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Best Famous Cormorant Poems

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

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Written by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow | Create an image from this poem

The Skeleton in Armor

"SPEAK! speak! thou fearful guest! 
Who, with thy hollow breast 
Still in rude armor drest, 
Comest to daunt me! 
Wrapt not in Eastern balms, 5 
But with thy fleshless palms 
Stretched, as if asking alms, 
Why dost thou haunt me?" 

Then, from those cavernous eyes 
Pale flashes seemed to rise, 10 
As when the Northern skies 
Gleam in December; 
And, like the water's flow 
Under December's snow, 
Came a dull voice of woe 15 
From the heart's chamber.
"I was a Viking old! My deeds, though manifold, No Skald in song has told, No Saga taught thee! 20 Take heed, that in thy verse Thou dost the tale rehearse, Else dread a dead man's curse; For this I sought thee.
"Far in the Northern Land, 25 By the wild Baltic's strand, I, with my childish hand, Tamed the gerfalcon; And, with my skates fast-bound, Skimmed the half-frozen Sound, 30 That the poor whimpering hound Trembled to walk on.
"Oft to his frozen lair Tracked I the grisly bear, While from my path the hare 35 Fled like a shadow; Oft through the forest dark Followed the were-wolf's bark, Until the soaring lark Sang from the meadow.
40 "But when I older grew, Joining a corsair's crew, O'er the dark sea I flew With the marauders.
Wild was the life we led; 45 Many the souls that sped, Many the hearts that bled, By our stern orders.
"Many a wassail-bout Wore the long Winter out; 50 Often our midnight shout Set the cocks crowing, As we the Berserk's tale Measured in cups of ale, Draining the oaken pail, 55 Filled to o'erflowing.
"Once as I told in glee Tales of the stormy sea, Soft eyes did gaze on me, Burning yet tender; 60 And as the white stars shine On the dark Norway pine, On that dark heart of mine Fell their soft splendor.
"I wooed the blue-eyed maid, 65 Yielding, yet half afraid, And in the forest's shade Our vows were plighted.
Under its loosened vest Fluttered her little breast, 70 Like birds within their nest By the hawk frighted.
"Bright in her father's hall Shields gleamed upon the wall, Loud sang the minstrels all, 75 Chanting his glory; When of old Hildebrand I asked his daughter's hand, Mute did the minstrels stand To hear my story.
80 "While the brown ale he quaffed, Loud then the champion laughed, And as the wind-gusts waft The sea-foam brightly, So the loud laugh of scorn, 85 Out of those lips unshorn, From the deep drinking-horn Blew the foam lightly.
"She was a Prince's child, I but a Viking wild, 90 And though she blushed and smiled, I was discarded! Should not the dove so white Follow the sea-mew's flight, Why did they leave that night 95 Her nest unguarded? "Scarce had I put to sea, Bearing the maid with me, Fairest of all was she Among the Norsemen! 100 When on the white sea-strand, Waving his arm¨¨d hand, Saw we old Hildebrand, With twenty horsemen.
"Then launched they to the blast, 105 Bent like a reed each mast, Yet we were gaining fast, When the wind failed us; And with a sudden flaw Came round the gusty Skaw, 110 So that our foe we saw Laugh as he hailed us.
"And as to catch the gale Round veered the flapping sail, 'Death!' was the helmsman's hail, 115 'Death without quarter!' Mid-ships with iron keel Struck we her ribs of steel; Down her black hulk did reel Through the black water! 120 "As with his wings aslant, Sails the fierce cormorant, Seeking some rocky haunt, With his prey laden, So toward the open main, 125 Beating to sea again, Through the wild hurricane, Bore I the maiden.
"Three weeks we westward bore, And when the storm was o'er, 130 Cloud-like we saw the shore Stretching to leeward; There for my lady's bower Built I the lofty tower, Which, to this very hour, 135 Stands looking seaward.
"There lived we many years; Time dried the maiden's tears; She had forgot her fears, She was a mother; 140 Death closed her mild blue eyes, Under that tower she lies; Ne'er shall the sun arise On such another! "Still grew my bosom then, 145 Still as a stagnant fen! Hateful to me were men, The sunlight hateful! In the vast forest here, Clad in my warlike gear, 150 Fell I upon my spear, Oh, death was grateful! "Thus, seamed with many scars, Bursting these prison bars, Up to its native stars 155 My soul ascended! There from the flowing bowl Deep drinks the warrior's soul, Skoal! to the Northland! skoal!" Thus the tale ended.
160
Written by Billy Collins | Create an image from this poem

