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Best Famous Consists Poems

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

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Written by Robert Browning | Create an image from this poem

From ‘Paracelsus'

 I

TRUTH is within ourselves; it takes no rise 
From outward things, whate’er you may believe. 
There is an inmost centre in us all, 
Where truth abides in fullness; and around, 
Wall upon wall, the gross flesh hems it in, 
This perfect, clear perception—which is truth. 
A baffling and perverting carnal mesh 
Binds it, and makes all error: and, to KNOW, 
Rather consists in opening out a way 
Whence the imprisoned splendour may escape, 
Than in effecting entry for a light 
Supposed to be without. 

II

I knew, I felt, (perception unexpressed, 
Uncomprehended by our narrow thought, 
But somehow felt and known in every shift 
And change in the spirit,—nay, in every pore 
Of the body, even,)—what God is, what we are 
What life is—how God tastes an infinite joy 
In infinite ways—one everlasting bliss, 
From whom all being emanates, all power 
Proceeds; in whom is life for evermore, 
Yet whom existence in its lowest form 
Includes; where dwells enjoyment there is he: 
With still a flying point of bliss remote, 
A happiness in store afar, a sphere 
Of distant glory in full view; thus climbs 
Pleasure its heights for ever and for ever. 
The centre-fire heaves underneath the earth, 
And the earth changes like a human face; 
The molten ore bursts up among the rocks, 
Winds into the stone’s heart, outbranches bright 
In hidden mines, spots barren river-beds, 
Crumbles into fine sand where sunbeams bask— 
God joys therein! The wroth sea’s waves are edged 
With foam, white as the bitten lip of hate, 
When, in the solitary waste, strange groups 
Of young volcanos come up, cyclops-like, 
Staring together with their eyes on flame— 
God tastes a pleasure in their uncouth pride. 
Then all is still; earth is a wintry clod: 
But spring-wind, like a dancing psaltress, passes 
Over its breast to waken it, rare verdure 
Buds tenderly upon rough banks, between 
The withered tree-roots and the cracks of frost, 
Like a smile striving with a wrinkled face; 
The grass grows bright, the boughs are swoln with blooms 
Like chrysalids impatient for the air, 
The shining dorrs are busy, beetles run 
Along the furrows, ants make their ade; 
Above, birds fly in merry flocks, the lark 
Soars up and up, shivering for very joy; 
Afar the ocean sleeps; white fishing-gulls 
Flit where the strand is purple with its tribe 
Of nested limpets; savage creatures seek 
Their loves in wood and plain—and God renews 
His ancient rapture. Thus He dwells in all, 
From life’s minute beginnings, up at last 
To man—the consummation of this scheme 
Of being, the completion of this sphere 
Of life: whose attributes had here and there 
Been scattered o’er the visible world before, 
Asking to be combined, dim fragments meant 
To be united in some wondrous whole, 
Imperfect qualities throughout creation, 
Suggesting some one creature yet to make, 
Some point where all those scattered rays should meet 
Convergent in the faculties of man.


Written by Elizabeth Bishop | Create an image from this poem

Squatters Children

 On the unbreathing sides of hills
they play, a specklike girl and boy,
alone, but near a specklike house.
The Sun's suspended eye
blinks casually, and then they wade
gigantic waves of light and shade.
A dancing yellow spot, a pup,
attends them. Clouds are piling up; 

a storm piles up behind the house.
The children play at digging holes.
The ground is hard; they try to use
one of their father's tools,
a mattock with a broken haft
the two of them can scarcely lift.
It drops and clangs. Their laughter spreads
effulgence in the thunderheads, 

Weak flashes of inquiry
direct as is the puppy's bark.
But to their little, soluble,
unwarrantable ark,
apparently the rain's reply
consists of echolalia,
and Mother's voice, ugly as sin,
keeps calling to them to come in. 

Children, the threshold of the storm
has slid beneath your muddy shoes;
wet and beguiled, you stand among
the mansions you may choose
out of a bigger house than yours,
whose lawfulness endures.
It's soggy documents retain
your rights in rooms of falling rain.
Written by Ogden Nash | Create an image from this poem

Portrait of the Artist as a Prematurely Old Man

 It is common knowledge to every schoolboy and even every Bachelor of Arts,
That all sin is divided into two parts.
One kind of sin is called a sin of commission, and that is very important,
And it is what you are doing when you are doing something you ortant,
And the other kind of sin is just the opposite and is called a sin of omission
 and is equally bad in the eyes of all right-thinking people, from
 Billy Sunday to Buddha,
And it consists of not having done something you shuddha.
I might as well give you my opinion of these two kinds of sin as long as,
 in a way, against each other we are pitting them,
And that is, don't bother your head about the sins of commission because
 however sinful, they must at least be fun or else you wouldn't be
 committing them.
It is the sin of omission, the second kind of sin,
That lays eggs under your skin.
The way you really get painfully bitten
Is by the insurance you haven't taken out and the checks you haven't added up
 the stubs of and the appointments you haven't kept and the bills you
 haven't paid and the letters you haven't written.
Also, about sins of omission there is one particularly painful lack of beauty,
Namely, it isn't as though it had been a riotous red-letter day or night every
 time you neglected to do your duty;
You didn't get a wicked forbidden thrill
Every time you let a policy lapse or forget to pay a bill;
You didn't slap the lads in the tavern on the back and loudly cry Whee,
Let's all fail to write just one more letter before we go home, and this round
 of unwritten letters is on me.
No, you never get any fun
Out of things you haven't done,
But they are the things that I do not like to be amid,
Because the suitable things you didn't do give you a lot more trouble than the
 unsuitable things you did.
The moral is that it is probably better not to sin at all, but if some kind of
 sin you must be pursuing,
Well, remember to do it by doing rather than by not doing.
Written by Ogden Nash | Create an image from this poem

