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Best Famous Bp Poems

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

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Written by Victor Hugo | Create an image from this poem

Boaz Asleep

 ("Booz s'était couché.") 
 
 {Bk. II. vi.} 


 At work within his barn since very early, 
 Fairly tired out with toiling all the day, 
 Upon the small bed where he always lay 
 Boaz was sleeping by his sacks of barley. 
 
 Barley and wheat-fields he possessed, and well, 
 Though rich, loved justice; wherefore all the flood 
 That turned his mill-wheels was unstained with mud 
 And in his smithy blazed no fire of hell. 
 
 His beard was silver, as in April all 
 A stream may be; he did not grudge a stook. 
 When the poor gleaner passed, with kindly look, 
 Quoth he, "Of purpose let some handfuls fall." 
 
 He walked his way of life straight on and plain, 
 With justice clothed, like linen white and clean, 
 And ever rustling towards the poor, I ween, 
 Like public fountains ran his sacks of grain. 
 
 Good master, faithful friend, in his estate 
 Frugal yet generous, beyond the youth 
 He won regard of woman, for in sooth 
 The young man may be fair—the old man's great. 
 
 Life's primal source, unchangeable and bright, 
 The old man entereth, the day eterne; 
 And in the young man's eye a flame may burn, 
 But in the old man's eye one seeth light. 
 
 As Jacob slept, or Judith, so full deep 
 Slept Boaz 'neath the leaves. Now it betided, 
 Heaven's gate being partly open, that there glided 
 A fair dream forth, and hovered o'er his sleep. 
 
 And in his dream to heaven, the blue and broad, 
 Right from his loins an oak tree grew amain. 
 His race ran up it far, like a long chain; 
 Below it sung a king, above it died a God. 
 
 Whereupon Boaz murmured in his heart, 
 "The number of my years is past fourscore: 
 How may this be? I have not any more, 
 Or son, or wife; yea, she who had her part. 
 
 "In this my couch, O Lord! is now in Thine; 
 And she, half living, I half dead within, 
 Our beings still commingle and are twin, 
 It cannot be that I should found a line! 
 
 "Youth hath triumphal mornings; its days bound 
 From night, as from a victory. But such 
 A trembling as the birch-tree's to the touch 
 Of winter is an eld, and evening closes round. 
 
 "I bow myself to death, as lone to meet 
 The water bow their fronts athirst." He said. 
 The cedar feeleth not the rose's head, 
 Nor he the woman's presence at his feet! 
 
 For while he slept, the Moabitess Ruth 
 Lay at his feet, expectant of his waking. 
 He knowing not what sweet guile she was making; 
 She knowing not what God would have in sooth. 
 
 Asphodel scents did Gilgal's breezes bring— 
 Through nuptial shadows, questionless, full fast 
 The angels sped, for momently there passed 
 A something blue which seemed to be a wing. 
 
 Silent was all in Jezreel and Ur— 
 The stars were glittering in the heaven's dusk meadows. 
 Far west among those flowers of the shadows. 
 The thin clear crescent lustrous over her, 
 
 Made Ruth raise question, looking through the bars 
 Of heaven, with eyes half-oped, what God, what comer 
 Unto the harvest of the eternal summer, 
 Had flung his golden hook down on the field of stars. 
 
 BP. ALEXANDER. 


 






Written by Victor Hugo | Create an image from this poem

The Swiss Mercenaries

 ("Lorsque le regiment des hallebardiers.") 
 
 {Bk. XXXI.} 


 When the regiment of Halberdiers 
 Is proudly marching by, 
 The eagle of the mountain screams 
 From out his stormy sky; 
 Who speaketh to the precipice, 
 And to the chasm sheer; 
 Who hovers o'er the thrones of kings, 
 And bids the caitiffs fear. 
 King of the peak and glacier, 
 King of the cold, white scalps— 
 He lifts his head, at that close tread, 
 The eagle of the Alps. 
 
