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Best Famous Chamois Poems

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

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Written by Amy Lowell | Create an image from this poem

The Forsaken

 Holy Mother of God, Merciful Mary.
Hear me! I am very weary.
I have come from a village miles away, all day I have been coming, and I ache for such far roaming.
I cannot walk as light as I used, and my thoughts grow confused.
I am heavier than I was.
Mary Mother, you know the cause! Beautiful Holy Lady, take my shame away from me! Let this fear be only seeming, let it be that I am dreaming.
For months I have hoped it was so, now I am afraid I know.
Lady, why should this be shame, just because I haven't got his name.
He loved me, yes, Lady, he did, and he couldn't keep it hid.
We meant to marry.
Why did he die? That day when they told me he had gone down in the avalanche, and could not be found until the snow melted in Spring, I did nothing.
I could not cry.
Why should he die? Why should he die and his child live? His little child alive in me, for my comfort.
No, Good God, for my misery! I cannot face the shame, to be a mother, and not married, and the poor child to be reviled for having no father.
Merciful Mother, Holy Virgin, take away this sin I did.
Let the baby not be.
Only take the stigma off of me! I have told no one but you, Holy Mary.
My mother would call me "whore", and spit upon me; the priest would have me repent, and have the rest of my life spent in a convent.
I am no whore, no bad woman, he loved me, and we were to be married.
I carried him always in my heart, what did it matter if I gave him the least part of me too? You were a virgin, Holy Mother, but you had a son, you know there are times when a woman must give all.
There is some call to give and hold back nothing.
I swear I obeyed God then, and this child who lives in me is the sign.
What am I saying? He is dead, my beautiful, strong man! I shall never feel him caress me again.
This is the only baby I shall have.
Oh, Holy Virgin, protect my baby! My little, helpless baby! He will look like his father, and he will be as fast a runner and as good a shot.
Not that he shall be no scholar neither.
He shall go to school in winter, and learn to read and write, and my father will teach him to carve, so that he can make the little horses, and cows, and chamois, out of white wood.
Oh, No! No! No! How can I think such things, I am not good.
My father will have nothing to do with my boy, I shall be an outcast thing.
Oh, Mother of our Lord God, be merciful, take away my shame! Let my body be as it was before he came.
No little baby for me to keep underneath my heart for those long months.
To live for and to get comfort from.
I cannot go home and tell my mother.
She is so hard and righteous.
She never loved my father, and we were born for duty, not for love.
I cannot face it.
Holy Mother, take my baby away! Take away my little baby! I don't want it, I can't bear it! And I shall have nothing, nothing! Just be known as a good girl.
Have other men want to marry me, whom I could not touch, after having known my man.
Known the length and breadth of his beautiful white body, and the depth of his love, on the high Summer Alp, with the moon above, and the pine-needles all shiny in the light of it.
He is gone, my man, I shall never hear him or feel him again, but I could not touch another.
I would rather lie under the snow with my own man in my arms! So I shall live on and on.
Just a good woman.
With nothing to warm my heart where he lay, and where he left his baby for me to care for.
I shall not be quite human, I think.
Merely a stone-dead creature.
They will respect me.
What do I care for respect! You didn't care for people's tongues when you were carrying our Lord Jesus.
God had my man give me my baby, when He knew that He was going to take him away.
His lips will comfort me, his hands will soothe me.
All day I will work at my lace-making, and all night I will keep him warm by my side and pray the blessed Angels to cover him with their wings.
Dear Mother, what is it that sings? I hear voices singing, and lovely silver trumpets through it all.
They seem just on the other side of the wall.
Let me keep my baby, Holy Mother.
He is only a poor lace-maker's baby, with a stain upon him, but give me strength to bring him up to be a man.
Written by Marianne Moore | Create an image from this poem

