Best Famous Cooed Poems

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

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• All Famous Cooed Poems

Written by Rabindranath Tagore | The Journey The morning sea of silence broke into ripples of bird songs; and the flowers were all merry by the roadside; and the wealth of gold was scattered through the rift of the clouds while we busily went on our way and paid no heed. We sang no glad songs nor played; we went not to the village for barter; we spoke not a word nor smiled; we lingered not on the way. We quickened our pace more and more as the time sped by. The sun rose to the mid sky and doves cooed in the shade. Withered leaves danced and whirled in the hot air of noon. The shepherd boy drowsed and dreamed in the shadow of the banyan tree, and I laid myself down by the water and stretched my tired limbs on the grass. My companions laughed at me in scorn; they held their heads high and hurried on; they never looked back nor rested; they vanished in the distant blue haze. They crossed many meadows and hills, and passed through strange, far-away countries. All honor to you, heroic host of the interminable path! Mockery and reproach pricked me to rise, but found no response in me. I gave myself up for lost in the depth of a glad humiliation ---in the shadow of a dim delight. The repose of the sun-embroidered green gloom slowly spread over my heart. I forgot for what I had traveled, and I surrendered my mind without struggle to the maze of shadows and songs. At last, when I woke from my slumber and opened my eyes, I saw thee standing by me, flooding my sleep with thy smile. How I had feared that the path was long and wearisome, and the struggle to reach thee was hard!

Written by Seamus Heaney | Mid-Term Break I sat all morning in the college sick bay Counting bells knelling classes to a close. At two o'clock our neighbors drove me home. In the porch I met my father crying-- He had always taken funerals in his stride-- And Big Jim Evans saying it was a hard blow. The baby cooed and laughed and rocked the pram When I came in, and I was embarrassed By old men standing up to shake my hand And tell me they were "sorry for my trouble," Whispers informed strangers I was the eldest, Away at school, as my mother held my hand In hers and coughed out angry tearless sighs. At ten o'clock the ambulance arrived With the corpse, stanched and bandaged by the nurses. Next morning I went up into the room. Snowdrops And candles soothed the bedside; I saw him For the first time in six weeks. Paler now, Wearing a poppy bruise on his left temple, He lay in the four foot box as in his cot. No gaudy scars, the bumper knocked him clear. A four foot box, a foot for every year.

Written by Katherine Mansfield | Night-Scented Stock White, white in the milky night The moon danced over a tree. "Wouldn't it be lovely to swim in the lake!" Someone whispered to me. "Oh, do-do-do!" cooed someone else, And clasped her hands to her chin. "I should so love to see the white bodies-- All the white bodies jump in!" The big dark house hid secretly Behind the magnolia and the spreading pear-tree; But there was a sound of music--music rippled and ran Like a lady laughing behind her fan, Laughing and mocking and running away. . . "Come into the garden--it's as light as day!" "I can't dance to that Hungarian stuff, The rhythm in it is not passionate enough," Said somebody. "I absolutely refuse. . . . " But he took off his socks and his shoes And round he spun. "It's like Hungarian fruit dishes Hard and bright--a mechanical blue!" His white feet flicked in the grass like fishes. . . Someone cried: "I want to dance, too!" But one with a ***** Russian ballet head Curled up on a blue wooden bench instead. And another, shadowy--shadowy and tall-- Walked in the shadow of the dark house wall, Someone beside her. It shone in the gloom, His round grey hat, like a wet mushroom. "Don't you think perhaps. . . " piped someone's flute. "How sweet the flowers smell!" I heard the other say. Somebody picked a wet, wet pink, Smelled it and threw it away. "Is the moon a virgin or is she a harlot?" Asked somebody. Nobody would tell. The faces and the hands moved in a pattern As the music rose and fell, In a dancing, mysterious, moon-bright pattern Like flowers nodding under the sea. . . The music stopped and there was nothing left of them But the moon dancing over the tree.