The Iron Bridge

 I am standing on a disused iron bridge
that was erected in 1902,
according to the iron plaque bolted into a beam,
the year my mother turned one.
Imagine--a mother in her infancy, and she was a Canadian infant at that, one of the great infants of the province of Ontario.
But here I am leaning on the rusted railing looking at the water below, which is flat and reflective this morning, sky-blue and streaked with high clouds, and the more I look at the water, which is like a talking picture, the more I think of 1902 when workmen in shirts and caps riveted this iron bridge together across a thin channel joining two lakes where wildflowers blow along the shore now and pairs of swans float in the leafy coves.
1902--my mother was so tiny she could have fit into one of those oval baskets for holding apples, which her mother could have lined with a soft cloth and placed on the kitchen table so she could keep an eye on infant Katherine while she scrubbed potatoes or shelled a bag of peas, the way I am keeping an eye on that cormorant who just broke the glassy surface and is moving away from me and the iron bridge, swiveling his curious head, slipping out to where the sun rakes the water and filters through the trees that crowd the shore.
And now he dives, disappears below the surface, and while I wait for him to pop up, I picture him flying underwater with his strange wings, as I picture you, my tiny mother, who disappeared last year, flying somewhere with your strange wings, your wide eyes, and your heavy wet dress, kicking deeper down into a lake with no end or name, some boundless province of water.
Written by Eamon Grennan | Create an image from this poem

One Morning

 Looking for distinctive stones, I found the dead otter
rotting by the tideline, and carried all day the scent of this savage
valediction.
That headlong high sound the oystercatcher makes came echoing through the rocky cove where a cormorant was feeding and submarining in the bay and a heron rose off a boulder where he'd been invisible, drifted a little, stood again -- a hieroglyph or just longevity reflecting on itself between the sky clouding over and the lightly ruffled water.
This was the morning after your dream of dying, of being held and told it didn't matter.
A butterfly went jinking over the wave-silky stones, and where I turned to go up the road again, a couple in a blue camper sat smoking their cigarettes over their breakfast coffee (blue scent of smoke, the thick dark smell of fresh coffee) and talking in quiet voices, first one then the other answering, their radio telling the daily news behind them.
It was warm.
All seemed at peace.
I could feel the sun coming off the water.
Written by Derek Walcott | Create an image from this poem

Pentecost

 Better a jungle in the head
than rootless concrete.
Better to stand bewildered by the fireflies' crooked street; winter lamps do not show where the sidewalk is lost, nor can these tongues of snow speak for the Holy Ghost; the self-increasing silence of words dropped from a roof points along iron railings, direction, in not proof.
But best is this night surf with slow scriptures of sand, that sends, not quite a seraph, but a late cormorant, whose fading cry propels through phosphorescent shoal what, in my childhood gospels, used to be called the Soul.
Written by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow | Create an image from this poem

Picture-Writing

 In those days said Hiawatha,
"Lo! how all things fade and perish!
From the memory of the old men
Pass away the great traditions,
The achievements of the warriors,
The adventures of the hunters,
All the wisdom of the Medas,
All the craft of the Wabenos,
All the marvellous dreams and visions
Of the Jossakeeds, the Prophets!
"Great men die and are forgotten,
Wise men speak; their words of wisdom
Perish in the ears that hear them,
Do not reach the generations
That, as yet unborn, are waiting
In the great, mysterious darkness
Of the speechless days that shall be!
"On the grave-posts of our fathers
Are no signs, no figures painted;
Who are in those graves we know not,
Only know they are our fathers.
Of what kith they are and kindred, From what old, ancestral Totem, Be it Eagle, Bear, or Beaver, They descended, this we know not, Only know they are our fathers.
"Face to face we speak together, But we cannot speak when absent, Cannot send our voices from us To the friends that dwell afar off; Cannot send a secret message, But the bearer learns our secret, May pervert it, may betray it, May reveal it unto others.
" Thus said Hiawatha, walking In the solitary forest, Pondering, musing in the forest, On the welfare of his people.
From his pouch he took his colors, Took his paints of different colors, On the smooth bark of a birch-tree Painted many shapes and figures, Wonderful and mystic figures, And each figure had a meaning, Each some word or thought suggested.
Gitche Manito the Mighty, He, the Master of Life, was painted As an egg, with points projecting To the four winds of the heavens.
Everywhere is the Great Spirit, Was the meaning of this symbol.
Gitche Manito the Mighty, He the dreadful Spirit of Evil, As a serpent was depicted, As Kenabeek, the great serpent.
Very crafty, very cunning, Is the creeping Spirit of Evil, Was the meaning of this symbol.
Life and Death he drew as circles, Life was white, but Death was darkened; Sun and moon and stars he painted, Man and beast, and fish and reptile, Forests, mountains, lakes, and rivers.
For the earth he drew a straight line, For the sky a bow above it; White the space between for daytime, Filled with little stars for night-time; On the left a point for sunrise, On the right a point for sunset, On the top a point for noontide, And for rain and cloudy weather Waving lines descending from it.
Footprints pointing towards a wigwam Were a sign of invitation, Were a sign of guests assembling; Bloody hands with palms uplifted Were a symbol of destruction, Were a hostile sign and symbol.
All these things did Hiawatha Show unto his wondering people, And interpreted their meaning, And he said: "Behold, your grave-posts Have no mark, no sign, nor symbol, Go and paint them all with figures; Each one with its household symbol, With its own ancestral Totem; So that those who follow after May distinguish them and know them.
" And they painted on the grave-posts On the graves yet unforgotten, Each his own ancestral Totem, Each the symbol of his household; Figures of the Bear and Reindeer, Of the Turtle, Crane, and Beaver, Each inverted as a token That the owner was departed, That the chief who bore the symbol Lay beneath in dust and ashes.
And the Jossakeeds, the Prophets, The Wabenos, the Magicians, And the Medicine-men, the Medas, Painted upon bark and deer-skin Figures for the songs they chanted, For each song a separate symbol, Figures mystical and awful, Figures strange and brightly colored; And each figure had its meaning, Each some magic song suggested.
The Great Spirit, the Creator, Flashing light through all the heaven; The Great Serpent, the Kenabeek, With his bloody crest erected, Creeping, looking into heaven; In the sky the sun, that listens, And the moon eclipsed and dying; Owl and eagle, crane and hen-hawk, And the cormorant, bird of magic; Headless men, that walk the heavens, Bodies lying pierced with arrows, Bloody hands of death uplifted, Flags on graves, and great war-captains Grasping both the earth and heaven! Such as these the shapes they painted On the birch-bark and the deer-skin; Songs of war and songs of hunting, Songs of medicine and of magic, All were written in these figures, For each figure had its meaning, Each its separate song recorded.
Nor forgotten was the Love-Song, The most subtle of all medicines, The most potent spell of magic, Dangerous more than war or hunting! Thus the Love-Song was recorded, Symbol and interpretation.
First a human figure standing, Painted in the brightest scarlet; `T Is the lover, the musician, And the meaning is, "My painting Makes me powerful over others.
" Then the figure seated, singing, Playing on a drum of magic, And the interpretation, "Listen! `T Is my voice you hear, my singing!" Then the same red figure seated In the shelter of a wigwam, And the meaning of the symbol, "I will come and sit beside you In the mystery of my passion!" Then two figures, man and woman, Standing hand in hand together With their hands so clasped together That they seemed in one united, And the words thus represented Are, "I see your heart within you, And your cheeks are red with blushes!" Next the maiden on an island, In the centre of an Island; And the song this shape suggested Was, "Though you were at a distance, Were upon some far-off island, Such the spell I cast upon you, Such the magic power of passion, I could straightway draw you to me!" Then the figure of the maiden Sleeping, and the lover near her, Whispering to her in her slumbers, Saying, "Though you were far from me In the land of Sleep and Silence, Still the voice of love would reach you!" And the last of all the figures Was a heart within a circle, Drawn within a magic circle; And the image had this meaning: "Naked lies your heart before me, To your naked heart I whisper!" Thus it was that Hiawatha, In his wisdom, taught the people All the mysteries of painting, All the art of Picture-Writing, On the smooth bark of the birch-tree, On the white skin of the reindeer, On the grave-posts of the village.
Written by Robinson Jeffers | Create an image from this poem