Spensers Ireland

 has not altered;--
a place as kind as it is green,
the greenest place I've never seen.
Every name is a tune.
Denunciations do not affect the culprit; nor blows, but it is torture to him to not be spoken to.
They're natural,-- the coat, like Venus' mantle lined with stars, buttoned close at the neck,-the sleeves new from disuse.
If in Ireland they play the harp backward at need, and gather at midday the seed of the fern, eluding their "giants all covered with iron," might there be fern seed for unlearn- ing obduracy and for reinstating the enchantment? Hindered characters seldom have mothers in Irish stories, but they all have grandmothers.
It was Irish; a match not a marriage was made when my great great grandmother'd said with native genius for disunion, "Although your suitor be perfection, one objection is enough; he is not Irish.
"Outwitting the fairies, befriending the furies, whoever again and again says, "I'll never give in," never sees that you're not free until you've been made captive by supreme belief,--credulity you say?When large dainty fingers tremblingly divide the wings of the fly for mid-July with a needle and wrap it with peacock-tail, or tie wool and buzzard's wing, their pride, like the enchanter's is in care, not madness.
Concurring hands divide flax for damask that when bleached by Irish weather has the silvered chamois-leather water-tightness of a skin.
Twisted torcs and gold new-moon-shaped lunulae aren't jewelry like the purple-coral fuchsia-tree's.
Eire-- the guillemot so neat and the hen of the heath and the linnet spinet-sweet-bespeak relentlessness?Then they are to me like enchanted Earl Gerald who changed himself into a stag, to a great green-eyed cat of the mountain.
Discommodity makes them invisible; they've dis- appeared.
The Irish say your trouble is their trouble and your joy their joy?I wish I could believe it; I am troubled, I'm dissatisfied, I'm Irish.
Written by Mihai Eminescu | Create an image from this poem

0 REMAIN DEAR ONE..

"O remain, dear one, I love you, 
Stay with me in my fair land, 
For your dreamings and longings 
Only I can understand.
You, who like a prince reclining O'er the pool with heaven starred; You who gaze up from the water With such earnest deep regard.
Stay, for where the lapping wavelets Shake the tall and tasseled grass, I will make you hear in secret How the furtive chamois pass.
Oh, I see you wrapped in magic, Hear your murmur low and sweet, As you break the shallow water With your slender naked feet; See you thus amidst the ripples Which the moon's pale beams engage, And your years seem but an instant, And each instant seems an age.
" Thus spake the woods in soft entreaty; Arching boughs above me bent, But I whistled high, and laughing Out into the open went.
Now though e'en I roamed that country How could I its charm recall.
.
.
Where has boyhood gone, I wonder, With its pool and woods and all? ---------- English version by Corneliu M.
Popescu Transcribed by Gabriela Brancovici School No.
10, Focsani, Romania
Written by Emily Dickinson | Create an image from this poem

Ah Moon -- and Star!

 Ah, Moon -- and Star!
You are very far --
But were no one
Farther than you --
Do you think I'd stop
For a Firmament --
Or a Cubit -- or so?

I could borrow a Bonnet
Of the Lark --
And a Chamois' Silver Boot --
And a stirrup of an Antelope --
And be with you -- Tonight!

But, Moon, and Star,
Though you're very far --
There is one -- farther than you --
He -- is more than a firmament -- from Me --
So I can never go!
Written by Mihai Eminescu | Create an image from this poem

THE TALE OF THE FOREST

Mighty emperor is the forest, 
High dominion does he wield, 
And a thousand races prosper 
'Neath the shelter of his shield.
The moon, the sun and Lucifer Do round his kingdom ever sphere; While lords and ladies of his court Are of the noble race of deer.
Hares, his heralds and his postmen, Carry rapidly his mails; Birds his orchestra composing, Springs that tell him thousand tales.
Midst the flowers that grow in shadow By the streams and in the grass, Bees in golden clouds are swarming, Ants in mighty armies pass .
.
.
Come, let us again be children In the woods we loved of yore So that life, and luck, and loving Seem a game and nothing more.
For I feel that mother nature All her wisdom did employ But to raise you over living And of life to make your toy.
You and I away shall wander Quite alone where no one goes, And we'll lie beside the water Where the flowering lime-tree grows.
As we slumber, on our bodies Will the lime its petals lay, While in sleep, sweet distant bagpipes We will hear some shepherd play.
Hear so much, and closer clinging, Heart to heart in lover's wise, Hear the emperor call his council And his ministers advise.
Through the silver spreading branches Will the moon the stream enlace, And around us slowly gather Courtiers of many a race.
Horses proud, as white as wave crests, Many-branching horned stags, Bulls with stars upon their fore heads, Chamois from the mountain crags.
And the lime-tree they will question Who we are; and stand and wonder, While our host will softly answer Parting wide his boughs asunder: "Look, o look how they are dreaming Dreams that in the forest grow; Like the children of some legend Do they love each other so".
English version by Corneliu M.
Popescu * Transcribed by Cristina Mihu School No.
10, Focsani, Romania *
Written by Victor Hugo | Create an image from this poem

