Best Famous Crawling With Poems

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

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Written by Edward Taylor | Shut Up And Eat Your Toad The disorganization to which I currently belong has skipped several meetings in a row which is a pattern I find almost fatally attractive. Down at headquarters there's a secretary and a janitor who I shall call Suzie and boy can she ever shoot straight. She'll shoot you straight in the eye if you ask her to. I mow the grass every other Saturday and that's the day she polishes the trivets whether they need it or not, I don't know if there is a name for this kind of behavior, hers or mine, but somebody once said something or another. That's why I joined up in the first place, so somebody could teach me a few useful phrases, such as, "Good afternoon, my dear ****-retentive Doctor," and "My, that is a lovely dictionary you have on, Mrs. Smith. " Still, I hardly feel like functioning even on a brute or loutish level. My plants think I'm one of them, and they don't look so good themselves, or so I tell them. I like to give them at least several reasons to be annoyed with me, it's how they exercise their skinny spectrum of emotions. Because. That and cribbage. Often when I return from the club late at night, weary-laden, weary-winged, washed out, I can actually hear the nematodes working, sucking the juices from the living cells of my narcissus. I have mentioned this to Suzie on several occasions. Each time she has backed away from me, panic-stricken when really I was just making a stab at conversation. It is not my intention to alarm anyone, but dear Lord if I find a dead man in the road and his eyes are crawling with maggots, I refuse to say have a nice day Suzie just because she's desperate and her life is a runaway carriage rushing toward a cliff now can I? Would you let her get away with that kind of crap? Who are you anyway? And what kind of disorganization is this? Baron of the Holy Grail? Well it's about time you got here. I was worried, I was starting to fret.

Written by Amy Levy | Run to Death A True Incident of Pre-Revolutionary French History. Now the lovely autumn morning breathes its freshness in earth's face, In the crowned castle courtyard the blithe horn proclaims the chase; And the ladies on the terrace smile adieux with rosy lips To the huntsmen disappearing down the cedar-shaded groves, Wafting delicate aromas from their scented finger tips, And the gallants wave in answer, with their gold-embroidered gloves. On they rode, past bush and bramble, on they rode, past elm and oak; And the hounds, with anxious nostril, sniffed the heather-scented air, Till at last, within his stirrups, up Lord Gaston rose, and spoke-- He, the boldest and the bravest of the wealthy nobles there : 'Friends,' quoth he, 'the time hangs heavy, for it is not as we thought, And these woods, tho' fair and shady, will afford, I fear, no sport. Shall we hence, then, worthy kinsmen, and desert the hunter's track For the chateau, where the wine cup and the dice cup tempt us back?' 'Ay,' the nobles shout in chorus ; 'Ay,' the powder'd lacquey cries; Then they stop with eager movement, reining in quite suddenly; Peering down with half contemptuous, half with wonder-opened eyes At a 'something' which is crawling, with slow step, from tree to tree. Is't some shadow phantom ghastly ? No, a woman and a child, Swarthy woman, with the 'gipsy' written clear upon her face; Gazing round her with her wide eyes dark, and shadow-fringed, and wild, With the cowed suspicious glances of a persecuted race. Then they all, with unasked question, in each other's faces peer, For a common thought has struck them, one their lips dare scarcely say,-- Till Lord Gaston cries, impatient, 'Why regret the stately deer When such sport as yonder offers? quick ! unleash the dogs--away!' Then they breath'd a shout of cheering, grey-haired man and stripling boy, And the gipsy, roused to terror, stayed her step, and turned her head-- Saw the faces of those huntsmen, lit with keenest cruel joy-- Sent a cry of grief to Heaven, closer clasped her child, and fled! * * * * * * * O ye nobles of the palace! O ye gallant-hearted lords! Who would stoop for Leila's kerchief, or for Clementina's gloves, Who would rise up all indignant, with your shining sheathless swords, At the breathing of dishonour to your languid lady loves! O, I tell you, daring nobles, with your beauty-loving stare, Who ne'er long the coy coquetting of the courtly dames withstood, Tho' a woman be the lowest, and the basest, and least fair, In your manliness forget not to respect her womanhood, And thou, gipsy, that hast often the pursuer fled before, That hast felt ere this the shadow of dark death upon thy brow, That hast hid among the mountains, that hast roamed the forest o'er, Bred to hiding, watching, fleeing, may thy speed avail thee now! * * * * * * * Still she flees, and ever fiercer tear the hungry hounds behind, Still she flees, and ever faster follow there the huntsmen on, Still she flees, her black hair streaming in a fury to the wind, Still she flees, tho' all the glimmer of a happy hope is gone. 'Eh? what? baffled by a woman! Ah, sapristi! she can run! Should she 'scape us, it would crown us with dishonour and disgrace; It is time' (Lord Gaston shouted) 'such a paltry chase were done!' And the fleeter grew her footsteps, so the hotter grew the chase-- Ha! at last! the dogs are on her! will she struggle ere she dies? See! she holds her child above her, all forgetful of her pain, While a hundred thousand curses shoot out darkly from her eyes, And a hundred thousand glances of the bitterest disdain. Ha! the dogs are pressing closer! they have flung her to the ground; Yet her proud lips never open with the dying sinner's cry-- Till at last, unto the Heavens, just two fearful shrieks resound, When the soul is all forgotten in the body's agony! Let them rest there, child and mother, in the shadow of the oak, On the tender mother-bosom of that earth from which they came. As they slow rode back those huntsmen neither laughed, nor sang, nor spoke, Hap, there lurked unowned within them throbbings of a secret shame. But before the flow'ry terrace, where the ladies smiling sat, With their graceful nothings trifling all the weary time away, Low Lord Gaston bowed, and raising high his richly 'broider'd hat, 'Fairest ladies, give us welcome! 'Twas a famous hunt to-day. '

