakes settling down on it.--Beyond, the town Is lost in the shadowed silence the skies distil. And all things are possessed by silence, and they can brood Wrapped up in the sky's dim space of hoarse silence Earnestly--and oh for me this class is a bitter rood. II =The Best of School= The blinds are drawn because of the sun, And the boys and the room in a colourless gloom Of under-water float: bright ripples run Across the walls as the blinds are blown To let the sunlight in; and I, As I sit on the beach of the class alone, Watch the boys in their summer blouses, As they write, their round heads busily bowed: And one after another rouses And lifts his face and looks at me, And my eyes meet his very quietly, Then he turns again to his work, with glee. With glee he turns, with a little glad Ecstasy of work he turns from me, An ecstasy surely sweet to be had. And very sweet while the sunlight waves In the fresh of the morning, it is to be A teacher of these young boys, my slaves Only as swallows are slaves to the eaves They build upon, as mice are slaves To the man who threshes and sows the sheaves. Oh, sweet it is To feel the lads' looks light on me, Then back in a swift, bright flutter to work, As birds who are stealing turn and flee. Touch after touch I feel on me As their eyes glance at me for the grain Of rigour they taste delightedly. And all the class, As tendrils reached out yearningly Slowly rotate till they touch the tree That they cleave unto, that they leap along Up to their lives--so they to me. So do they cleave and cling to me, So I lead them up, so do they twine Me up, caress and clothe with free Fine foliage of lives this life of mine; The lowest stem of this life of mine, The old hard stem of my life That bears aloft towards rarer skies My top of life, that buds on high Amid the high wind's enterprise. They all do clothe my ungrowing life With a rich, a thrilled young clasp of life; A clutch of attachment, like parenthood, Mounts up to my heart, and I find it good. And I lift my head upon the troubled tangled world, and though the pain Of living my life were doubled, I still have this to comfort and sustain, I have such swarming sense of lives at the base of me, such sense of lives Clustering upon me, reaching up, as each after the other strives To follow my life aloft to the fine wild air of life and the storm of thought, And though I scarcely see the boys, or know that they are there, distraught As I am with living my life in earnestness, still progressively and alone, Though they cling, forgotten the most part, not companions, scarcely known To me--yet still because of the sense of their closeness clinging densely to me, And slowly fingering up my stem and following all tinily The way that I have gone and now am leading, they are dear to me. They keep me assured, and when my soul feels lonely, All mistrustful of thrusting its shoots where only I alone am living, then it keeps Me comforted to feel the warmth that creeps Up dimly from their striving; it heartens my strife: And when my heart is chill with loneliness, Then comforts it the creeping tenderness Of all the strays of life that climb my life. III =Afternoon in School= THE LAST LESSON When will the bell ring, and end this weariness? How long have they tugged the leash, and strained apart My pack of unruly hounds: I cannot start Them again on a quarry of knowledge they hate to hunt, I can haul them and urge them no more. No more can I endure to bear the brunt Of the books that lie out on the desks: a full three score Of several insults of blotted page and scrawl Of slovenly work that they have offered me. I am sick, and tired more than any thrall Upon the woodstacks working weariedly. And shall I take The last dear fuel and heap it on my soul Till I rouse my will like a fire to consume Their dross of indifference, and burn the scroll Of their insults in punishment?--I will not! I will not waste myself to embers for them, Not all for them shall the fires of my life be hot, For myself a heap of ashes of weariness, till sleep Shall have raked the embers clear: I will keep Some of my strength for myself, for if I should sell It all for them, I should hate them-- --I will sit and wait for the bell.