Best Famous Coos Poems

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

Search and read the best famous Coos poems, articles about Coos poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Coos poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

• All Famous Coos Poems

Written by Oscar Wilde | Le Jardin The lily's withered chalice falls Around its rod of dusty gold, And from the beech-trees on the wold The last wood-pigeon coos and calls. The gaudy leonine sunflower Hangs black and barren on its stalk, And down the windy garden walk The dead leaves scatter, - hour by hour. Pale privet-petals white as milk Are blown into a snowy mass: The roses lie upon the grass Like little shreds of crimson silk.

Written by Anne Bradstreet | Another (II) As loving hind that (hartless) wants her deer, Scuds through the woods and fern with hark'ning ear, Perplext, in every bush and nook doth pry, Her dearest deer, might answer ear or eye; So doth my anxious soul, which now doth miss A dearer dear (far dearer heart) than this. Still wait with doubts, and hopes, and failing eye, His voice to hear or person to descry. Or as the pensive dove doth all alone (On withered bough) most uncouthly bemoan The absence of her love and loving mate, Whose loss hath made her so unfortunate, Ev'n thus do I, with many a deep sad groan, Bewail my turtle true, who now is gone, His presence and his safe return still woos, With thousand doleful sighs and mournful coos. Or as the loving mullet, that true fish, Her fellow lost, nor joy nor life do wish, But launches on that shore, there for to die, Where she her captive husband doth espy. Mine being gone, I lead a joyless life, I have a loving peer, yet seem no wife; But worst of all, to him can't steer my course, I here, he there, alas, both kept by force. Return my dear, my joy, my only love, Unto thy hind, thy mullet, and thy dove, Who neither joys in pasture, house, nor streams, The substance gone, O me, these are but dreams. Together at one tree, oh let us browse, And like two turtles roost within one house, And like the mullets in one river glide, Let's still remain but one, till death divide. Thy loving love and dearest dear, At home, abroad, and everywhere

Written by Robert Francis | On a Theme by Frost Amherst never had a witch O Coos or of Grafton But once upon a time There were three old women. One wore a small beard And carried a big umbrella. One stood in the middle Of the road hailing cars. One drove an old cart All over the town collecting junk. They were not weird sisters, No relation to one another. A duly accredited witch I Never heard Amherst ever had But as I say there Were these three old women. One was prone to appear At the door (not mine!): "I've got my nightgown on, I can stay all night." One went to a party At the president's house once Locked herself in the bathroom And gave herself a bath. One had taught Latin, having Learned it at Mount Holyoke. Of course Amherst may have Had witches I never knew.

Written by Ernest Dowson | Amor Profanus Beyond the pale of memory, In some mysterious dusky grove; A place of shadows utterly, Where never coos the turtle-dove, A world forgotten of the sun: I dreamed we met when day was done, And marvelled at our ancient love. Met there by chance, long kept apart, We wandered through the darkling glades; And that old language of the heart We sought to speak: alas! poor shades! Over our pallid lips had run The waters of oblivion, Which crown all loves of men or maids. In vain we stammered: from afar Our old desire shone cold and dead: That time was distant as a star, When eyes were bright and lips were red. And still we went with downcast eye And no delight in being nigh, Poor shadows most uncomforted. Ah, Lalage! while life is ours, Hoard not thy beauty rose and white, But pluck the pretty fleeing flowers That deck our little path of light: For all too soon we twain shall tread The bitter pastures of the dead: Estranged, sad spectres of the night.