10 Best Famous Credence Poems

Here is a collection of the top 10 all-time best famous Credence poems. This is a select list of the best famous Credence poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Credence poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of credence poems.

• All Famous Credence Poems

Written by Charles Bukowski | A Challenge To The Dark shot in the eye shot in the brain shot in the ass shot like a flower in the dance amazing how death wins hands down amazing how much credence is given to idiot forms of life amazing how laughter has been drowned out amazing how viciousness is such a constant I must soon declare my own war on their war I must hold to my last piece of ground I must protect the small space I have made that has allowed me life my life not their death my death not their death...

Written by Robert Graves | Lost Love His eyes are quickened so with grief, He can watch a grass or leaf Every instant grow; he can Clearly through a flint wall see, Or watch the startled spirit flee From the throat of a dead man. Across two counties he can hear And catch your words before you speak. The woodlouse or the maggot's weak Clamour rings in his sad ear, And noise so slight it would surpass Credence--drinking sound of grass, Worm talk, clashing jaws of moth Chumbling holes in cloth; The groan of ants who undertake Gigantic loads for honour's sake (Their sinews creak, their breath comes thin); Whir of spiders when they spin, And minute whispering, mumbling, sighs Of idle grubs and flies. This man is quickened so with grief, He wanders god-like or like thief Inside and out, below, above, Without relief seeking lost love.