 O shame! those men that march below— 
 O ignominy dire! 
 Are the sons of my free mountains 
 Sold for imperial hire. 
 Ah! the vilest in the dungeon! 
 Ah! the slave upon the seas— 
 Is great, is pure, is glorious, 
 Is grand compared with these, 
 Who, born amid my holy rocks, 
 In solemn places high, 
 Where the tall pines bend like rushes 
 When the storm goes sweeping by; 
 
 Yet give the strength of foot they learned 
 By perilous path and flood, 
 And from their blue-eyed mothers won, 
 The old, mysterious blood; 
 The daring that the good south wind 
 Into their nostrils blew, 
 And the proud swelling of the heart 
 With each pure breath they drew; 
 The graces of the mountain glens, 
 With flowers in summer gay; 
 And all the glories of the hills 
 To earn a lackey's pay. 
 
 Their country free and joyous— 
 She of the rugged sides— 
 She of the rough peaks arrogant 
 Whereon the tempest rides: 
 Mother of the unconquered thought 
 And of the savage form, 
 Who brings out of her sturdy heart 
 The hero and the storm: 
 Who giveth freedom unto man, 
 And life unto the beast; 
 Who hears her silver torrents ring 
 Like joy-bells at a feast; 
 
 Who hath her caves for palaces, 
 And where her châlets stand— 
 The proud, old archer of Altorf, 
 With his good bow in his hand. 
 Is she to suckle jailers? 
 Shall shame and glory rest, 
 Amid her lakes and glaciers, 
 Like twins upon her breast? 
 Shall the two-headed eagle, 
 Marked with her double blow, 
 Drink of her milk through all those hearts 
 Whose blood he bids to flow? 
 
 Say, was it pomp ye needed, 
 And all the proud array 
 Of courtly joust and high parade 
 Upon a gala day? 
 Look up; have not my valleys 
 Their torrents white with foam— 
 Their lines of silver bullion 
 On the blue hillocks of home? 
 Doth not sweet May embroider 
 My rocks with pearls and flowers? 
 Her fingers trace a richer lace 
 Than yours in all my bowers. 
 
 Are not my old peaks gilded 
 When the sun arises proud, 
 And each one shakes a white mist plume 
 Out of the thunder-cloud? 
 O, neighbor of the golden sky— 
 Sons of the mountain sod— 
 Why wear a base king's colors 
 For the livery of God? 
 O shame! despair! to see my Alps 
 Their giant shadows fling 
 Into the very waiting-room 
 Of tyrant and of king! 
 
 O thou deep heaven, unsullied yet, 
 Into thy gulfs sublime— 
 Up azure tracts of flaming light— 
 Let my free pinion climb; 
 Till from my sight, in that clear light, 
 Earth and her crimes be gone— 
 The men who act the evil deeds— 
 The caitiffs who look on. 
 Far, far into that space immense, 
 Beyond the vast white veil, 
 Where distant stars come out and shine, 
 And the great sun grows pale. 
 
 BP. ALEXANDER 


 




Written by Victor Hugo | Create an image from this poem

The Dying Child To Its Mother

 ("Oh! vous aurez trop dit.") 
 
 {Bk. III. xiv., April, 1843.} 


 Ah, you said too often to your angel 
 There are other angels in the sky— 
 There, where nothing changes, nothing suffers, 
 Sweet it were to enter in on high. 
 
 To that dome on marvellous pilasters, 
 To that tent roofed o'er with colored bars, 
 That blue garden full of stars like lilies, 
 And of lilies beautiful as stars. 
 
 And you said it was a place most joyous, 
 All our poor imaginings above, 
 With the wingèd cherubim for playmates, 
 And the good God evermore to love. 
 
 Sweet it were to dwell there in all seasons, 
 Like a taper burning day and night, 
 Near to the child Jesus and the Virgin, 
 In that home so beautiful and bright. 
 
 But you should have told him, hapless mother, 
 Told your child so frail and gentle too, 
 That you were all his in life's beginning, 
 But that also he belonged to you. 
 
 For the mother watches o'er the infant, 
 He must rise up in her latter days, 
 She will need the man that was her baby 
 To stand by her when her strength decays. 
 
 Ah, you did not tell enough your darling 
 That God made us in this lower life, 
 Woman for the man, and man for woman, 
 In our pains, our pleasures and our strife. 
 
 So that one sad day, O loss, O sorrow! 
 The sweet creature left you all alone; 
 'Twas your own hand hung the cage door open, 
 Mother, and your pretty bird is flown. 
 
 BP. ALEXANDER. 


 





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