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Best Famous Couching Poems

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

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Written by Sir Philip Sidney | Create an image from this poem

Sonnet XI: In Truth Oh Love

 In truth, oh Love, with what a boyish kind 
Thou doest proceed in thy most serious ways: 
That when the heav'n to thee his best displays, 
Yet of that best thou leav'st the best behind.
For like a child that some fair book doth find, With gilded leaves or colored vellum plays, Or at the most on some find picture stays, But never heeds the fruit of writer's mind: So when thou saw'st in Nature's cabinet Stella, thou straight lookst babies in her eyes, In her cheek's pit thou didst thy pitfall set: And in her breast bopeep or couching lies, Playing and shining in each outward part: But, fool, seekst not to get into her heart.


Written by William Blake | Create an image from this poem

The Little Girl Found

 All the night in woe,
Lyca's parents go:
Over vallies deep.
While the desarts weep.
Tired and woe-begone.
Hoarse with making moan: Arm in arm seven days.
They trac'd the desert ways.
Seven nights they sleep.
Among shadows deep: And dream they see their child Starvdd in desart wild.
Pale thro' pathless ways The fancied image strays.
Famish'd, weeping, weak With hollow piteous shriek Rising from unrest, The trembling woman prest, With feet of weary woe; She could no further go.
In his arms he bore.
Her arm'd with sorrow sore: Till before their way A couching lion lay.
Turning back was vain, Soon his heavy mane.
Bore them to the ground; Then he stalk'd around.
Smelling to his prey, But their fears allay, When he licks their hands: And silent by them stands.
They look upon his eyes Fill'd with deep surprise: And wondering behold.
A spirit arm'd in gold.
On his head a crown On his shoulders down, Flow'd his golden hair.
Gone was all their care.
Follow me he said, Weep not for the maid; In my palace deep.
Lyca lies asleep.
Then they followed, Where the vision led; And saw their sleeping child, Among tygers wild.
To this day they dwell In a lonely dell Nor fear the wolvish howl, Nor the lion's growl.
Written by Rupert Brooke | Create an image from this poem

The Great Lover

 I have been so great a lover: filled my days
So proudly with the splendour of Love's praise,
The pain, the calm, and the astonishment,
Desire illimitable, and silent content,
And all dear names men use, to cheat despair,
For the perplexed and viewless streams that bear
Our hearts at random down the dark of life.
Now, ere the unthinking silence on that strife Steals down, I would cheat drowsy Death so far, My night shall be remembered for a star That outshone all the suns of all men's days.
Shall I not crown them with immortal praise Whom I have loved, who have given me, dared with me High secrets, and in darkness knelt to see The inenarrable godhead of delight? Love is a flame;—we have beaconed the world's night.
A city:—and we have built it, these and I.
An emperor:—we have taught the world to die.
So, for their sakes I loved, ere I go hence, And the high cause of Love's magnificence, And to keep loyalties young, I'll write those names Golden for ever, eagles, crying flames, And set them as a banner, that men may know, To dare the generations, burn, and blow Out on the wind of Time, shining and streaming.
.
.
These I have loved: White plates and cups, clean-gleaming, Ringed with blue lines; and feathery, faery dust; Wet roofs, beneath the lamp-light; the strong crust Of friendly bread; and many-tasting food; Rainbows; and the blue bitter smoke of wood; And radiant raindrops couching in cool flowers; And flowers themselves, that sway through sunny hours, Dreaming of moths that drink them under the moon; Then, the cool kindliness of sheets, that soon Smooth away trouble; and the rough male kiss Of blankets; grainy wood; live hair that is Shining and free; blue-massing clouds; the keen Unpassioned beauty of a great machine; The benison of hot water; furs to touch; The good smell of old clothes; and other such— The comfortable smell of friendly fingers, Hair's fragrance, and the musty reek that lingers About dead leaves and last year's ferns.
.
.
Dear names, And thousand other throng to me! Royal flames; Sweet water's dimpling laugh from tap or spring; Holes in the groud; and voices that do sing; Voices in laughter, too; and body's pain, Soon turned to peace; and the deep-panting train; Firm sands; the little dulling edge of foam That browns and dwindles as the wave goes home; And washen stones, gay for an hour; the cold Graveness of iron; moist black earthen mould; Sleep; and high places; footprints in the dew; And oaks; and brown horse-chestnuts, glossy-new;— And new-peeled sticks; and shining pools on grass;— All these have been my loves.
And these shall pass, Whatever passes not, in the great hour, Nor all my passion, all my prayers, have power To hold them with me through the gate of Death.
They'll play deserter, turn with the traitor breath, Break the high bond we made, and sell Love's trust And sacramented covenant to the dust.
- Oh, never a doubt but, somewhere, I shall wake, And give what's left of love again, and make New friends, now strangers.
.
.
But the best I've known Stays here, and changes, breaks, grows old, is blown About the winds of the world, and fades from brains Of living men, and dies.
Nothing remains.
O dear my loves, O faithless, once again This one last gift I give: that after men Shall know, and later lovers, far-removed, Praise you, "All these were lovely"; say "He loved".

Book: Reflection on the Important Things