Best Famous Commoner Poems

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

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• All Famous Commoner Poems

Written by Emily Dickinson | Let Us play Yesterday -- Let Us play Yesterday -- I -- the Girl at school -- You -- and Eternity -- the Untold Tale -- Easing my famine At my Lexicon -- Logarithm -- had I -- for Drink -- 'Twas a dry Wine -- Somewhat different -- must be -- Dreams tint the Sleep -- Cunning Reds of Morning Make the Blind -- leap -- Still at the Egg-life -- Chafing the Shell -- When you troubled the Ellipse -- And the Bird fell -- Manacles be dim -- they say -- To the new Free -- Liberty -- Commoner -- Never could -- to me -- 'Twas my last gratitude When I slept -- at night -- 'Twas the first Miracle Let in -- with Light -- Can the Lark resume the Shell -- Easier -- for the Sky -- Wouldn't Bonds hurt more Than Yesterday? Wouldn't Dungeons sorer frate On the Man -- free -- Just long enough to taste -- Then -- doomed new -- God of the Manacle As of the Free -- Take not my Liberty Away from Me --

Written by Robert Burns | 518. Ballad on Mr. Heron's Election—No. 1 WHOM will you send to London town, To Parliament and a’ that? Or wha in a’ the country round The best deserves to fa’ that? For a’ that, and a’ that, Thro’ Galloway and a’ that, Where is the Laird or belted Knight The best deserves to fa’ that? Wha sees Kerroughtree’s open yett, (And wha is’t never saw that?) Wha ever wi’ Kerroughtree met, And has a doubt of a’ that? For a’ that, and a’ that, Here’s Heron yet for a’ that! The independent patriot, The honest man, and a’ that. Tho’ wit and worth, in either sex, Saint Mary’s Isle can shaw that, Wi’ Dukes and Lords let Selkirk mix, And weel does Selkirk fa’ that. For a’ that, and a’ that, Here’s Heron yet for a’ that! The independent commoner Shall be the man for a’ that. But why should we to Nobles jouk, And is’t against the law, that? For why, a Lord may be a gowk, Wi’ ribband, star and a’ that, For a’ that, and a’ that, Here’s Heron yet for a’ that! A Lord may be a lousy loun, Wi’ ribband, star and a’ that. A beardless boy comes o’er the hills, Wi’ uncle’s purse and a’ that; But we’ll hae ane frae mang oursels, A man we ken, and a’ that. For a’ that, and a’ that, Here’s Heron yet for a’ that! For we’re not to be bought and sold, Like naigs, and nowt, and a’ that. Then let us drink—The Stewartry, Kerroughtree’s laird, and a’ that, Our representative to be, For weel he’s worthy a’ that. For a’ that, and a’ that, Here’s Heron yet for a’ that! A House of Commons such as he, They wad be blest that saw that.

Written by Dylan Thomas | There Was A Saviour There was a saviour Rarer than radium, Commoner than water, crueller than truth; Children kept from the sun Assembled at his tongue To hear the golden note turn in a groove, Prisoners of wishes locked their eyes In the jails and studies of his keyless smiles. The voice of children says From a lost wilderness There was calm to be done in his safe unrest, When hindering man hurt Man, animal, or bird We hid our fears in that murdering breath, Silence, silence to do, when earth grew loud, In lairs and asylums of the tremendous shout. There was glory to hear In the churches of his tears, Under his downy arm you sighed as he struck, O you who could not cry On to the ground when a man died Put a tear for joy in the unearthly flood And laid your cheek against a cloud-formed shell: Now in the dark there is only yourself and myself. Two proud, blacked brothers cry, Winter-locked side by side, To this inhospitable hollow year, O we who could not stir One lean sigh when we heard Greed on man beating near and fire neighbour But wailed and nested in the sky-blue wall Now break a giant tear for the little known fall, For the drooping of homes That did not nurse our bones, Brave deaths of only ones but never found, Now see, alone in us, Our own true strangers' dust Ride through the doors of our unentered house. Exiled in us we arouse the soft, Unclenched, armless, silk and rough love that breaks all rocks.

Written by Du Fu | Sighs of Autumn Rain (3) Chang'an commoner who notice Be locked in weigh gate watch surround wall Old people not go grow weeds Child without worry walk wind rain Rain sound sough and sigh hasten early cold West goose wing wet high fly hard Autumn come have not see white sun Mud dirt after earth what time dry In Chang'an, who notices the cloth-gowned scholar? Locked behind his gate and guarding his walls. The old man doesn't go out, the weeds grow tall, Children blithely rush through wind and rain. The rustling rain hastens the early cold, And geese with wet wings find high flying hard. This autumn we've had no glimpse of the white sun, When will the mud and dirt become dry earth?

Written by Philip Levine | Mad Day In March Beaten like an old hound Whimpering by the stove, I complicate the pain That smarts with promised love. The oilstove falls, the rain, Forecast, licks at my wound; Ice forms, clips the green shoot, And strikes the wren house mute. May commoner and king, The barren bride and nun Begrudge the season's dues. May children curse the sun, Sweet briar and grass refuse To compromise the spring, And both sower and seed Choke on the summer's weed. Those promises we heard We heard in ignorance; The numbered days we named, And, in our innocence, Assumed the beast was tamed. On a bare limb, a bird, Alone, arrived, with wings Frozen, holds on and sings.

Written by Emily Dickinson | Of Tribulation these are They Of Tribulation, these are They, Denoted by the White -- The Spangled Gowns, a lesser Rank Of Victors -- designate -- All these -- did conquer -- But the ones who overcame most times -- Wear nothing commoner than Snow -- No Ornament, but Palms -- Surrender -- is a sort unknown -- On this superior soil -- Defeat -- an outgrown Anguish -- Remembered, as the Mile Our panting Ankle barely passed -- When Night devoured the Road -- But we -- stood whispering in the House -- And all we said -- was "Saved"!

Written by Robert Louis Stevenson | Still I Love To Rhyme STILL I love to rhyme, and still more, rhyming, to wander Far from the commoner way; Old-time trills and falls by the brook-side still do I ponder, Dreaming to-morrow to-day. Come here, come, revive me, Sun-God, teach me, Apollo, Measures descanted before; Since I ancient verses, I emulous follow, Prints in the marbles of yore. Still strange, strange, they sound in old-young raiment invested, Songs for the brain to forget - Young song-birds elate to grave old temples benested Piping and chirruping yet. Thoughts? No thought has yet unskilled attempted to flutter Trammelled so vilely in verse; He who writes but aims at fame and his bread and his butter, Won with a groan and a curse.