Written by Edna St Vincent Millay | Lament When I was a windy boy and a bit And the black spit of the chapel fold, (Sighed the old ram rod, dying of women), I tiptoed shy in the gooseberry wood, The rude owl cried like a tell-tale tit, I skipped in a blush as the big girls rolled Nine-pin down on donkey's common, And on seesaw sunday nights I wooed Whoever I would with my wicked eyes, The whole of the moon I could love and leave All the green leaved little weddings' wives In the coal black bush and let them grieve. When I was a gusty man and a half And the black beast of the beetles' pews (Sighed the old ram rod, dying of bitches), Not a boy and a bit in the wick- Dipping moon and drunk as a new dropped calf, I whistled all night in the twisted flues, Midwives grew in the midnight ditches, And the sizzling sheets of the town cried, Quick!- Whenever I dove in a breast high shoal, Wherever I ramped in the clover quilts, Whatsoever I did in the coal- Black night, I left my quivering prints. When I was a man you could call a man And the black cross of the holy house, (Sighed the old ram rod, dying of welcome), Brandy and ripe in my bright, bass prime, No springtailed tom in the red hot town With every simmering woman his mouse But a hillocky bull in the swelter Of summer come in his great good time To the sultry, biding herds, I said, Oh, time enough when the blood runs cold, And I lie down but to sleep in bed, For my sulking, skulking, coal black soul! When I was half the man I was And serve me right as the preachers warn, (Sighed the old ram rod, dying of downfall), No flailing calf or cat in a flame Or hickory bull in milky grass But a black sheep with a crumpled horn, At last the soul from its foul mousehole Slunk pouting out when the limp time came; And I gave my soul a blind, slashed eye, Gristle and rind, and a roarers' life, And I shoved it into the coal black sky To find a woman's soul for a wife. Now I am a man no more no more And a black reward for a roaring life, (Sighed the old ram rod, dying of strangers), Tidy and cursed in my dove cooed room I lie down thin and hear the good bells jaw-- For, oh, my soul found a sunday wife In the coal black sky and she bore angels! Harpies around me out of her womb! Chastity prays for me, piety sings, Innocence sweetens my last black breath, Modesty hides my thighs in her wings, And all the deadly virtues plague my death!

Written by Thomas Hardy | The Tree: An Old Mans Story I Its roots are bristling in the air Like some mad Earth-god's spiny hair; The loud south-wester's swell and yell Smote it at midnight, and it fell. Thus ends the tree Where Some One sat with me. II Its boughs, which none but darers trod, A child may step on from the sod, And twigs that earliest met the dawn Are lit the last upon the lawn. Cart off the tree Beneath whose trunk sat we! III Yes, there we sat: she cooed content, And bats ringed round, and daylight went; The gnarl, our seat, is wrenched and sunk, Prone that ***** pocket in the trunk Where lay the key To her pale mystery. IV "Years back, within this pocket-hole I found, my Love, a hurried scrawl Meant not for me," at length said I; "I glanced thereat, and let it lie: The words were three - 'Beloved, I agree. ' V "Who placed it here; to what request It gave assent, I never guessed. Some prayer of some hot heart, no doubt, To some coy maiden hereabout, Just as, maybe, With you, Sweet Heart, and me. " VI She waited, till with quickened breath She spoke, as one who banisheth Reserves that lovecraft heeds so well, To ease some mighty wish to tell: "'Twas I," said she, "Who wrote thus clinchingly. VII "My lover's wife--aye, wife!--knew nought Of what we felt, and bore, and thought . . . He'd said: 'I wed with thee or die: She stands between, 'tis true. But why? Do thou agree, And--she shalt cease to be. ' VIII "How I held back, how love supreme Involved me madly in his scheme Why should I say? . . . I wrote assent (You found it hid) to his intent . . . She--DIED . . . But he Came not to wed with me. IX "O shrink not, Love!--Had these eyes seen But once thine own, such had not been! But we were strangers . . . Thus the plot Cleared passion's path. --Why came he not To wed with me? . . . He wived the gibbet-tree. " X - Under that oak of heretofore Sat Sweetheart mine with me no more: By many a Fiord, and Strom, and Fleuve Have I since wandered . . . Soon, for love, Distraught went she - 'Twas said for love of me.

