10 Best Famous Clovers Poems

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

• All Famous Clovers Poems

Written by Wendell Berry | In this World The hill pasture, an open place among the trees, tilts into the valley. The clovers and tall grasses are in bloom. Along the foot of the hill dark floodwater moves down the river. The sun sets. Ahead of nightfall the birds sing. I have climbed up to water the horses and now sit and rest, high on the hillside, letting the day gather and pass. Below me cattle graze out across the wide fields of the bottomlands, slow and preoccupied as stars. In this world men are making plans, wearing themselves out, spending their lives, in order to kill each other.

Written by Emily Dickinson | Like trains of cars on tracks of plush Like trains of cars on tracks of plush I hear the level bee: A jar across the flowers goes, Their velvet masonry Withstands until the sweet assault Their chivalry consumes, While he, victorious, tilts away To vanquish other blooms. His feet are shod with gauze, His helmet is of gold; His breast, a single onyx With chrysoprase, inlaid. His labor is a chant, His idleness a tune; Oh, for a bee's experience Of clovers and of noon!

Written by Emily Dickinson | From Cocoon forth a Butterfly From Cocoon forth a Butterfly As Lady from her Door Emerged -- a Summer Afternoon -- Repairing Everywhere -- Without Design -- that I could trace Except to stray abroad On Miscellaneous Enterprise The Clovers -- understood -- Her pretty Parasol be seen Contracting in a Field Where Men made Hay -- Then struggling hard With an opposing Cloud -- Where Parties -- Phantom as Herself -- To Nowhere -- seemed to go In purposeless Circumference -- As 'twere a Tropic Show -- And notwithstanding Bee -- that worked -- And Flower -- that zealous blew -- This Audience of Idleness Disdained them, from the Sky -- Till Sundown crept -- a steady Tide -- And Men that made the Hay -- And Afternoon -- and Butterfly -- Extinguished -- in the Sea --

Written by Robert Frost | The Exposed Nest You were forever finding some new play. So when I saw you down on hands and knees I the meadow, busy with the new-cut hay, Trying, I thought, to set it up on end, I went to show you how to make it stay, If that was your idea, against the breeze, And, if you asked me, even help pretend To make it root again and grow afresh. But 'twas no make-believe with you today, Nor was the grass itself your real concern, Though I found your hand full of wilted fern, Steel-bright June-grass, and blackening heads of clovers. 'Twas a nest full of young birds on the ground The cutter-bar had just gone champing over (Miraculously without tasking flesh) And left defenseless to the heat and light. You wanted to restore them to their right Of something interposed between their sight And too much world at once--could means be found. The way the nest-full every time we stirred Stood up to us as to a mother-bird Whose coming home has been too long deferred, Made me ask would the mother-bird return And care for them in such a change of scene And might out meddling make her more afraid. That was a thing we could not wait to learn. We saw the risk we took in doing good, But dared not spare to do the best we could Though harm should come of it; so built the screen You had begun, and gave them back their shade. All this to prove we cared. Why is there then No more to tell? We turned to other things. I haven't any memory--have you?-- Of ever coming to the place again To see if the birds lived the first night through, And so at last to learn to use their wings.

Written by Emily Dickinson | The Clovers simple Fame The Clover's simple Fame Remembered of the Cow -- Is better than enameled Realms Of notability. Renown perceives itself And that degrades the Flower -- The Daisy that has looked behind Has compromised its power --

Written by Emily Dickinson | The Wind didnt come from the Orchard -- today The Wind didn't come from the Orchard -- today -- Further than that -- Nor stop to play with the Hay -- Nor joggle a Hat -- He's a transitive fellow -- very -- Rely on that -- If He leave a Bur at the door We know He has climbed a Fir -- But the Fir is Where -- Declare -- Were you ever there? If He brings Odors of Clovers -- And that is His business -- not Ours -- Then He has been with the Mowers -- Whetting away the Hours To sweet pauses of Hay -- His Way -- of a June Day -- If He fling Sand, and Pebble -- Little Boys Hats -- and Stubble -- With an occasional Steeple -- And a hoarse "Get out of the way, I say," Who'd be the fool to stay? Would you -- Say -- Would you be the fool to stay?

Written by Emily Dickinson | His Feet are shod with Gauze -- His Feet are shod with Gauze -- His Helmet, is of Gold, His Breast, a Single Onyx With Chrysophrase, inlaid. His Labor is a Chant -- His Idleness -- a Tune -- Oh, for a Bee's experience Of Clovers, and of Noon!

Written by Emily Dickinson | We -- Bee and I -- live by the quaffing We -- Bee and I -- live by the quaffing -- 'Tisn't all Hock -- with us -- Life has its Ale -- But it's many a lay of the Dim Burgundy -- We chant -- for cheer -- when the Wines -- fail -- Do we "get drunk"? Ask the jolly Clovers! Do we "beat" our "Wife"? I -- never wed -- Bee -- pledges his -- in minute flagons -- Dainty -- as the trees -- on our deft Head -- While runs the Rhine -- He and I -- revel -- First -- at the vat -- and latest at the Vine -- Noon -- our last Cup -- "Found dead" -- "of Nectar" -- By a humming Coroner -- In a By-Thyme!