Written by James Tate | Shut Up And Eat Your Toad The disorganization to which I currently belong has skipped several meetings in a row which is a pattern I find almost fatally attractive. Down at headquarters there's a secretary and a janitor who I shall call Suzie and boy can she ever shoot straight. She'll shoot you straight in the eye if you ask her to. I mow the grass every other Saturday and that's the day she polishes the trivets whether they need it or not, I don't know if there is a name for this kind of behavior, hers or mine, but somebody once said something or another. That's why I joined up in the first place, so somebody could teach me a few useful phrases, such as, "Good afternoon, my dear ****-retentive Doctor," and "My, that is a lovely dictionary you have on, Mrs. Smith. " Still, I hardly feel like functioning even on a brute or loutish level. My plants think I'm one of them, and they don't look so good themselves, or so I tell them. I like to give them at least several reasons to be annoyed with me, it's how they exercise their skinny spectrum of emotions. Because. That and cribbage. Often when I return from the club late at night, weary-laden, weary-winged, washed out, I can actually hear the nematodes working, sucking the juices from the living cells of my narcissus. I have mentioned this to Suzie on several occasions. Each time she has backed away from me, panic-stricken when really I was just making a stab at conversation. It is not my intention to alarm anyone, but dear Lord if I find a dead man in the road and his eyes are crawling with maggots, I refuse to say have a nice day Suzie just because she's desperate and her life is a runaway carriage rushing toward a cliff now can I? Would you let her get away with that kind of crap? Who are you anyway? And what kind of disorganization is this? Baron of the Holy Grail? Well it's about time you got here. I was worried, I was starting to fret.

Written by Andrew Barton Paterson | White Cockatoos Now the autumn maize is growing, Now the corn-cob fills, Where the Little River flowing Winds among the hills. Over mountain peaks outlying Clear against the blue Comes a scout in silence flying, One white cockatoo. Back he goes to where the meeting Waits among the trees. Says, "The corn is fit for eating; Hurry, if you please. " Skirmishers, their line extendiing, Shout the joyful news; Down they drop like snow descending, Clouds of cockatoos. At their husking competition Hear them screech and yell. On a gum tree's high position Sits a sentinel. Soon the boss goes boundary riding; But the wise old bird, Mute among the branches hiding, Never says a word. Then you hear the strident squalling: "Here's the boss's son, Through the garden bushes crawling, Crawling with a gun. May the shiny cactus bristles Fill his soul with woe; May his knees get full of thistles. Brothers, let us go. " Old Black Harry sees them going, Sketches Nature's plan: "That one cocky too much knowing, All same Chinaman. One eye shut and one eye winkin' -- Never shut the two; Chinaman go dead, me thinkin', Jump up cockatoo. "

Written by Barry Tebb | MY FATHER I had a father once, the records say. He has gone away down the long avenue Of death, on the hand-held minor no mist Of his breath, his firm signature no more. No more holding down his hat in the wind, Running to catch the last post, he has gone Beyond the wind-shaped stones on the high wall. His breath in that final coma came steady. Stertorous, the oxygen mask, the catheter, The telephone call summons and night train, The taxi over the moors, the charge nurse With little to say but kind words. I had a father once, the records say, Who carried me on the cross-bar of his bike Down Knostrop: we saw the white bells Of bindweed crawling with ants Strangle the rusty railings. My father, a quiet man, never knew what To say, which is why he was taken And I was not told and the records say It was pneumonia that took him And I was not told why the anti-biotics Were not given.