Best Famous Cornet Poems

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

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• All Famous Cornet Poems

Written by Adrian Green | Pink Champagne (for Digby Fairweather) Not blues in twelve but there is joy and pink champagne, the maker’s music trading eights in syncopated synergy from Dixieland to Rock ‘n’ Roll, and here the cornet-master leads in tones a trumpet cannot blow. The sidemen nod their harmonies, engrossed; their music coursing through an energy of swing; piano-player’s fingers dancing round the tune; a lover’s touch caressing melody from bass; and sax, deep throated tenor shouting counterpoint above the drums’ percussive ricochets. Not blues in twelve, but upbeat late and shimmying like Sister Kate. The cornet-master blows an emptiness away.

Written by Walt Whitman | Mystic Trumpeter The 1 HARK! some wild trumpeter—some strange musician, Hovering unseen in air, vibrates capricious tunes to-night. I hear thee, trumpeter—listening, alert, I catch thy notes, Now pouring, whirling like a tempest round me, Now low, subdued—now in the distance lost. 2 Come nearer, bodiless one—haply, in thee resounds Some dead composer—haply thy pensive life Was fill’d with aspirations high—unform’d ideals, Waves, oceans musical, chaotically surging, That now, ecstatic ghost, close to me bending, thy cornet echoing, pealing, Gives out to no one’s ears but mine—but freely gives to mine, That I may thee translate. 3 Blow, trumpeter, free and clear—I follow thee, While at thy liquid prelude, glad, serene, The fretting world, the streets, the noisy hours of day, withdraw; A holy calm descends, like dew, upon me, I walk, in cool refreshing night, the walks of Paradise, I scent the grass, the moist air, and the roses; Thy song expands my numb’d, imbonded spirit—thou freest, launchest me, Floating and basking upon Heaven’s lake. 4 Blow again, trumpeter! and for my sensuous eyes, Bring the old pageants—show the feudal world. What charm thy music works!—thou makest pass before me, Ladies and cavaliers long dead—barons are in their castle halls—the troubadours are singing; Arm’d knights go forth to redress wrongs—some in quest of the Holy Grail: I see the tournament—I see the contestants, encased in heavy armor, seated on stately, champing horses; I hear the shouts—the sounds of blows and smiting steel: I see the Crusaders’ tumultuous armies—Hark! how the cymbals clang! Lo! where the monks walk in advance, bearing the cross on high! 5 Blow again, trumpeter! and for thy theme, Take now the enclosing theme of all—the solvent and the setting; Love, that is pulse of all—the sustenace and the pang; The heart of man and woman all for love; No other theme but love—knitting, enclosing, all-diffusing love. O, how the immortal phantoms crowd around me! I see the vast alembic ever working—I see and know the flames that heat the world; The glow, the blush, the beating hearts of lovers, So blissful happy some—and some so silent, dark, and nigh to death: Love, that is all the earth to lovers—Love, that mocks time and space; Love, that is day and night—Love, that is sun and moon and stars; Love, that is crimson, sumptuous, sick with perfume; No other words, but words of love—no other thought but Love. 6 Blow again, trumpeter—conjure war’s Wild alarums. Swift to thy spell, a shuddering hum like distant thunder rolls; Lo! where the arm’d men hasten—Lo! mid the clouds of dust, the glint of bayonets; I see the grime-faced cannoniers—I mark the rosy flash amid the smoke—I hear the cracking of the guns: —Nor war alone—thy fearful music-song, wild player, brings every sight of fear, The deeds of ruthless brigands—rapine, murder—I hear the cries for help! I see ships foundering at sea—I behold on deck, and below deck, the terrible tableaux. 7 O trumpeter! methinks I am myself the instrument thou playest! Thou melt’st my heart, my brain—thou movest, drawest, changest them, at will: And now thy sullen notes send darkness through me; Thou takest away all cheering light—all hope: I see the enslaved, the overthrown, the hurt, the opprest of the whole earth; I feel the measureless shame and humiliation of my race—it becomes all mine; Mine too the revenges of humanity—the wrongs of ages—baffled feuds and hatreds; Utter defeat upon me weighs—all lost! the foe victorious! (Yet ’mid the ruins Pride colossal stands, unshaken to the last; Endurance, resolution, to the last.) 8 Now, trumpeter, for thy close, Vouchsafe a higher strain than any yet; Sing to my soul—renew its languishing faith and hope; Rouse up my slow belief—give me some vision of the future; Give me, for once, its prophecy and joy. O glad, exulting, culminating song! A vigor more than earth’s is in thy notes! Marches of victory—man disenthrall’d—the conqueror at last! Hymns to the universal God, from universal Man—all joy! A reborn race appears—a perfect World, all joy! Women and Men, in wisdom, innocence and health—all joy! Riotous, laughing bacchanals, fill’d with joy! War, sorrow, suffering gone—The rank earth purged—nothing but joy left! The ocean fill’d with joy—the atmosphere all joy! Joy! Joy! in freedom, worship, love! Joy in the ecstacy of life! Enough to merely be! Enough to breathe! Joy! Joy! all over Joy!