Written by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow | Hiawathas Wedding-Feast You shall hear how Pau-Puk-Keewis, How the handsome Yenadizze Danced at Hiawatha's wedding; How the gentle Chibiabos, He the sweetest of musicians, Sang his songs of love and longing; How Iagoo, the great boaster, He the marvellous story-teller, Told his tales of strange adventure, That the feast might be more joyous, That the time might pass more gayly, And the guests be more contented. Sumptuous was the feast Nokomis Made at Hiawatha's wedding; All the bowls were made of bass-wood, White and polished very smoothly, All the spoons of horn of bison, Black and polished very smoothly. She had sent through all the village Messengers with wands of willow, As a sign of invitation, As a token of the feasting; And the wedding guests assembled, Clad in all their richest raiment, Robes of fur and belts of wampum, Splendid with their paint and plumage, Beautiful with beads and tassels. First they ate the sturgeon, Nahma, And the pike, the Maskenozha, Caught and cooked by old Nokomis; Then on pemican they feasted, Pemican and buffalo marrow, Haunch of deer and hump of bison, Yellow cakes of the Mondamin, And the wild rice of the river. But the gracious Hiawatha, And the lovely Laughing Water, And the careful old Nokomis, Tasted not the food before them, Only waited on the others Only served their guests in silence. And when all the guests had finished, Old Nokomis, brisk and busy, From an ample pouch of otter, Filled the red-stone pipes for smoking With tobacco from the South-land, Mixed with bark of the red willow, And with herbs and leaves of fragrance. Then she said, "O Pau-Puk-Keewis, Dance for us your merry dances, Dance the Beggar's Dance to please us, That the feast may be more joyous, That the time may pass more gayly, And our guests be more contented!" Then the handsome Pau-Puk-Keewis, He the idle Yenadizze, He the merry mischief-maker, Whom the people called the Storm-Fool, Rose among the guests assembled. Skilled was he in sports and pastimes, In the merry dance of snow-shoes, In the play of quoits and ball-play; Skilled was he in games of hazard, In all games of skill and hazard, Pugasaing, the Bowl and Counters, Kuntassoo, the Game of Plum-stones. Though the warriors called him Faint-Heart, Called him coward, Shaugodaya, Idler, gambler, Yenadizze, Little heeded he their jesting, Little cared he for their insults, For the women and the maidens Loved the handsome Pau-Puk-Keewis. He was dressed in shirt of doeskin, White and soft, and fringed with ermine, All inwrought with beads of wampum; He was dressed in deer-skin leggings, Fringed with hedgehog quills and ermine, And in moccasins of buck-skin, Thick with quills and beads embroidered. On his head were plumes of swan's down, On his heels were tails of foxes, In one hand a fan of feathers, And a pipe was in the other. Barred with streaks of red and yellow, Streaks of blue and bright vermilion, Shone the face of Pau-Puk-Keewis. From his forehead fell his tresses, Smooth, and parted like a woman's, Shining bright with oil, and plaited, Hung with braids of scented grasses, As among the guests assembled, To the sound of flutes and singing, To the sound of drums and voices, Rose the handsome Pau-Puk-Keewis, And began his mystic dances. First he danced a solemn measure, Very slow in step and gesture, In and out among the pine-trees, Through the shadows and the sunshine, Treading softly like a panther. Then more swiftly and still swifter, Whirling, spinning round in circles, Leaping o'er the guests assembled, Eddying round and round the wigwam, Till the leaves went whirling with him, Till the dust and wind together Swept in eddies round about him. Then along the sandy margin Of the lake, the Big-Sea-Water, On he sped with frenzied gestures, Stamped upon the sand, and tossed it Wildly in the air around him; Till the wind became a whirlwind, Till the sand was blown and sifted Like great snowdrifts o'er the landscape, Heaping all the shores with Sand Dunes, Sand Hills of the Nagow Wudjoo! Thus the merry Pau-Puk-Keewis Danced his Beggar's Dance to please them, And, returning, sat down laughing There among the guests assembled, Sat and fanned himself serenely With his fan of turkey-feathers. Then they said to Chibiabos, To the friend of Hiawatha, To the sweetest of all singers, To the best of all musicians, "Sing to us, O Chibiabos! Songs of love and songs of longing, That the feast may be more joyous, That the time may pass more gayly, And our guests be more contented!" And the gentle Chibiabos Sang in accents sweet and tender, Sang in tones of deep emotion, Songs of love and songs of longing; Looking still at Hiawatha, Looking at fair Laughing Water, Sang he softly, sang in this wise: "Onaway! Awake, beloved! Thou the wild-flower of the forest! Thou the wild-bird of the prairie! Thou with eyes so soft and fawn-like! "If thou only lookest at me, I am happy, I am happy, As the lilies of the prairie, When they feel the dew upon them! "Sweet thy breath is as the fragrance Of the wild-flowers in the morning, As their fragrance is at evening, In the Moon when leaves are falling. "Does not all the blood within me Leap to meet thee, leap to meet thee, As the springs to meet the sunshine, In the Moon when nights are brightest? "Onaway! my heart sings to thee, Sings with joy when thou art near me, As the sighing, singing branches In the pleasant Moon of Strawberries! "When thou art not pleased, beloved, Then my heart is sad and darkened, As the shining river darkens When the clouds drop shadows on it! "When thou smilest, my beloved, Then my troubled heart is brightened, As in sunshine gleam the ripples That the cold wind makes in rivers. "Smiles the earth, and smile the waters, Smile the cloudless skies above us, But I lose the way of smiling When thou art no longer near me! "I myself, myself! behold me! Blood of my beating heart, behold me! Oh awake, awake, beloved! Onaway! awake, beloved!" Thus the gentle Chibiabos Sang his song of love and longing; And Iagoo, the great boaster, He the marvellous story-teller, He the friend of old Nokomis, Jealous of the sweet musician, Jealous of the applause they gave him, Saw in all the eyes around him, Saw in all their looks and gestures, That the wedding guests assembled Longed to hear his pleasant stories, His immeasurable falsehoods. Very boastful was Iagoo; Never heard he an adventure But himself had met a greater; Never any deed of daring But himself had done a bolder; Never any marvellous story But himself could tell a stranger. Would you listen to his boasting, Would you only give him credence, No one ever shot an arrow Half so far and high as he had; Ever caught so many fishes, Ever killed so many reindeer, Ever trapped so many beaver! None could run so fast as he could, None could dive so deep as he could, None could swim so far as he could; None had made so many journeys, None had seen so many wonders, As this wonderful Iagoo, As this marvellous story-teller! Thus his name became a by-word And a jest among the people; And whene'er a boastful hunter Praised his own address too highly, Or a warrior, home returning, Talked too much of his achievements, All his hearers cried, "Iagoo! Here's Iagoo come among us!" He it was who carved the cradle Of the little Hiawatha, Carved its framework out of linden, Bound it strong with reindeer sinews; He it was who taught him later How to make his bows and arrows, How to make the bows of ash-tree, And the arrows of the oak-tree. So among the guests assembled At my Hiawatha's wedding Sat Iagoo, old and ugly, Sat the marvellous story-teller. And they said, "O good Iagoo, Tell us now a tale of wonder, Tell us of some strange adventure, That the feast may be more joyous, That the time may pass more gayly, And our guests be more contented!" And Iagoo answered straightway, "You shall hear a tale of wonder, You shall hear the strange adventures Of Osseo, the Magician, From the Evening Star descending."