SUICIDES STONE

Peace is the heir of dead desire,
Whether abundance killed the cormorant
In a happy hour, or sleep or death
Drowned him deep in dreamy waters,
Peace is the ashes of that fire,
The heir of that king, the inn of that journey.
This last and best and goal: we dead Hold it so tight you are envious of us And fear under sunk lids contempt.
Death-day greetings are the sweetest.
Let trumpets roar when a man dies And rockets fly up, he has found his fortune.
Yet hungering long and pitiably That way, you shall not reach a finger To pluck it unripe and before dark Creep to cover: life broke ten whipstocks Over my back, broke faith, stole hope, Before I denounced the covenant of courage.
Written by Thomas Moore | Create an image from this poem

Memorabilia of Last Week

 Monday, March 13, 1826 

The Budget - quite charming and witty - no hearing,
For plaudits and laughs, the good things that were in it; --
Great comfort to find, though the Speech isn't cheering,
That all its gay auditors were, every minute.
What, still more prosperity! - mercy upon us, "This boy'll be the death of me" - oft as, already, Such smooth Budgeteers have genteelly undone us, For Ruin made easy there's no one like Freddy.
Tuesday Much grave apprehension express'd by the Peers, Lest -- calling to life the old Peachums and Lockitts -- The large stock of gold we're to have in three years, Should all find its way into highwayman's pockets![1] Wednesday Little doing - for sacred, oh Wednesday, thou art To the seven-o'-clock joys of full many a table -- When the Members all meet, to make much of that part With which they so rashly fell out in the Fable.
It appear'd, though, to-night, that - as churchwardens, yearly, Eat up a small baby - those cormorant sinners, The Bankrupt-Commissioners bolt very nearly A moderate-siz'd bankrupt, tout chaud, for their dinners![2] Nota bene - a rumour to-day, in the City, "Mr.
R-b-ns-n just has resign'd" - what a pity! The Bulls and the Bears all fell a sobbing, When they heard of the fate of poor **** Robin; While thus, to the nursery tune, so pretty, A murmuring Stock-dove breath'd her ditty: -- "Alas, poor Robin, he crow'd as long And as sweet as a prosperous **** could crow; Was a pitch too high for Robin to go.
Who'll make his shroud?" "I," said the Bank, "though he play'd me a prank, When I have a rag, poor Rob shall be roll'd in 't, With many a pound I'll paper him round, Like a plump rouleau - without the gold in 't.
"