Best Famous Childishness Poems

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

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Written by William Shakespeare | Create an image from this poem

All the Worlds a Stage

 All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages.
At first, the infant, Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel And shining morning face, creeping like snail Unwillingly to school.
And then the lover, Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad Made to his mistress' eyebrow.
Then a soldier, Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard, Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel, Seeking the bubble reputation Even in the cannon's mouth.
And then the justice, In fair round belly with good capon lined, With eyes severe and beard of formal cut, Full of wise saws and modern instances; And so he plays his part.
The sixth age shifts Into the lean and slippered pantaloon, With spectacles on nose and pouch on side; His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice, Turning again toward childish treble, pipes And whistles in his sound.
Last scene of all, That ends this strange eventful history, Is second childishness and mere oblivion, Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.
Written by Elizabeth Bishop | Create an image from this poem

Questions of Travel

 There are too many waterfalls here; the crowded streams 
hurry too rapidly down to the sea, 
and the pressure of so many clouds on the mountaintops 
makes them spill over the sides in soft slow-motion, 
turning to waterfalls under our very eyes.
--For if those streaks, those mile-long, shiny, tearstains, aren't waterfalls yet, in a quick age or so, as ages go here, they probably will be.
But if the streams and clouds keep travelling, travelling, the mountains look like the hulls of capsized ships, slime-hung and barnacled.
Think of the long trip home.
Should we have stayed at home and thought of here? Where should we be today? Is it right to be watching strangers in a play in this strangest of theatres? What childishness is it that while there's a breath of life in our bodies, we are determined to rush to see the sun the other way around? The tiniest green hummingbird in the world? To stare at some inexplicable old stonework, inexplicable and impenetrable, at any view, instantly seen and always, always delightful? Oh, must we dream our dreams and have them, too? And have we room for one more folded sunset, still quite warm? But surely it would have been a pity not to have seen the trees along this road, really exaggerated in their beauty, not to have seen them gesturing like noble pantomimists, robed in pink.
--Not to have had to stop for gas and heard the sad, two-noted, wooden tune of disparate wooden clogs carelessly clacking over a grease-stained filling-station floor.
(In another country the clogs would all be tested.
Each pair there would have identical pitch.
) --A pity not to have heard the other, less primitive music of the fat brown bird who sings above the broken gasoline pump in a bamboo church of Jesuit baroque: three towers, five silver crosses.
--Yes, a pity not to have pondered, blurr'dly and inconclusively, on what connection can exist for centuries between the crudest wooden footwear and, careful and finicky, the whittled fantasies of wooden footwear and, careful and finicky, the whittled fantasies of wooden cages.
--Never to have studied history in the weak calligraphy of songbirds' cages.
--And never to have had to listen to rain so much like politicians' speeches: two hours of unrelenting oratory and then a sudden golden silence in which the traveller takes a notebook, writes: "Is it lack of imagination that makes us come to imagined places, not just stay at home? Or could Pascal have been not entirely right about just sitting quietly in one's room? Continent, city, country, society: the choice is never wide and never free.
And here, or there .
.
.
No.
Should we have stayed at home, wherever that may be?"
Written by Thomas Blackburn | Create an image from this poem

Café Talk

 'Of course,' I said, 'we cannot hope to find
What we are looking for in anyone;
They glitter, maybe, but are not the sun,
This pebble here, that bit of apple rind.
Still, it's the Alpine sun that makes them burn, And what we're looking for, some indirect Glint of itself each of us may reflect, And so shed light about us as we turn.
' Sideways she looked and said, 'How you go on!' And was the stone and rind, their shinings gone.
'It is some hard dry scale we must break through, A deadness round the life.
I cannot make That pebble shine.
Its clarity must take Sunlight unto itself and prove it true.
It is our childishness that clutters up With scales out of the past a present speech, So that the sun's white finger cannot reach An adult prism.
' 'Will they never stop, Your words?' she said and settled to the dark.
'But we use words, we cannot grunt or bark, Use any surer means to make that first Sharp glare of origin again appear Through the marred glass,' I cried, 'but can you hear?' 'Quite well, you needn't shout.
' I felt the thirst Coil back into my body till it shook, And, 'Are you cold?' she said, then ceased to look And picked a bit of cotton from her dress.
Out in the square a child began to cry, What was not said buzzed round us like a fly.
I knew quite well that silence was my cue, But jabbered out, 'This meeting place we need, If we can't find it, still the desire may feed And strengthen on the acts it cannot do.
By suffered depredations we may grow To bear our energies just strong enough, And at the last through perdurable stuff A little of their radiance may show: I f we keep still.
' Then she, 'It's getting late.
' A waiter came and took away a plate.
Then from the darkness an accordion; 'These pauses, love, perhaps in them, made free, Life slips out of its gross machinery, And turns upon itself in unison.
' It was quite dark now you must understand And something of a red mouth on a wall Joined with the music and the alcohol And pushed me to the fingers of her hand.
Well, there it was, itself and quite complete, Accountable, small bones there were and meat.
It did not press on mine or shrink away, And, since no outgone need can long invest Oblivion with a living interest, I drew back and had no more words to say.
Outside the streets were like us and quite dead.
Yet anything more suited to my will, I can't imagine, than our very still Return to no place; As the darkness shed Increasing whiteness on the far icefall, A growth of light there was; and that is all.
Written by Coventry Patmore | Create an image from this poem

The Toys

 My little Son, who look'd from thoughtful eyes 
And moved and spoke in quiet grown-up wise, 
Having my law the seventh time disobey'd, 
I struck him, and dismiss'd 
With hard words and unkiss'd,
—His Mother, who was patient, being dead.
Then, fearing lest his grief should hinder sleep, I visited his bed, But found him slumbering deep, With darken'd eyelids, and their lashes yet From his late sobbing wet.
And I, with moan, Kissing away his tears, left others of my own; For, on a table drawn beside his head, He had put, within his reach, A box of counters and a red-vein'd stone, A piece of glass abraded by the beach, And six or seven shells, A bottle with bluebells, And two French copper coins, ranged there with careful art, To comfort his sad heart.
So when that night I pray'd To God, I wept, and said: Ah, when at last we lie with trancèd breath, Not vexing Thee in death, And Thou rememberest of what toys We made our joys, How weakly understood Thy great commanded good, Then, fatherly not less Than I whom Thou hast moulded from the clay, Thou'lt leave Thy wrath, and say, 'I will be sorry for their childishness.
'