10 Best Famous Chore Poems

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

• All Famous Chore Poems

 There's little to have but the things I had,
There's little to bear but the things I bore.
There's nothing to carry and naught to add,
And glory to Heaven, I paid the score.

There's little to do but I did before,
There's little to learn but the things I know;
And this is the sum of a lasting lore:
Scratch a lover, and find a foe.

And couldn't it be I was young and mad
If ever my heart on my sleeve I wore?
There's many to claw at a heart unclad,
And little the wonder it ripped and tore.
There's one that'll join in their push and roar,
With stories to jabber, and stones to throw;
He'll fetch you a lesson that costs you sore:
Scratch a lover, and find a foe.

So little I'll offer to you, my lad;
It's little in loving I set my store.
There's many a maid would be flushed and glad,
And better you'll knock at a kindlier door.
I'll dig at my lettuce, and sweep my floor,
Forever, forever I'm done with woe.
And happen I'll whistle about my chore,
"Scratch a lover, and find a foe."



L'ENVOI

Oh, beggar or prince, no more, no more!
Be off and away with your strut and show.
The sweeter the apple, the blacker the core:
Scratch a lover, and find a foe!

 Here is the place; right over the hill 
Runs the path I took; 
You can see the gap in the old wall still, 
And the stepping-stones in the shallow brook. 

There is the house, with the gate red-barred, 
And the poplars tall; 
And the barn's brown length, and the cattle-yard, 
And the white horns tossing above the wall. 

There are the beehives ranged in the sun; 
And down by the brink 
Of the brook are her poor flowers, weed-o'errun, 
Pansy and daffodil, rose and pink. 

A year has gone, as the tortoise goes, 
Heavy and slow; 
And the same rose blows, and the same sun glows, 
And the same brook sings of a year ago. 

There 's the same sweet clover-smell in the breeze; 
And the June sun warm 
Tangles his wings of fire in the trees, 
Setting, as then, over Fernside farm. 

I mind me how with a lover's care 
From my Sunday coat 
I brushed off the burrs, and smoothed my hair, 
And cooled at the brookside my brow and throat. 

Since we parted, a month had passed, -- 
To love, a year; 
Down through the beeches I looked at last 
On the little red gate and the well-sweep near. 

I can see it all now, -- the slantwise rain 
Of light through the leaves, 
The sundown's blaze on her window-pane, 
The bloom of her roses under the eaves. 

Just the same as a month before, -- 
The house and the trees, 
The barn's brown gable, the vine by the door, -- 
Nothing changed but the hives of bees. 

Before them, under the garden wall, 
Forward and back, 
Went drearily singing the chore-girl small, 
Draping each hive with a shred of black. 

Trembling, I listened: the summer sun 
Had the chill of snow; 
For I knew she was telling the bees of one 
Gone on the journey we all must go! 

Then I said to myself, "My Mary weeps 
For the dead to-day: 
Haply her blind old grandsire sleeps 
The fret and the pain of his age away." 

But her dog whined low; on the doorway sill, 
With his cane to his chin, 
The old man sat; and the chore-girl still 
Sung to the bees stealing out and in. 

And the song she was singing ever since 
In my ear sounds on: -- 
"Stay at home, pretty bees, fly not hence! 
Mistress Mary is dead and gone!"

 The church flings forth a battled shade 
Over the moon-blanched sward: 
The church; my gift; whereto I paid 
My all in hand and hoard; 
Lavished my gains 
With stintless pains 
To glorify the Lord. 

I squared the broad foundations in 
Of ashlared masonry; 
I moulded mullions thick and thin, 
Hewed fillet and ogee; 
I circleted 
Each sculptured head 
With nimb and canopy. 

I called in many a craftsmaster 
To fix emblazoned glass, 
To figure Cross and Sepulchure 
On dossal, boss, and brass. 
My gold all spent, 
My jewels went 
To gem the cups of Mass. 

I borrowed deep to carve the screen 
And raise the ivoried Rood; 
I parted with my small demesne 
To make my owings good. 
Heir-looms unpriced 
I sacrificed, 
Until debt-free I stood. 

So closed the task. "Deathless the Creed 
Here substanced!" said my soul: 
"I heard me bidden to this deed, 
And straight obeyed the call. 
Illume this fane, 
That not in vain 
I build it, Lord of all!" 

But, as it chanced me, then and there 
Did dire misfortunes burst; 
My home went waste for lack of care, 
My sons rebelled and curst; 
Till I confessed 
That aims the best 
Were looking like the worst. 

Enkindled by my votive work 
No burnng faith I find; 
The deeper thinkers sneer and smirk, 
And give my toil no mind; 
From nod and wink 
I read they think 
That I am fool and blind. 

My gift to God seems futile, quite; 
The world moves as erstwhile; 
And powerful Wrong on feeble Right 
Tramples in olden style. 
My faith burns down, 
I see no crown; 
But Cares, and Griefs, and Guile. 

So now, the remedy? Yea, this: 
I gently swing the door 
Here, of my fane--no soul to wis-- 
And cross the patterned floor 
To the rood-screen 
That stands between 
The nave and inner chore. 

The rich red windows dim the moon, 
But little light need I; 
I mount the prie-dieu, lately hewn 
From woods of rarest dye; 
Then from below 
My garment, so, 
I draw this cord, and tie 

One end thereof around the beam 
Midway 'twixt Cross and truss: 
I noose the nethermost extreme, 
And in ten seconds thus 
I journey hence-- 
To that land whence 
No rumour reaches us. 

Well: Here at morn they'll light on one 
Dangling in mockery 
Of what he spent his substance on 
Blindly and uselessly!... 
"He might," they'll say, 
"Have built, some way, 
A cheaper gallows-tree!"

 Son put a poser up to me
That made me scratch my head:
"God made the whole wide world," quoth he;
"That's right, my boy," I said.
Said son: "He mad the mountains soar,
And all the plains lie flat;
But Dad, what did he do before
 He did all that?

Said I: "Creation was his biz;
He set the stars to shine;
The sun and moon and all that is
Were His unique design.
The Cosmos is his concrete thought,
The Universe his chore..."
Said Son: "I understand, but what
 Did He before?"

I gave it up; I could not cope
With his enquiring prod,
And must admit I've little hope
Of understanding God.
Indeed I find more to my mind
The monkey in the tree
In whose crude form Nature defined
 Our human destiny.

Thought I: "Why search for Deity
In visionary shape?
'Twould better be if we could see
The angel in the ape.
Let mystic seek a God above:
Far wiser he who delves,
To find in kindliness and love
 God in ourselves."

 While for me gapes the greedy grave
 It don't make sense
That I should have a crazy crave
 To paint our fence.
Yet that is what I aim to do,
 Though dim my sight:
Jest paint them aged pickets blue,
 Or green or white.

Jest squat serenely in the sun
 Wi' brush an' paint,
An' gay them pickets one by one,
 --A chore! It ain't.
The job is joy. Although I'm slow
 I save expense:
So folks, let me before I go,
 Smart that ol' fence.

Them pickets with my hands I made,
 When young and spry;
I coloured them a gleeful shade
 To glad the eye.
So now as chirpy as a boy,
 'Ere I go hence,
Once more let me jest bright to joy
 Our picket fence.