Written by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow | The White Mans Foot In his lodge beside a river, Close beside a frozen river, Sat an old man, sad and lonely. White his hair was as a snow-drift; Dull and low his fire was burning, And the old man shook and trembled, Folded in his Waubewyon, In his tattered white-skin-wrapper, Hearing nothing but the tempest As it roared along the forest, Seeing nothing but the snow-storm, As it whirled and hissed and drifted. All the coals were white with ashes, And the fire was slowly dying, As a young man, walking lightly, At the open doorway entered. Red with blood of youth his cheeks were, Soft his eyes, as stars In Spring-time, Bound his forehead was with grasses; Bound and plumed with scented grasses, On his lips a smile of beauty, Filling all the lodge with sunshine, In his hand a bunch of blossoms Filling all the lodge with sweetness. "Ah, my son!" exclaimed the old man, "Happy are my eyes to see you. Sit here on the mat beside me, Sit here by the dying embers, Let us pass the night together, Tell me of your strange adventures, Of the lands where you have travelled; I will tell you of my prowess, Of my many deeds of wonder. " From his pouch he drew his peace-pipe, Very old and strangely fashioned; Made of red stone was the pipe-head, And the stem a reed with feathers; Filled the pipe with bark of willow, Placed a burning coal upon it, Gave it to his guest, the stranger, And began to speak in this wise: "When I blow my breath about me, When I breathe upon the landscape, Motionless are all the rivers, Hard as stone becomes the water!" And the young man answered, smiling: "When I blow my breath about me, When I breathe upon the landscape, Flowers spring up o'er all the meadows, Singing, onward rush the rivers!" "When I shake my hoary tresses," Said the old man darkly frowning, "All the land with snow is covered; All the leaves from all the branches Fall and fade and die and wither, For I breathe, and lo! they are not. From the waters and the marshes, Rise the wild goose and the heron, Fly away to distant regions, For I speak, and lo! they are not. And where'er my footsteps wander, All the wild beasts of the forest Hide themselves in holes and caverns, And the earth becomes as flintstone!" "When I shake my flowing ringlets," Said the young man, softly laughing, "Showers of rain fall warm and welcome, Plants lift up their heads rejoicing, Back Into their lakes and marshes Come the wild goose and the heron, Homeward shoots the arrowy swallow, Sing the bluebird and the robin, And where'er my footsteps wander, All the meadows wave with blossoms, All the woodlands ring with music, All the trees are dark with foliage!" While they spake, the night departed: From the distant realms of Wabun, From his shining lodge of silver, Like a warrior robed and painted, Came the sun, and said, "Behold me Gheezis, the great sun, behold me!" Then the old man's tongue was speechless And the air grew warm and pleasant, And upon the wigwam sweetly Sang the bluebird and the robin, And the stream began to murmur, And a scent of growing grasses Through the lodge was gently wafted. And Segwun, the youthful stranger, More distinctly in the daylight Saw the icy face before him; It was Peboan, the Winter! From his eyes the tears were flowing, As from melting lakes the streamlets, And his body shrunk and dwindled As the shouting sun ascended, Till into the air it faded, Till into the ground it vanished, And the young man saw before him, On the hearth-stone of the wigwam, Where the fire had smoked and smouldered, Saw the earliest flower of Spring-time, Saw the Beauty of the Spring-time, Saw the Miskodeed in blossom. Thus it was that in the North-land After that unheard-of coldness, That intolerable Winter, Came the Spring with all its splendor, All its birds and all its blossoms, All its flowers and leaves and grasses. Sailing on the wind to northward, Flying in great flocks, like arrows, Like huge arrows shot through heaven, Passed the swan, the Mahnahbezee, Speaking almost as a man speaks; And in long lines waving, bending Like a bow-string snapped asunder, Came the white goose, Waw-be-wawa; And in pairs, or singly flying, Mahng the loon, with clangorous pinions, The blue heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, And the grouse, the Mushkodasa. In the thickets and the meadows Piped the bluebird, the Owaissa, On the summit of the lodges Sang the robin, the Opechee, In the covert of the pine-trees Cooed the pigeon, the Omemee; And the sorrowing Hiawatha, Speechless in his infinite sorrow, Heard their voices calling to him, Went forth from his gloomy doorway, Stood and gazed into the heaven, Gazed upon the earth and waters. From his wanderings far to eastward, From the regions of the morning, From the shining land of Wabun, Homeward now returned Iagoo, The great traveller, the great boaster, Full of new and strange adventures, Marvels many and many wonders. And the people of the village Listened to him as he told them Of his marvellous adventures, Laughing answered him in this wise: "Ugh! it is indeed Iagoo! No one else beholds such wonders!" He had seen, he said, a water Bigger than the Big-Sea-Water, Broader than the Gitche Gumee, Bitter so that none could drink it! At each other looked the warriors, Looked the women at each other, Smiled, and said, "It cannot be so!" Kaw!" they said, it cannot be so!" O'er it, said he, o'er this water Came a great canoe with pinions, A canoe with wings came flying, Bigger than a grove of pine-trees, Taller than the tallest tree-tops! And the old men and the women Looked and tittered at each other; "Kaw!" they said, "we don't believe it!" From its mouth, he said, to greet him, Came Waywassimo, the lightning, Came the thunder, Annemeekee! And the warriors and the women Laughed aloud at poor Iagoo; "Kaw!" they said, "what tales you tell us!" In it, said he, came a people, In the great canoe with pinions Came, he said, a hundred warriors; Painted white were all their faces And with hair their chins were covered! And the warriors and the women Laughed and shouted in derision, Like the ravens on the tree-tops, Like the crows upon the hemlocks. "Kaw!" they said, "what lies you tell us! Do not think that we believe them!" Only Hiawatha laughed not, But he gravely spake and answered To their jeering and their jesting: "True is all Iagoo tells us; I have seen it in a vision, Seen the great canoe with pinions, Seen the people with white faces, Seen the coming of this bearded People of the wooden vessel From the regions of the morning, From the shining land of Wabun. "Gitche Manito, the Mighty, The Great Spirit, the Creator, Sends them hither on his errand. Sends them to us with his message. Wheresoe'er they move, before them Swarms the stinging fly, the Ahmo, Swarms the bee, the honey-maker; Wheresoe'er they tread, beneath them Springs a flower unknown among us, Springs the White-man's Foot in blossom. "Let us welcome, then, the strangers, Hail them as our friends and brothers, And the heart's right hand of friendship Give them when they come to see us. Gitche Manito, the Mighty, Said this to me in my vision. "I beheld, too, in that vision All the secrets of the future, Of the distant days that shall be. I beheld the westward marches Of the unknown, crowded nations. All the land was full of people, Restless, struggling, toiling, striving, Speaking many tongues, yet feeling But one heart-beat in their bosoms. In the woodlands rang their axes, Smoked their towns in all the valleys, Over all the lakes and rivers Rushed their great canoes of thunder. "Then a darker, drearier vision Passed before me, vague and cloud-like; I beheld our nation scattered, All forgetful of my counsels, Weakened, warring with each other: Saw the remnants of our people Sweeping westward, wild and woful, Like the cloud-rack of a tempest, Like the withered leaves of Autumn!"