So Does Everybody Else Only Not So Much

 O all ye exorcizers come and exorcize now, and ye clergymen draw nigh and clerge, For I wish to be purged of an urge. It is an irksome urge, compounded of nettles and glue, And it is turning all my friends back into acquaintances, and all my acquaintances into people who look the other way when I heave into view. It is an indication that my mental buttery is butterless and my mental larder lardless, And it consists not of "Stop me if you've heard this one," but of "I know you've heard this one because I told it to you myself, but I'm going to tell it to you again regardless," Yes I fear I am living beyond my mental means. When I realize that it is not only anecdotes that I reiterate but what is far worse, summaries of radio programs and descriptions of caroons in newspapers and magazines. I want to resist but I cannot resist recounting the bright sayins of celebrities that everybody already is familiar with every word of; I want to refrain but cannot refrain from telling the same audience on two successive evenings the same little snatches of domestic gossip about people I used to know that they have never heard of. When I remember some titlating episode of my childhood I figure that if it's worth narrating once it's worth narrating twice, in spite of lackluster eyes and dropping jaws, And indeed I have now worked my way backward from titllating episodes in my own childhood to titillating episodes in the childhood of my parents or even my parents-in-laws, And what really turns my corpuscles to ice, I carry around clippings and read them to people twice. And I know what I am doing while I am doing it and I don't want to do it but I can't help doing it and I am just another Ancient Mariner, And the prospects for my future social life couldn't possibly be barrener. Did I tell you that the prospects for my future social life couldn't be barrener?
Written by William Strode | Create an image from this poem

In Commendation Of Musick

 When whispering straynes doe softly steale
With creeping passion through the hart,
And when at every touch wee feele
Our pulses beate and beare a part;
When thredds can make
A hartstring shake
Philosophie
Can scarce deny
The soule consists of harmony.


When unto heavenly joy wee feyne
Whatere the soule affecteth most,
Which onely thus wee can explayne
By musick of the winged hoast,
Whose layes wee think
Make starres to winke,
Philosophie
Can scarce deny
Our soules consist of harmony.


O lull mee, lull mee, charming ayre,
My senses rock with wonder sweete;
Like snowe on wooll thy fallings are,
Soft, like a spiritts, are thy feete:
Greife who need feare
That hath an eare?
Down lett him lye
And slumbring dye,
And change his soule for harmony.


Written by John Berryman | Create an image from this poem

Dream Song 10: There were strange gatherings. A vote would come

 There were strange gatherings. A vote would come
that would be no vote. There would come a rope.
Yes. There would come a rope.
Men have their hats down. "Dancing in the Dark"
will see him up, car-radio-wise. So many, some
won't find a rut to park.

It is in the occasions, that—not the fathomless heart—
the thinky death consists;
his chest is pinched. The enemy are sick,
and so is us of. Often, to rising trysts,
like this one, drove he out

and gasps of love, after all, had got him ready.
However things hurt, men hurt worse. He's stark
to be jerked onward?
Yes. In the headlights he got' keep him steady,
leak not, look out over. This' hard work,
boss, wait' for The Word.
Written by Michael Drayton | Create an image from this poem

Sonnet XLII: Some Men There Be

 Some men there be which like my method well 
And much commend the strangeness of my vein; 
Some say I have a passing pleasing strain; 
Some say that im my humor I excel; 
Some, who not kindly relish my conceit, 
They say, as poets do, I use to feign, 
And in bare words paint out my passion's pain. 
Thus sundry men their sundry words repeat; 
I pass not, I, how men affected be, 
Nor who commends or discommends my verse; 
It pleaseth me, if I my woes rehearse, 
And in my lines if she my love may see. 
Only my comfort still consists in this, 
Writing her praise I cannot write amiss.
Written by Omar Khayyam | Create an image from this poem

To drink wine and rejoice is my gospel of life. To

To drink wine and rejoice is my gospel of life. To
be as indifferent to heresy as to religion is my creed. I
asked the bride of the human race [the world] what her
dowry was, and she answered: My dowry consists in the
joy of my heart.
293
Written by Omar Khayyam | Create an image from this poem

Since you only possess what God has given you, torment

Since you only possess what God has given you, torment
not yourself to obtain the object of your covetousness.
Keep from burdening the heart too much, for the
final drama consists in leaving all and passing beyond.
Written by Omar Khayyam | Create an image from this poem

Do you wish the universe to submit itself to your will?

Do you wish the universe to submit itself to your will?
Occupy yourself without ceasing in fortifying your soul.
Share my mood, which consists in drinking wine and
never taking to myself the cares of things here below.

Book: Radiant Verses: A Journey Through Inspiring Poetry