Best Famous Combatants Poems

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

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• All Famous Combatants Poems

Written by Keith Douglas | Vergissmeinnicht Three weeks gone and the combatants gone returning over the nightmare ground we found the place again, and found the soldier sprawling in the sun. The frowning barrel of his gun overshadowing. As we came on that day, he hit my tank with one like the entry of a demon. Look. Here in the gunpit spoil the dishonoured picture of his girl who has put: Steffi. Vergissmeinnicht. in a copybook gothic script. We see him almost with content, abased, and seeming to have paid and mocked at by his own equipment that's hard and good when he's decayed. But she would weep to see today how on his skin the swart flies move; the dust upon the paper eye and the burst stomach like a cave. For here the lover and killer are mingled who had one body and one heart. And death who had the soldier singled has done the lover mortal hurt.

Written by Rudyard Kipling | Bridge-Guard in the Karroo 1901 ". . . and will supply details to guard the Blood River Bridge." District Orders-Lines of Communication, South African War. Sudden the desert changes, The raw glare softens and clings, Till the aching Oudtshoorn ranges Stand up like the thrones of Kings -- Ramparts of slaughter and peril -- Blazing, amazing, aglow -- 'Twixt the sky-line's belting beryl And the wine-dark flats below. Royal the pageant closes, Lit by the last of the sun -- Opal and ash-of-roses, Cinnamon, umber, and dun. The twilight svallows the thicket, The starlight reveals the ridge. The whistle shrills to the picket -- We are changing guard on the bridge. (Few, forgotten and lonely, Where the empty metals shine -- No, not combatants-only Details guarding the line.) We slip through the broken panel Of fence by the ganger's shed; We drop to the waterless channel And the lean track overhead; We stumble on refuse of rations, The beef and the biscuit-tins; We take our appointed stations, And the endless night begins. We hear the Hottentot herders As the sheep click past to the fold -- And the click of the restless girders As the steel contracts in the cold -- Voices of jackals calling And, loud in the hush between A morsel of dry earth falling From the flanks of the scarred ravine. And the solemn firmament marches, And the hosts of heaven rise Framed through the iron arches -- Banded and barred by the ties, Till we feel the far track humming, And we see her headlight plain, And we gather and wait her coming -- The wonderful north-bound train. (Few, forgotten and lonely, Where the white car-windows shine -- No, not combatants-only Details guarding the line.) Quick, ere the gift escape us! Out of the darkness we reach For a handful of week-old papers And a mouthful of human speech. And the monstrous heaven rejoices, And the earth allows again, Meetings, greetings, and voices Of women talking with men.

Written by Victor Hugo | Nero's Incendiary Song ("Amis! ennui nous tue.") {Bk. IV. xv., March, 1825.} Aweary unto death, my friends, a mood by wise abhorred, Come to the novel feast I spread, thrice-consul, Nero, lord, The Caesar, master of the world, and eke of harmony, Who plays the harp of many strings, a chief of minstrelsy. My joyful call should instantly bring all who love me most,— For ne'er were seen such arch delights from Greek or Roman host; Nor at the free, control-less jousts, where, spite of cynic vaunts, Austere but lenient Seneca no "Ercles" bumper daunts; Nor where upon the Tiber floats Aglae in galley gay, 'Neath Asian tent of brilliant stripes, in gorgeous array; Nor when to lutes and tambourines the wealthy prefect flings A score of slaves, their fetters wreathed, to feed grim, greedy things. I vow to show ye Rome aflame, the whole town in a mass; Upon this tower we'll take our stand to watch the 'wildered pass; How paltry fights of men and beasts! here be my combatants,— The Seven Hills my circus form, and fiends shall lead the dance. This is more meet for him who rules to drive away his stress— He, being god, should lightnings hurl and make a wilderness— But, haste! for night is darkling—soon, the festival it brings; Already see the hydra show its tongues and sombre wings, And mark upon a shrinking prey the rush of kindling breaths; They tap and sap the threatened walls, and bear uncounted deaths; And 'neath caresses scorching hot the palaces decay— Oh, that I, too, could thus caress, and burn, and blight, and slay! Hark to the hubbub! scent the fumes! Are those real men or ghosts? The stillness spreads of Death abroad—down come the temple posts, Their molten bronze is coursing fast and joins with silver waves To leap with hiss of thousand snakes where Tiber writhes and raves. All's lost! in jasper, marble, gold, the statues totter—crash! Spite of the names divine engraved, they are but dust and ash. The victor-scourge sweeps swollen on, whilst north winds sound the horn To goad the flies of fire yet beyond the flight forlorn. Proud capital! farewell for e'er! these flames nought can subdue— The Aqueduct of Sylla gleams, a bridge o'er hellish brew. 'Tis Nero's whim! how good to see Rome brought the lowest down; Yet, Queen of all the earth, give thanks for such a splendrous crown! When I was young, the Sybils pledged eternal rule to thee; That Time himself would lay his bones before thy unbent knee. Ha! ha! how brief indeed the space ere this "immortal star" Shall be consumed in its own glow, and vanished—oh, how far! How lovely conflagrations look when night is utter dark! The youth who fired Ephesus' fane falls low beneath my mark. The pangs of people—when I sport, what matters?—See them whirl About, as salamanders frisk and in the brazier curl. Take from my brow this poor rose-crown—the flames have made it pine; If blood rains on your festive gowns, wash off with Cretan wine! I like not overmuch that red—good taste says "gild a crime?" "To stifle shrieks by drinking-songs" is—thanks! a hint sublime! I punish Rome, I am avenged; did she not offer prayers Erst unto Jove, late unto Christ?—to e'en a Jew, she dares! Now, in thy terror, own my right to rule above them all; Alone I rest—except this pile, I leave no single hall. Yet I destroy to build anew, and Rome shall fairer shine— But out, my guards, and slay the dolts who thought me not divine. The stiffnecks, haste! annihilate! make ruin all complete— And, slaves, bring in fresh roses—what odor is more sweet? H.L. WILLIAMS

Written by Thomas Hardy | In a Wood Pale beech and pine-tree blue, Set in one clay, Bough to bough cannot you Bide out your day? When the rains skim and skip, Why mar sweet comradeship, Blighting with poison-drip Neighborly spray? Heart-halt and spirit-lame, City-opprest, Unto this wood I came As to a nest; Dreaming that sylvan peace Offered the harrowed ease— Nature a soft release From men’s unrest. But, having entered in, Great growths and small Show them to men akin— Combatants all! Sycamore shoulders oak, Bines the slim sapling yoke, Ivy-spun halters choke Elms stout and tall. Touches from ash, O wych, Sting you like scorn! You, too, brave hollies, twitch Sidelong from thorn. Even the rank poplars bear Illy a rival’s air, Cankering in black despair If overborne. Since, then, no grace I find Taught me of trees, Turn I back to my kind, Worthy as these. There at least smiles abound, There discourse trills around, There, now and then, are found Life-loyalties.