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Best Famous Consummated Poems

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

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Written by Emily Dickinson | Create an image from this poem

A Bee his burnished Carriage

 A Bee his burnished Carriage
Drove boldly to a Rose --
Combinedly alighting --
Himself -- his Carriage was --
The Rose received his visit
With frank tranquillity
Withholding not a Crescent
To his Cupidity --
Their Moment consummated --
Remained for him -- to flee --
Remained for her -- of rapture
But the humility.


Written by Emily Dickinson | Create an image from this poem

A happy lip -- breaks sudden

 A happy lip -- breaks sudden --
It doesn't state you how
It contemplated -- smiling --
Just consummated -- now --
But this one, wears its merriment
So patient -- like a pain --
Fresh gilded -- to elude the eyes
Unqualified, to scan --
Written by Adela Florence Cory Nicolson | Create an image from this poem

The Garden by the Bridge

   The Desert sands are heated, parched and dreary,
     The tigers rend alive their quivering prey
   In the near Jungle; here the kites rise, weary,
     Too gorged with living food to fly away.

   All night the hungry jackals howl together
     Over the carrion in the river bed,
   Or seize some small soft thing of fur or feather
     Whose dying shrieks on the night air are shed.

   I hear from yonder Temple in the distance
     Whose roof with obscene carven Gods is piled,
   Reiterated with a sad insistence
     Sobs of, perhaps, some immolated child.

   Strange rites here, where the archway's shade is deeper,
     Are consummated in the river bed;
   Parias steal the rotten railway sleeper
     To burn the bodies of their cholera dead.

   But yet, their lust, their hunger, cannot shame them
     Goaded by fierce desire, that flays and stings;
   Poor beasts, and poorer men.  Nay, who shall blame them?
     Blame the Inherent Cruelty of Things.

   The world is horrible and I am lonely,
     Let me rest here where yellow roses bloom
   And find forgetfulness, remembering only
     Your face beside me in the scented gloom.

   Nay, do not shrink!  I am not here for passion,
     I crave no love, only a little rest,
   Although I would my face lay, lover's fashion,
     Against the tender coolness of your breast.

   I am so weary of the Curse of Living
     The endless, aimless torture, tumult, fears.
   Surely, if life were any God's free giving,
     He, seeing His gift, long since went blind with tears.

   Seeing us; our fruitless strife, our futile praying,
     Our luckless Present and our bloodstained Past.
   Poor players, who make a trick or two in playing,
     But know that death must win the game at last.

   As round the Fowler, red with feathered slaughter,
     The little joyous lark, unconscious, sings,—
   As the pink Lotus floats on azure water,
     Innocent of the mud from whence it springs.

   You walk through life, unheeding all the sorrow,
     The fear and pain set close around your way,
   Meeting with hopeful eyes each gay to-morrow,
     Living with joy each hour of glad to-day.

   I love to have you thus (nay, dear, lie quiet,
     How should these reverent fingers wrong your hair?)
   So calmly careless of the rush and riot
     That rages round is seething everywhere.

   You do not understand.  You think your beauty
     Does but inflame my senses to desire,
   Till all you hold as loyalty and duty,
     Is shrunk and shrivelled in the ardent fire.

   You wrong me, wearied out with thought and grieving
     As though the whole world's sorrow eat my heart,
   I come to gaze upon your face believing
     Its beauty is as ointment to the smart.

   Lie still and let me in my desolation
     Caress the soft loose hair a moment's span.
   Since Loveliness is Life's one Consolation,
     And love the only Lethe left to man.

   Ah, give me here beneath the trees in flower,
     Beside the river where the fireflies pass,
   One little dusky, all consoling hour
     Lost in the shadow of the long grown grass

   Give me, oh you whose arms are soft and slender,
     Whose eyes are nothing but one long caress,
   Against your heart, so innocent and tender,
     A little Love and some Forgetfulness.
Written by Emily Dickinson | Create an image from this poem

Not all die early dying young --

 Not all die early, dying young --
Maturity of Fate
Is consummated equally
In Ages, or a Night --

A Hoary Boy, I've known to drop
Whole statured -- by the side
Of Junior of Fourscore -- 'twas Act
Not Period -- that died.
Written by Robert William Service | Create an image from this poem

Death And Life

 'Twas in the grave-yard's gruesome gloom
That May and I were mated;
We sneaked inside and on a tomb
Our love was consummated.
It's quite all right, no doubt we'll wed,
Our sin will go unchidden . . .
Ah! sweeter than the nuptial bed
Are ecstasies forbidden.

And as I held my sweetheart close,
And she was softly sighing,
I could not help but think of those
In peace below us lying.
Poor folks! No disrespect we meant,
And beg you'll be forgiving;
We hopes the dead will not resent
The rapture of the living.

And when in death I, too, shall lie,
And lost to those who love me,
I wish two sweethearts roving by
Will plight their troth above me.
Oh do not think that I will grieve
To hear the vows they're voicing,
And if their love new life conceive,
'Tis I will be rejoicing.


Written by Emily Dickinson | Create an image from this poem

That odd old man is dead a year --

 That odd old man is dead a year --
We miss his stated Hat.
'Twas such an evening bright and stiff
His faded lamp went out.

Who miss his antiquated Wick --
Are any hoar for him?
Waits any indurated mate
His wrinkled coming Home?

Oh Life, begun in fluent Blood
And consummated dull!
Achievement contemplating thee --
Feels transitive and cool.
Written by Emily Dickinson | Create an image from this poem

Midsummer was it when They died --

 Midsummer, was it, when They died --
A full, and perfect time --
The Summer closed upon itself
In Consummated Bloom --

The Corn, her furthest kernel filled
Before the coming Flail --
When These -- leaned unto Perfectness --
Through Haze of Burial --

Book: Reflection on the Important Things