10 Best Famous Cemented Poems

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

• All Famous Cemented Poems

 The Beaver's Lesson 

They sought it with thimbles, they sought it with care; 
They pursued it with forks and hope; 
They threatened its life with a railway-share; 
They charmed it with smiles and soap. 

Then the Butcher contrived an ingenious plan 
For making a separate sally; 
And fixed on a spot unfrequented by man, 
A dismal and desolate valley. 


But the very same plan to the Beaver occurred: 
It had chosen the very same place: 
Yet neither betrayed, by a sign or a word, 
The disgust that appeared in his face. 

Each thought he was thinking of nothing but "Snark" 
And the glorious work of the day; 
And each tried to pretend that he did not remark 
That the other was going that way. 

But the valley grew narrow and narrower still, 
And the evening got darker and colder, 
Till (merely from nervousness, not from goodwill) 
They marched along shoulder to shoulder. 

Then a scream, shrill and high, rent the shuddering sky, 
And they knew that some danger was near: 
The Beaver turned pale to the tip of its tail, 
And even the Butcher felt *****. 

He thought of his childhood, left far far behind-- 
That blissful and innocent state-- 
The sound so exactly recalled to his mind 
A pencil that squeaks on a slate! 


"'Tis the voice of the Jubjub!" he suddenly cried. 
(This man, that they used to call "Dunce.") 
"As the Bellman would tell you," he added with pride, 
"I have uttered that sentiment once. 

"'Tis the note of the Jubjub! Keep count, I entreat; 
You will find I have told it you twice. 
'Tis the song of the Jubjub! The proof is complete, 
If only I've stated it thrice." 

The Beaver had counted with scrupulous care, 
Attending to every word: 
But it fairly lost heart, and outgrabe in despair, 
When the third repetition occurred. 

It felt that, in spite of all possible pains, 
It had somehow contrived to lose count, 
And the only thing now was to rack its poor brains 
By reckoning up the amount. 

"Two added to one--if that could but be done," 
It said, "with one's fingers and thumbs!" 
Recollecting with tears how, in earlier years, 
It had taken no pains with its sums. 

"The thing can be done," said the Butcher, "I think. 
The thing must be done, I am sure. 
The thing shall be done! Bring me paper and ink, 
The best there is time to procure." 

The Beaver brought paper,portfolio, pens, 
And ink in unfailing supplies: 
While strange creepy creatures came out of their dens, 
And watched them with wondering eyes. 

So engrossed was the Butcher, he heeded them not, 
As he wrote with a pen in each hand, 
And explained all the while in a popular style 
Which the Beaver could well understand. 

"Taking Three as the subject to reason about-- 
A convenient number to state-- 
We add Seven, and Ten, and then multiply out 
By One Thousand diminished by Eight. 


"The result we proceed to divide, as you see, 
By Nine Hundred and Ninety Two: 
Then subtract Seventeen, and the answer must be 
Exactly and perfectly true. 

"The method employed I would gladly explain, 
While I have it so clear in my head, 
If I had but the time and you had but the brain-- 
But much yet remains to be said. 

"In one moment I've seen what has hitherto been 
Enveloped in absolute mystery, 
And without extra charge I will give you at large 
A Lesson in Natural History." 

In his genial way he proceeded to say 
(Forgetting all laws of propriety, 
And that giving instruction, without introduction, 
Would have caused quite a thrill in Society), 

"As to temper the Jubjub's a desperate bird, 
Since it lives in perpetual passion: 
Its taste in costume is entirely absurd-- 
It is ages ahead of the fashion: 

"But it knows any friend it has met once before: 
It never will look at a bride: 
And in charity-meetings it stands at the door, 
And collects--though it does not subscribe. 

" Its flavor when cooked is more exquisite far 
Than mutton, or oysters, or eggs: 
(Some think it keeps best in an ivory jar, 
And some, in mahogany kegs) 

"You boil it in sawdust: you salt it in glue: 
You condense it with locusts and tape: 
Still keeping one principal object in view-- 
To preserve its symmetrical shape." 