Written by Rudyard Kipling | The Dove of Dacca 1892 The freed dove flew to the Rajah's tower-- Fled from the slaughter of Moslem kings-- And the thorns have covered the city of Guar. Dove--dove--oh, homing dove! Little white traitor, with woe on thy wings! The Rajah of Dacca rode under the wall; He set in his bosom a dove of flight-- "If she return, be sure that I fall. " Dove--dove--oh, homing dove! Pressed to his heart in the thick of the fight. " Fire the palace, the fort, and the keep-- Leave to the foeman no spoil at all. In the flame of the palace lie down and sleep If the dove--if the dove -- if the homing dove Come and alone to the palace wall. " The Kings of the North they were scattered abroad-- The Rajah of Dacca he slew them all. Hot from slaughter he stooped at the ford, And the dove--the dove--oh, the homing dove! She thought of her cote on the palace-wall. She opened her wings and she flew away-- Fluttered away beyond recall; She came to the palace at break of day. Dove--dove--oh, homing dove, Flying so fast for a kingdom's fall! The Queens of Dacca they slept in flame Slept in the flame of the palace old-- To save their honour from Moslem shame. And the dove--the dove--oh, the homing dove, She cooed to her young where the smoke-cloud rolled! The Rajah of Dacca rode far and fleet, Followed as fast as a horse could fly, He came and the palace was black at his feet; And the dove--the dove--the homing dove, Circled alone in the stainless sky. So the dove flew to the Rajah's tower-- Fled from the slaughter of Moslem kings; So the thorns covered the city of Gaur, And Dacca was lost for a white dove's wings. Dove--dove--oh, homing dove, Dacca is lost from the Roll of the Kings!

