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Best Famous Burnings Poems

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

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Written by Anne Kingsmill Finch | Create an image from this poem

For the Better

 A Quack, to no true Skill in Physick bred, 
With frequent Visits cursed his Patient's Bed; 
Enquiring, how he did his Broths digest, 
How chim'd his Pulse, and how he took his Rest:
If shudd'ring Cold by Burnings was pursu'd,
And at what time the Aguish Fit renew'd. 
The waining Wretch, each day become more faint, 
In like proportion doubles his Complaint;
Now swooning Sweats he begs him to allay,
Now give his Lungs more liberty to play, 
And take from empty'd Veins these scorching Heats away:
Or if he saw the Danger did increase, 
To warn him fair, and let him part in Peace. 
My Life for yours, no Hazard in your Case 
The Quack replies; your Voice, your Pulse, your Face, 

Good Signs afford, and what you seem to feel
Proceeds from Vapours, which we'll help with Steel.
With kindled Rage, more than Distemper, burns
The suff'ring Man, who thus in haste returns: 
No more of Vapours, your belov'd Disease,
Your Ignorance's Skreen, your What-you-please,
With which you cheat poor Females of their Lives, 
Whilst Men dispute not, so it rid their Wives. 
For me, I'll speak free as I've paid my Fees;
My Flesh consumes, I perish by degrees:
And as thro' weary Nights I count my Pains,
No Rest is left me, and no Strength remains. 
All for the Better, Sir, the Quack rejoins:
Exceeding promising are all these Signs.
Falling-away, your Nurses can confirm, 
Was ne'er in Sickness thought a Mark of Harm. 
The want of Strength is for the Better still; 
Since Men of Vigour Fevers soonest kill. 
Ev'n with this Gust of Passion I am pleas'd;
For they're most Patient who the most are seiz'd. 

But let me see! here's that which all repels:
Then shakes, as he some formal Story tells, 
The Treacle-water, mixt with powder'd Shells. 
My Stomach's gone (what d'you infer from thence?)
Nor will with the least Sustenance dispense. 
The Better; for, where appetite endures, 
Meats intermingle, and no Med'cine cures. 
The Stomach, you must know, Sir, is a Part–
But, sure, I feel Death's Pangs about my Heart. 

Nay then Farewel! I need no more attend
The Quack replies. A sad approaching Friend
Questions the Sick, why he retires so fast;
Who says, because of Fees I've paid the Last, 
And, whilst all Symptoms tow'rd my Cure agree, 
Am, for the Better, Dying as you see.


Written by Rupert Brooke | Create an image from this poem

Mary and Gabriel

 Young Mary, loitering once her garden way,
Felt a warm splendour grow in the April day,
As wine that blushes water through. And soon,
Out of the gold air of the afternoon,
One knelt before her: hair he had, or fire,
Bound back above his ears with golden wire,
Baring the eager marble of his face.
Not man's nor woman's was the immortal grace
Rounding the limbs beneath that robe of white,
And lighting the proud eyes with changeless light,
Incurious. Calm as his wings, and fair,
That presence filled the garden.
She stood there,
Saying, "What would you, Sir?"
He told his word,
"Blessed art thou of women!" Half she heard,
Hands folded and face bowed, half long had known,
The message of that clear and holy tone,
That fluttered hot sweet sobs about her heart;
Such serene tidings moved such human smart.
Her breath came quick as little flakes of snow.
Her hands crept up her breast. She did but know
It was not hers. She felt a trembling stir
Within her body, a will too strong for her
That held and filled and mastered all. With eyes
Closed, and a thousand soft short broken sighs,
She gave submission; fearful, meek, and glad. . . .

She wished to speak. Under her breasts she had
Such multitudinous burnings, to and fro,
And throbs not understood; she did not know
If they were hurt or joy for her; but only
That she was grown strange to herself, half lonely,
All wonderful, filled full of pains to come
And thoughts she dare not think, swift thoughts and dumb,
Human, and quaint, her own, yet very far,
Divine, dear, terrible, familiar . . .
Her heart was faint for telling; to relate
Her limbs' sweet treachery, her strange high estate,
Over and over, whispering, half revealing,
Weeping; and so find kindness to her healing.
'Twixt tears and laughter, panic hurrying her,
She raised her eyes to that fair messenger.
He knelt unmoved, immortal; with his eyes
Gazing beyond her, calm to the calm skies;
Radiant, untroubled in his wisdom, kind.
His sheaf of lilies stirred not in the wind.
How should she, pitiful with mortality,
Try the wide peace of that felicity
With ripples of her perplexed shaken heart,
And hints of human ecstasy, human smart,
And whispers of the lonely weight she bore,
And how her womb within was hers no more
And at length hers?
Being tired, she bowed her head;
And said, "So be it!"
The great wings were spread
Showering glory on the fields, and fire.
The whole air, singing, bore him up, and higher,
Unswerving, unreluctant. Soon he shone
A gold speck in the gold skies; then was gone.