The Butcher would gladly have talked till next day, 
But he felt that the lesson must end, 
And he wept with delight in attempting to say 
He considered the Beaver his friend. 

While the Beaver confessed, with affectionate looks 
More eloquent even than tears, 
It had learned in ten minutes far more than all books 
Would have taught it in seventy years. 

They returned hand-in-hand, and the Bellman, unmanned 
(For a moment) with noble emotion, 
Said "This amply repays all the wearisome days 
We have spent on the billowy ocean!" 

Such friends, as the Beaver and Butcher became, 
Have seldom if ever been known; 
In winter or summer, 'twas always the same-- 
You could never meet either alone. 

And when quarrels arose--as one frequently finds 
Quarrels will, spite of every endeavor-- 
The song of the Jubjub recurred to their minds, 
And cemented their friendship for ever!

 The firm house lingers, though averse to square
With the new city street it has to wear A number in.
But what about the brook That held the house as in an elbow-crook?
I ask as one who knew the brook, its strength
And impulse, having dipped a finger length
And made it leap my knuckle, having tossed
A flower to try its currents where they crossed.
The meadow grass could be cemented down
From growing under pavements of a town;
The apple trees be sent to hearth-stone flame.
Is water wood to serve a brook the same?
How else dispose of an immortal force
No longer needed? Staunch it at its source
With cinder loads dumped down? The brook was
thrown Deep in a sewer dungeon under stone
In fetid darkness still to live and run -
And all for nothing it hd ever done
Except forget to go in fear perhaps.
No one would know except for ancient maps
That such a brook ran water. But I wonder
If from its being kept forever under
The thoughts may not have risen that so keep
This new-built city from both work and sleep.

 Careful Observers may fortel the Hour 
(By sure Prognosticks) when to dread a Show'r: 
While Rain depends, the pensive Cat gives o'er 
Her Frolicks, and pursues her Tail no more. 
Returning Home at Night, you'll find the Sink 
Strike your offended Sense with double Stink. 
If you be wise, then go not far to Dine, 
You spend in Coach-hire more than save in Wine. 
A coming Show'r your shooting Corns presage, 
Old Aches throb, your hollow Tooth will rage. 
Sauntring in Coffee-house is Dulman seen; 
He damns the Climate, and complains of Spleen.

Mean while the South rising with dabbled Wings, 
A Sable Cloud a-thwart the Welkin flings, 
That swill'd more Liquor than it could contain, 
And like a Drunkard gives it up again. 
Brisk Susan whips her Linen from the Rope, 
While the first drizzling Show'r is born aslope, 
Such is that Sprinkling which some careless Quean 
Flirts on you from her Mop, but not so clean. 
You fly, invoke the Gods; then turning, stop 
To rail; she singing, still whirls on her Mop. 
Not yet, the Dust had shun'd th'unequal Strife, 
But aided by the Wind, fought still for Life; 
And wafted with its Foe by violent Gust, 
'Twas doubtful which was Rain, and which was Dust. 
Ah! where must needy Poet seek for Aid, 
When Dust and Rain at once his Coat invade; 
Sole Coat, where Dust cemented by the Rain, 
Erects the Nap, and leaves a cloudy Stain.

Now in contiguous Drops the Flood comes down, 
Threat'ning with Deloge this Devoted Town. 
To Shops in Crouds the dagled Females fly, 
Pretend to cheapen Goods, but nothing buy. 
The Templer spruce, while ev'ry Spout's a-broach, 
Stays till 'tis fair, yet seems to call a Coach. 
The tuck'd-up Sempstress walks with hasty Strides, 
While Streams run down her oil'd Umbrella's Sides. 
Here various Kinds by various Fortunes led, 
Commence Acquaintance underneath a Shed. 
Triumphant Tories, and desponding Whigs, 
Forget their Fewds, and join to save their Wigs. 
Box'd in a Chair the Beau impatient sits, 
While Spouts run clatt'ring o'er the Roof by Fits; 
And ever and anon with frightful Din 
The Leather sounds, he trembles from within. 
So when Troy Chair-men bore the Wooden Steed, 
Pregnant with Greeks, impatient to be freed, 
(Those Bully Greeks, who, as the Moderns do, 
Instead of paying Chair-men, run them thro'.) 
Laoco'n struck the Outside with his Spear, 
And each imprison'd Hero quak'd for Fear.