Written by Carl Sandburg | Honky Tonk in Cleveland Ohio IT’S a jazz affair, drum crashes and cornet razzes The trombone pony neighs and the tuba jackass snorts. The banjo tickles and titters too awful. The chippies talk about the funnies in the papers. The cartoonists weep in their beer. Ship riveters talk with their feet To the feet of floozies under the tables. A quartet of white hopes mourn with interspersed snickers: “I got the blues. I got the blues. I got the blues.” And … as we said earlier: The cartoonists weep in their beer.

Written by Carl Sandburg | Band Concert BAND concert public square Nebraska city. Flowing and circling dresses, summer-white dresses. Faces, flesh tints flung like sprays of cherry blossoms. And gigglers, God knows, gigglers, rivaling the pony whinnies of the Livery Stable Blues. Cowboy rags and ****** rags. And boys driving sorrel horses hurl a cornfield laughter at the girls in dresses, summer-white dresses. Amid the cornet staccato and the tuba oompa, gigglers, God knows, gigglers daffy with life’s razzle dazzle. Slow good-night melodies and Home Sweet Home. And the snare drummer bookkeeper in a hardware store nods hello to the daughter of a railroad conductor—a giggler, God knows, a giggler—and the summer-white dresses filter fanwise out of the public square. The crushed strawberries of ice cream soda places, the night wind in cottonwoods and willows, the lattice shadows of doorsteps and porches, these know more of the story.

Written by Andrew Marvell | Musics Empire First was the world as one great cymbal made, Where jarring winds to infant Nature played. All music was a solitary sound, To hollow rocks and murm'ring fountains bound. Jubal first made the wilder notes agree; And Jubal tuned music's Jubilee; He call'd the echoes from their sullen cell, And built the organ's city where they dwell. Each sought a consort in that lovely place, And virgin trebles wed the manly bass. From whence the progeny of numbers new Into harmonious colonies withdrew. Some to the lute, some to the viol went, And others chose the cornet eloquent, These practicing the wind, and those the wire, To sing men's triumphs, or in Heaven's choir. Then music, the mosaic of the air, Did of all these a solemn noise prepare; With which she gain'd the empire of the ear, Including all between the earth and sphere. Victorious sounds! yet here your homage do Unto a gentler conqueror than you; Who though he flies the music of his praise, Would with you Heaven's Hallelujahs raise.

Written by David Lehman | Pc for Aaron Fogel Politically-correct personal computers point and click. President Clinton (codename Peacock) can't protect crack pushing Communist Party cops pursuing a care package of peasant consciousness in a car park. Poverty's a crime, and capital punishment par for the course, in this penal code. A plausible cliffhanger can't cure the paralyzed, prevent cancer, or prepare California for Perry Como, that peerless crooner. Pitcher and catcher confer. O cornet player, play "Pomp and Circumstance" please, in the partly cloudy cool Pacific.