The air was colder, and grey. She stood alone.
Written by William Blake | Create an image from this poem

The Book of Urizen: Chapter II

 1. Earth was not: nor globes of attraction
The will of the Immortal expanded
Or contracted his all flexible senses.
Death was not, but eternal life sprung

2. The sound of a trumpet the heavens 
Awoke & vast clouds of blood roll'd
Round the dim rocks of Urizen, so nam'd
That solitary one in Immensity

3. Shrill the trumpet: & myriads of Eternity,
Muster around the bleak desarts
Now fill'd with clouds, darkness & waters
That roll'd perplex'd labring & utter'd
Words articulate, bursting in thunders
That roll'd on the tops of his mountains

4. From the depths of dark solitude. From
The eternal abode in my holiness,
Hidden set apart in my stern counsels
Reserv'd for the days of futurity,
I have sought for a joy without pain, 
For a solid without fluctuation
Why will you die O Eternals?
Why live in unquenchable burnings?

5. First I fought with the fire; consum'd
Inwards, into a deep world within: 
A void immense, wild dark & deep,
Where nothing was: Natures wide womb
And self balanc'd stretch'd o'er the void
I alone, even I! the winds merciless
Bound; but condensing, in torrents 
They fall & fall; strong I repell'd
The vast waves, & arose on the waters
A wide world of solid obstruction

6. Here alone I in books formd of metals
Have written the secrets of wisdom 
The secrets of dark contemplation
By fightings and conflicts dire,
With terrible monsters Sin-bred:
Which the bosoms of all inhabit;
Seven deadly Sins of the soul. 

7. Lo! I unfold my darkness: and on
This rock, place with strong hand the Book
Of eternal brass, written in my solitude.

8. Laws of peace, of love, of unity:
Of pity, compassion, forgiveness. 
Let each chuse one habitation:
His ancient infinite mansion:
One command, one joy, one desire,
One curse, one weight, one measure
One King, one God, one Law.
Written by Philip Levine | Create an image from this poem

Something Has Fallen

 Something has fallen wordlessly 
and holds still on the black driveway. 

You find it, like a jewel, 
among the empty bottles and cans 

where the dogs toppled the garbage. 
You pick it up, not sure 

if it is stone or wood 
or some new plastic made 

to replace them both. 
When you raise your sunglasses 

to see exactly what you have 
you see it is only a shadow 

that has darkened your fingers, 
a black ink or oil, 

and your hand suddenly smells 
of c1assrooms when the rain 

pounded the windows and you 
shuddered thinking of the cold 

and the walk back to an empty house. 
You smell all of your childhood, 

the damp bed you struggled from 
to dress in half-light and go out 

into a world that never tired. 
Later, your hand thickened and flat 

slid out of a rubber glove, 
as you stood, your mask raised, 

to light a cigarette and rest 
while the acid tanks that were 

yours to dean went on bathing 
the arteries of broken sinks. 

Remember, you were afraid 
of the great hissing jugs. 

There were stories of burnings, 
of flesh shredded to lace. 

On other nights men spoke 
of rats as big as dogs. 

Women spoke of men 
who trapped them in corners. 

Always there was grease that hid 
the faces of worn faucets, grease 

that had to be eaten one 
finger-print at a time, 

there was oil, paint, blood, 
your own blood sliding across 

your nose and running over 
your lips with that bright, certain 

taste that was neither earth 
or air, and there was air, 

the darkest element of all, 
falling all night 

into the bruised river 
you slept beside, falling 

into the glass of water 
you filled two times for breakfast 

and the eyes you turned upward 
to see what time it was. 

Air that stained everything 
with its millions of small deaths, 

that turned all five fingers 
to grease or black ink or ashes.
Written by Isaac Watts | Create an image from this poem

Hymn 22

 With God is terrible majesty.

Terrible God, that reign'st on high,
How awful is thy thund'ring hand!
Thy fiery bolts, how fierce they fly!
Nor can all earth or hell withstand.

This the old rebel angels knew,
And Satan fell beneath thy frown;
Thine arrows struck the traitor through,
And weighty vengeance sunk him down.

This Sodom felt, and feels it still,
And roars beneath th' eternal load:
"With endless burnings who can dwell?
Or bear the fury of a God?"

Tremble, ye sinners, and submit,
Throw down your arms before his throne;
Bend your heads low beneath his feet,
Or his strong hand shall crush you down.

And ye, blest saints, that love him too,
With rev'rence bow before his name;
Thus all his heav'nly servants do:
God is a bright and burning flame.



Book: Radiant Verses: A Journey Through Inspiring Poetry