Now from all Parts the swelling Kennels flow, 
And bear their Trophies with them as they go: 
Filth of all Hues and Odours seem to tell 
What Streets they sail'd from, by the Sight and Smell. 
They, as each Torrent drives, with rapid Force 
From Smithfield, or St.Pulchre's shape their Course, 
And in huge Confluent join at Snow-Hill Ridge, 
Fall from the Conduit prone to Holborn-Bridge. 
Sweepings from Butchers Stalls, Dung, Guts, and Blood,
Drown'd Puppies, stinking Sprats, all drench'd in Mud,
Dead Cats and Turnips-Tops come tumbling down the Flood.

 The moonlight breaks upon the city's domes,
And falls along cemented steel and stone,
Upon the grayness of a million homes,
Lugubrious in unchanging monotone. 
Upon the clothes behind the tenement,
That hang like ghosts suspended from the lines,
Linking each flat to each indifferent,
Incongruous and strange the moonlight shines.

There is no magic from your presence here,
Ho, moon, sad moon, tuck up your trailing robe,
Whose silver seems antique and so severe
Against the glow of one electric globe.

Go spill your beauty on the laughing faces
Of happy flowers that bloom a thousand hues,
Waiting on tiptoe in the wilding spaces,
To drink your wine mixed with sweet drafts of dews.

 When, like a running grave, time tracks you down,
Your calm and cuddled is a scythe of hairs,
Love in her gear is slowly through the house,
Up naked stairs, a turtle in a hearse,
Hauled to the dome,

Comes, like a scissors stalking, tailor age,
Deliver me who timid in my tribe,
Of love am barer than Cadaver's trap
Robbed of the foxy tongue, his footed tape
Of the bone inch

Deliver me, my masters, head and heart,
Heart of Cadaver's candle waxes thin,
When blood, spade-handed, and the logic time
Drive children up like bruises to the thumb,
From maid and head,

For, sunday faced, with dusters in my glove,
Chaste and the chaser, man with the cockshut eye,
I, that time's jacket or the coat of ice
May fail to fasten with a virgin o
In the straight grave,

Stride through Cadaver's country in my force,
My pickbrain masters morsing on the stone
Despair of blood faith in the maiden's slime,
Halt among eunuchs, and the nitric stain
On fork and face.

Time is a foolish fancy, time and fool.
No, no, you lover skull, descending hammer
Descends, my masters, on the entered honour.
You hero skull, Cadaver in the hangar
Tells the stick, 'fail.'

Joy is no knocking nation, sir and madam,
The cancer's fashion, or the summer feather
Lit on the cuddled tree, the cross of fever,
Not city tar and subway bored to foster
Man through macadam.

I dump the waxlights in your tower dome.
Joy is the knock of dust, Cadaver's shoot
Of bud of Adam through his boxy shift,
Love's twilit nation and the skull of state,
Sir, is your doom.

Everything ends, the tower ending and,
(Have with the house of wind), the leaning scene,
Ball of the foot depending from the sun,
(Give, summer, over), the cemented skin,
The actions' end.

All, men my madmen, the unwholesome wind
With whistler's cough contages, time on track
Shapes in a cinder death; love for his trick,
Happy Cadaver's hunger as you take
The kissproof world.

 A broken ALTAR, Lord, thy servant rears,
Made of a heart and cemented with tears;
Whose parts are as thy hand did frame;
No workman's tool hath touch'd the same.
A HEART alone
Is such a stone,
As nothing but
Thy pow'r doth cut.
Wherefore each part
Of my hard heart
Meets in this frame
To praise thy name.
That if I chance to hold my peace,
These stones to praise thee may not cease.
Oh, let thy blessed SACRIFICE be mine,
And sanctify this ALTAR to be thine.