Written by Rudyard Kipling | Loot If you've ever stole a pheasant-egg be'ind the keeper's back, If you've ever snigged the washin' from the line, If you've ever crammed a gander in your bloomin' 'aversack, You will understand this little song o' mine. But the service rules are 'ard, an' from such we are debarred, For the same with English morals does not suit. (Cornet: Toot! toot!) W'y, they call a man a robber if 'e stuffs 'is marchin' clobber With the -- (Chorus) Loo! loo! Lulu! lulu! Loo! loo! Loot! loot! loot! Ow the loot! Bloomin' loot! That's the thing to make the boys git up an' shoot! It's the same with dogs an' men, If you'd make 'em come again Clap 'em forward with a Loo! loo! Lulu! Loot! (ff) Whoopee! Tear 'im, puppy! Loo! loo! Lulu! Loot! loot! loot! If you've knocked a ****** edgeways when 'e's thrustin' for your life, You must leave 'im very careful where 'e fell; An' may thank your stars an' gaiters if you didn't feel 'is knife That you ain't told off to bury 'im as well. Then the sweatin' Tommies wonder as they spade the beggars under Why lootin' should be entered as a crime; So if my song you'll 'ear, I will learn you plain an' clear 'Ow to pay yourself for fightin' overtime. (Chorus) With the loot, . . . Now remember when you're 'acking round a gilded Burma god That 'is eyes is very often precious stones; An' if you treat a ****** to a dose o' cleanin'-rod 'E's like to show you everything 'e owns. When 'e won't prodooce no more, pour some water on the floor Where you 'ear it answer 'ollow to the boot (Cornet: Toot! toot!) -- When the ground begins to sink, shove your baynick down the chink, An' you're sure to touch the -- (Chorus) Loo! loo! Lulu! Loot! loot! loot! Ow the loot! . . . When from 'ouse to 'ouse you're 'unting, you must always work in pairs -- It 'alves the gain, but safer you will find -- For a single man gets bottled on them twisty-wisty stairs, An' a woman comes and clobs 'im from be'ind. When you've turned 'em inside out, an' it seems beyond a doubt As if there weren't enough to dust a flute (Cornet: Toot! toot!) -- Before you sling your 'ook, at the 'ousetops take a look, For it's underneath the tiles they 'ide the loot. (Chorus) Ow the loot! . . . You can mostly square a Sergint an' a Quartermaster too, If you only take the proper way to go; I could never keep my pickin's, but I've learned you all I knew -- An' don't you never say I told you so. An' now I'll bid good-bye, for I'm gettin' rather dry, An' I see another tunin' up to toot (Cornet: Toot! toot!) -- So 'ere's good-luck to those that wears the Widow's clo'es, An' the Devil send 'em all they want o' loot! (Chorus) Yes, the loot, Bloomin' loot! In the tunic an' the mess-tin an' the boot! It's the same with dogs an' men, If you'd make 'em come again (fff) Whoop 'em forward with a Loo! loo! Lulu! Loot! loot! loot! Heeya! Sick 'im, puppy! Loo! loo! Lulu! Loot! loot! loot!

Written by Edgar Lee Masters | Walter Simmons My parents thought that I would be As great as Edison or greater: For as a boy I made balloons And wondrous kites and toys with clocks And little engines with tracks to run on And telephones of cans and thread. I played the cornet and painted pictures, Modeled in clay and took the part Of the villain in the "Octoroon." But then at twenty-one I married And had to live, and so, to live I learned the trade of making watches And kept the jewelry store on the square, Thinking, thinking, thinking, thinking, -- Not of business, but of the engine I studied the calculus to build. And all Spoon River watched and waited To see it work, but it never worked. And a few kind souls believed my genius Was somehow hampered by the store. It wasn't true. The truth was this: I didn't have the brains.

Written by Conrad Aiken | Turns And Movies: The Cornet When she came out, that white little Russian dancer, With her bright hair, and her eyes, so young, so young, He suddenly lost his leader, and all the players, And only heard an immortal music sung,— Of dryads flashing in the green woods of April, On cobwebs trembing over the deep, wet grass: Fleeing their shadows with laughter, with hands uplifted, Through the whirled sinister sun he saw them pass,— Lovely immortals gone, yet existing somewhere, Still somewhere laughing in woods of immortal green, Young he had lived among fires, or dreamed of living, Lovers in youth once seen, or dreamed he had seen. . . And watched her knees flash up, and her young hands beckon, And the hair that streamed behind, and the taunting eyes. He felt this place dissolving in living darkness, And through the darkness he felt his childhood rise. Soft, and shining, and sweet, hands filled with petals. . . And watching her dance, he was grateful to forget The fiddlers, leaning and drawing their bows together, And the tired fingers on the stops of his cornet.