Written by Robert William Service | Mazies Ghost In London City I evade For charming Burlington Arcade - For thee in youth I met a maid By name of Mazie, Who lost no time in telling me The Ritz put up a topping tea, But having only shillings three My smile was hazy. :Instead," said I, "it might be sport To take a bus to Hampton Court," (Her manner, I remarked, was short,) But she assented. We climbed on top, and all the way I held her hand, I felt quite gay, Bu Mazie, I regret to say, Seemed discontented. In fact we almost had a tiff. It's true it rained and she was stiff, And all she did was sneeze and sniff And shudder coldly. So I said: "Mazzie, there's the maze; Let's frolic in its leafy ways," And buying tickets where one pays I entered boldly. The, as the game is, we were lots; We dashed and darted, crissed and crossed, But Mazie she got vexed and sauced Me rather smartly. There wasn't but us two about; We hollered, no one heard our shout; The rain poured down: "Oh let's get out," Cried Mazie tartly. "Keep cool, says I. "You fool," says she; "I'm sopping wet, I want my tea, Please take me home," she wailed to me In accents bitter. Again we tried, this way and that, Yet came to where we started at, And Mazie acted like a cat, A champion spitter. She stomped and romped till all was blue, Then sought herself to find the clue, And when I saw her next 'twas through A leafy screening; "Come on, she cooed, "and join me here; You'll take me to the Savoy, dear, And Heidsieck shall our spirits cheer. " I got her meaning. And yet I sought her everywhere; I hurried here, I scurried there, I took each likely lane, I swar, As I surmised it: The suddenly I saw once more, Confronting me, the exit door, And I was dashing through before I realized it. And there I spied a passing bus. Thinks I: "It's mean to leave her thus, But after all her fret and fuss I can't abide her. So I sped back to London town And grubbed alone for half-a-crown, On steak and kidney pie washed down With sparkling cider. But since I left that damsel fair, The thought she may have perished there, Of cold, starvation and dispair Nigh drives me crazy. So, stranger, if you should invade The charming Burlington Arcade, Tell me if you behold a shade, Ghost of a most unhappy maid By name of Mazie.

Written by Rabindranath Tagore | The Gardener LV: It Was Mid-Day It was mid-day when you went away . The sun was strong in the sky. I had done my work and sat alone on my balcony when you went away. Fitful gusts came winnowing through the smells of may distant fields. The doves cooed tireless in the shade, and a bee strayed in my room hum- ming the news of many distant fields. The village slept in the noonday heat. The road lay deserted. In sudden fits the rustling of the leaves rose and died. I gazed at the sky and wove in the blue the letters of a name I had known, while the village slept in the noonday heat. I had forgotten to braid my hair. The languid breeze played with it upon my cheek. The river ran unruffled under the shady bank. The lazy white clouds did not move. I had forgotten to braid my hair. It was mid-day when you went away. The dust of the road was hot and the fields panting. The doves cooed among the dense leaves. I was alone in my balcony when you went away.