Best Famous Caption Poems

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

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• All Famous Caption Poems

Written by Elizabeth Bishop | In the waiting Room In Worcester, Massachusetts, I went with Aunt Consuelo to keep her dentist's appointment and sat and waited for her in the dentist's waiting room. It was winter. It got dark early. The waiting room was full of grown-up people, arctics and overcoats, lamps and magazines. My aunt was inside what seemed like a long time and while I waited and read the National Geographic (I could read) and carefully studied the photographs: the inside of a volcano, black, and full of ashes; then it was spilling over in rivulets of fire. Osa and Martin Johnson dressed in riding breeches, laced boots, and pith helmets. A dead man slung on a pole "Long Pig," the caption said. Babies with pointed heads wound round and round with string; black, naked women with necks wound round and round with wire like the necks of light bulbs. Their breasts were horrifying. I read it right straight through. I was too shy to stop. And then I looked at the cover: the yellow margins, the date. Suddenly, from inside, came an oh! of pain --Aunt Consuelo's voice-- not very loud or long. I wasn't at all surprised; even then I knew she was a foolish, timid woman. I might have been embarrassed, but wasn't. What took me completely by surprise was that it was me: my voice, in my mouth. Without thinking at all I was my foolish aunt, I--we--were falling, falling, our eyes glued to the cover of the National Geographic, February, 1918. I said to myself: three days and you'll be seven years old. I was saying it to stop the sensation of falling off the round, turning world. into cold, blue-black space. But I felt: you are an I, you are an Elizabeth, you are one of them. Why should you be one, too? I scarcely dared to look to see what it was I was. I gave a sidelong glance --I couldn't look any higher-- at shadowy gray knees, trousers and skirts and boots and different pairs of hands lying under the lamps. I knew that nothing stranger had ever happened, that nothing stranger could ever happen. Why should I be my aunt, or me, or anyone? What similarities boots, hands, the family voice I felt in my throat, or even the National Geographic and those awful hanging breasts held us all together or made us all just one? How I didn't know any word for it how "unlikely". . . How had I come to be here, like them, and overhear a cry of pain that could have got loud and worse but hadn't? The waiting room was bright and too hot. It was sliding beneath a big black wave, another, and another. Then I was back in it. The War was on. Outside, in Worcester, Massachusetts, were night and slush and cold, and it was still the fifth of February, 1918.

Written by Emily Dickinson | One Day is there of the Series One Day is there of the Series Termed Thanksgiving Day. Celebrated part at Table Part in Memory. Neither Patriarch nor Pussy I dissect the Play Seems it to my Hooded thinking Reflex Holiday. Had there been no sharp Subtraction From the early Sum -- Not an Acre or a Caption Where was once a Room -- Not a Mention, whose small Pebble Wrinkled any Sea, Unto Such, were such Assembly 'Twere Thanksgiving Day.

