10 Best Famous Boggy Poems

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

• All Famous Boggy Poems

 I am the blossom pressed in a book,
found again after two hundred years. . . .

I am the maker, the lover, and the keeper. . . . 

When the young girl who starves
sits down to a table
she will sit beside me. . . . 

I am food on the prisoner's plate. . . . 

I am water rushing to the wellhead, 
filling the pitcher until it spills. . . . 

I am the patient gardener
of the dry and weedy garden. . . .

I am the stone step,
the latch, and the working hinge. . . . 

I am the heart contracted by joy. . .
the longest hair, white
before the rest. . . . 

I am there in the basket of fruit 
presented to the widow. . . .

I am the musk rose opening 
unattended, the fern on the boggy summit. . . . 

I am the one whose love
overcomes you, already with you
when you think to call my name. . . .

A narrow fellow in the grass
Occasionally rides;
You may have met him,--did you not,
His notice sudden is.

The grass divides as with a comb,
A spotted shaft is seen;
And then it closes at your feet
And opens further on.

He likes a boggy acre,
A floor too cool for corn.
Yet when a child, and barefoot,
I more than once, at morn,

Have passed, I thought, a whip-lash
Unbraiding in the sun,--
When, stooping to secure it,
It wrinkled, and was gone.

Several of nature's people
I know, and they know me;
I feel for them a transport
Of cordiality;

But never met this fellow,
Attended or alone,
Without a tighter breathing,
And zero at the bone.

 Splashing along the boggy woods all day, 
And over brambled hedge and holding clay, 
I shall not think of him: 
But when the watery fields grow brown and dim, 
And hounds have lost their fox, and horses tire, 
I know that he’ll be with me on my way 
Home through the darkness to the evening fire. 
He’s jumped each stile along the glistening lanes; 
His hand will be upon the mud-soaked reins; 
Hearing the saddle creak, 
He’ll wonder if the frost will come next week. 
I shall forget him in the morning light; 
And while we gallop on he will not speak: 
But at the stable-door he’ll say good-night.