DICTATED BEFORE THE RHONE GLACIER

 ("Souvent quand mon esprit riche.") 
 
 {VII., May 18, 1828.} 


 When my mind, on the ocean of poesy hurled, 
 Floats on in repose round this wonderful world, 
 Oft the sacred fire from heaven— 
 Mysterious sun, that gives light to the soul— 
 Strikes mine with its ray, and above the pole 
 Its upward course is driven, 
 
 Like a wandering cloud, then, my eager thought 
 Capriciously flies, to no guidance brought, 
 With every quarter's wind; 
 It regards from those radiant vaults on high, 
 Earth's cities below, and again doth fly, 
 And leaves but its shadow behind. 
 
 In the glistening gold of the morning bright, 
 It shines, detaching some lance of light, 
 Or, as warrior's armor rings; 
 It forages forests that ferment around, 
 Or bathed in the sun-red gleams is found, 
 Where the west its radiance flings. 
 
 Or, on mountain peak, that rears its head 
 Where snow-clad Alps around are spread, 
 By furious gale 'tis thrown. 
 From the yawning abyss see the cloud scud away, 
 And the glacier appears, with its multiform ray, 
 The giant mountain's crown! 
 
 Like Parnassian pinnacle yet to be scaled, 
 In its form from afar, by the aspirant hailed; 
 On its side the rainbow plays, 
 And at eve, when the shadow sinks sleeping below, 
 The last slanting ray on its crest of snow 
 Makes its cap like a crater to blaze. 
 
 In the darkness, its front seems some pale orb of light, 
 The chamois with fear flashes on in its flight, 
 The eagle afar is driven; 
 The deluge but roars in despair to its feet, 
 And scarce dare the eye its aspect to meet, 
 So near doth it rise to heaven. 
 
 Alone on these altitudes, feeling no fear, 
 Forgetful of earth, my spirit draws near; 
 On the starry vault to gaze, 
 And nearer, to gaze on those glories of night, 
 On th' horizon high heaving, like arches of light, 
 Till again the sun shall blaze. 
 
 For then will the glacier with glory be graced, 
 On its prisms will light streaked with darkness be placed, 
 The morn its echoes greet; 
 Like a torrent it falls on the ocean of life, 
 Like Chaos unformed, with the sea-stormy strife, 
 When waters on waters meet. 
 
 As the spirit of poesy touches my thought, 
 It is thus my ideas in a circle are brought, 
 From earth, with the waters of pain. 
 As under a sunbeam a cloud ascends, 
 These fly to the heavens—their course never ends, 
 But descend to the ocean again. 
 
 Author of "Critical Essays." 


 




Written by John Berryman | Create an image from this poem

Dream Song 70: Disengaged bloody Henry rose from the shell

 Disengaged, bloody, Henry rose from the shell
where in theior racing start his seat got wedged
under his knifing knees,
he did it on the runners, feathering,
being bow, catching no crab.
The ridges were sore & tore chamois.
It was not done with ease.
So Henry was a hero, malgré lui, that day, for blundering; until & after the coach said this & which to him.
That happy day, whenas the pregnant back of Number Two returned, and he'd no choice but to make for it room.
Therefore he rowed rowed rowed.
They did not win.
Forever in the winning & losing since of his own crew, or rather in the weird regattas of this afterworld, cheer for the foe.
He sat himself to time the blue father.