Written by Francesco Petrarch | Canzone XV CANZONE XV. In quella parte dov' Amor mi sprona. HE FINDS HER IMAGE EVERYWHERE. When Love, fond Love, commands the strain,The coyest muse must sure obey;Love bids my wounded breast complain,And whispers the melodious lay:Yet when such griefs restrain the muse's wing,How shall she dare to soar, or how attempt to sing? Oh! could my heart express its woe,How poor, how wretched should I seem!But as the plaintive accents flow,Soft comfort spreads her golden gleam;And each gay scene, that Nature holds to view,Bids Laura's absent charms to memory bloom anew. Though Fate's severe decrees removeHer gladsome beauties from my sight,[Pg 122]Yet, urged by pity, friendly LoveBids fond reflection yield delight;If lavish spring with flowerets strews the mead,Her lavish beauties all to fancy are displayed! When to this globe the solar beamsTheir full meridian blaze impart,It pictures Laura, that inflamesWith passion's fires each human heart:And when the sun completes his daily race,I see her riper age complete each growing grace. When milder planets, warmer skiesO'er winter's frozen reign prevail;When groves are tinged with vernal dyes,And violets scent the wanton gale;Those flowers, the verdure, then recall that day,In which my Laura stole this heedless heart away. The blush of health, that crimson'd o'erHer youthful cheek; her modest mien;The gay-green garment that she wore,Have ever dear to memory been;More dear they grow as time the more inflamesThis tender breast o'ercome by passion's wild extremes! The sun, whose cheering lustre warmsThe bosom of yon snow-clad hill,Seems a just emblem of the charms,Whose power controls my vanquish'd will;When near, they gild with joy this frozen heart,Where ceaseless winter reigns, whene'er those charms depart. Yon sun, too, paints the locks of gold,That play around her face so fair—Her face which, oft as I behold,Prompts the soft sigh of amorous care!While Laura smiles, all-conscious of that loveWhich from this faithful breast no time can e'er remove. If to the transient storm of nightSucceeds a star-bespangled sky,And the clear rain-drops catch the light,Glittering on all the foliage nigh;[Pg 123]Methinks her eyes I view, as on that dayWhen through the envious veil they shot their magic ray. With brightness making heaven more bright,As then they did, I see them now;I see them, when the morning lightPurples the misty mountain's brow:When day declines, and darkness spreads the pole;Methinks 'tis Laura flies, and sadness wraps my soul. In stately jars of burnish'd goldShould lilies spread their silvery pride,With fresh-blown roses that unfoldTheir leaves, in heaven's own crimson dyed;Then Laura's bloom I see, and sunny hairFlowing adown her neck than ivory whiter far. The flowerets brush'd by zephyr's wing,Waving their heads in frolic play,Oft to my fond remembrance bringThe happy spot, the happier day,In which, disporting with the gale, I view'dThose sweet unbraided locks, that all my heart subdued. Oh! could I count those orbs that shineNightly o'er yon ethereal plain,Or in some scanty vase confineEach drop that ocean's bounds contain,Then might I hope to fly from beauty's rays,Laura o'er flaming worlds can spread bright beauty's blaze. Should I all heaven, all earth explore,I still should lovely Laura find;Laura, whose beauties I adore,Is ever present to my mind:She's seen in all that strikes these partial eyes,And her dear name still dwells in all my tender sighs. But soft, my song,—not thine the powerTo paint that never-dying flame,Which gilds through life the gloomy hour,Which nurtures this love-wasted frame;For since with Laura dwells my wander'd heart,Cheer'd by that fostering flame, I brave Death's ebon dart. Anon 1777. GENOA.

Written by John Berryman | Dream Song 7: The Prisoner of Shark Island with Paul Muni Henry is old, old; for Henry remembers Mr Deeds' tuba, & the Cameo, & the race in Ben Hur,—The Lost World, with sound, & The Man from Blankey's, which he did not dig, nor did he understand one caption of, bewildered Henry, while the Big Ones laughed. Now Henry is unmistakably a Big One. Fúnnee; he don't féel so. He just stuck around. The German & the Russian films into Italian & Japanese films turned, while many were prevented from making it. He wishing he could squirm again where Hoot is just ahead of rustlers, where William S forgoes some deep advantage, & moves on, where Hashknife Hartley having the matter taped the rats are flying. For the rats have moved in, mostly, and this is for real.

Written by Francesco Petrarch | Sonnet LXXXVIII SONNET LXXXVIII. La donna che 'l mio cor nel viso porta. HER KIND AND GENTLE SALUTATION THRILLS HIS HEART WITH PLEASURE. She, in her face who doth my gone heart wear,As lone I sate 'mid love-thoughts dear and true,Appear'd before me: to show honour due,I rose, with pallid brow and reverent air.Soon as of such my state she was aware,She turn'd on me with look so soft and newAs, in Jove's greatest fury, might subdueHis rage, and from his hand the thunders tear.I started: on her further way she pass'dGraceful, and speaking words I could not brook,Nor of her lustrous eyes the loving look.When on that dear salute my thoughts are cast,So rich and varied do my pleasures flow,No pain I feel, nor evil fear below. Macgregor. SOLITUDES OF VAUCLUSE.