Written by Andrew Barton Paterson | The Pearl Diver Kanzo Makame, the diver, sturdy and small Japanee, Seeker of pearls and of pearl-shell down in the depths of the sea, Trudged o'er the bed of the ocean, searching industriously. Over the pearl-grounds the lugger drifted -- a little white speck: Joe Nagasaki, the "tender", holding the life-line on deck, Talked through the rope to the diver, knew when to drift or to check. Kanzo was king of his lugger, master and diver in one, Diving wherever it pleased him, taking instructions from none; Hither and thither he wandered, steering by stars and by sun. Fearless he was beyond credence, looking at death eye to eye: This was his formula always, "All man go dead by and by -- S'posing time come no can help it -- s'pose time no come, then no die." Dived in the depths of the Darnleys, down twenty fathom and five; Down where by law, and by reason, men are forbidden to dive; Down in a pressure so awful that only the strongest survive: Sweated four men at the air pumps, fast as the handles could go, Forcing the air down that reached him heated and tainted, and slow -- Kanzo Makame the diver stayed seven minutes below; Came up on deck like a dead man, paralysed body and brain; Suffered, while blood was returning, infinite tortures of pain: Sailed once again to the Darnleys -- laughed and descended again! Scarce grew the shell in the shallows, rarely a patch could they touch; Always the take was so little, always the labour so much; Always they thought of the Islands held by the lumbering Dutch -- Islands where shell was in plenty lying in passage and bay, Islands where divers could gather hundreds of shell in a day. But the lumbering Dutch in their gunboats they hunted the divers away. Joe Nagasaki, the "tender", finding the profits grow small, Said, "Let us go to the Islands, try for a number one haul! If we get caught, go to prison -- let them take lugger and all!" Kanzo Makame, the diver -- knowing full well what it meant -- Fatalist, gambler, and stoic, smiled a broad smile of content, Flattened in mainsail and foresail, and off to the Islands they went. Close to the headlands they drifted, picking up shell by the ton, Piled up on deck were the oysters, opening wide in the sun, When, from the lee of the headland, boomed the report of a gun. Then if the diver was sighted, pearl-shell and lugger must go -- Joe Nagasaki decided (quick was the word and the blow), Cut both the pipe and the life-line, leaving the diver below! Kanzo Makame, the diver, failing to quite understand, Pulled the "haul up" on the life-line, found it was slack in his hand; Then, like a little brown stoic, lay down and died on the sand. Joe Nagasaki, the "tender", smiling a sanctified smile, Headed her straight for the gunboat--throwing out shells all the while -- Then went aboard and reported, "No makee dive in three mile! "Dress no have got and no helmet -- diver go shore on the spree; Plenty wind come and break rudder -- lugger get blown out to sea: Take me to Japanee Consul, he help a poor Japanee!" So the Dutch let him go; but they watched him, as off from the Islands he ran, Doubting him much -- but what would you? You have to be sure of your man Ere you wake up that nest-ful of hornets -- the little brown men of Japan. Down in the ooze and the coral, down where earth's wonders are spread, Helmeted, ghastly, and swollen, Kanzo Makame lies dead. Joe Nagasaki, his "tender", is owner and diver instead. Wearer of pearls in your necklace, comfort yourself if you can. These are the risks of the pearling -- these are the ways of Japan; "Plenty more Japanee diver plenty more little brown man!"

Written by Edwin Arlington Robinson | Bewick Finzer Time was when his half million drew The breath of six per cent; But soon the worm of what-was-not Fed hard on his content; And something crumbled in his brain When his half million went. Time passed, and filled along with his The place of many more; Time came, and hardly one of us Had credence to restore, From what appeared one day, the man Whom we had known before. The broken voice, the withered neck, The coat worn out with care, The cleanliness of indigence, The brilliance of despair, The fond imponderable dreams Of affluence,--all were there. Poor Finzer, with his dreams and schemes, Fares hard now in the race, With heart and eye that have a task When he looks in the eye Of one who might so easily Have been in Finzer's place. He comes unfailing for the loan We give and then forget; He comes, and probably for years Will he be coming yet,-- Familiar as an old mistake, And futile as regret.

Written by Gregory Corso | I Held A Shelley Manuscript My hands did numb to beauty as they reached into Death and tightened! O sovereign was my touch upon the tan-inks's fragile page! Quickly, my eyes moved quickly, sought for smell for dust for lace for dry hair! I would have taken the page breathing in the crime! For no evidence have I wrung from dreams-- yet what triumph is there in private credence? Often, in some steep ancestral book, when I find myself entangled with leopard-apples and torched-skin mushrooms, my cypressean skein outreaches the recorded age and I, as though tipping a pitcher of milk, pour secrecy upon the dying page.

Written by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | The Maid Of The Mills Repentance YOUTH. AWAY, thou swarthy witch! Go forth From out my house, I tell thee! Or else I needs must, in my wrath, Expel thee! What's this thou singest so falsely, forsooth, Of love and a maiden's silent truth? Who'll trust to such a story! GIPSY. I sing of a maid's repentant fears, And long and bitter yearning; Her levity's changed to truth and tears All-burning. She dreads no more the threats of her mother, She dreads far less the blows of her brother, Than the dearly loved-one's hatred. YOUTH. Of selfishness sing and treacherous lies, Of murder and thievish plunder! Such actions false will cause no surprise, Or wonder. When they share their booty, both clothes and purse,-- As bad as you gipsies, and even worse, Such tales find ready credence. GIPSY. "Alas, alas! oh what have I done? Can listening aught avail me? I hear him toward my room hasten on, To hail me. My heart beat high, to myself I said: 'O would that thou hadst never betray'd That night of love to thy mother!'" YOUTH. Alas! I foolishly ventured there, For the cheating silence misled me; Ah, sweetest! let me to thee repair,-- Nor dread me! When suddenly rose a fearful din, Her mad relations came pouring in. My blood still boils in my body! GIPSY. "Oh when will return an hour like this? I pine in silent sadness; I've thrown away my only true bliss With madness. Alas, poor maid! O pity my youth! My brother was then full cruel in troth To treat the loved one so basely!" THE POET. The swarthy woman then went inside, To the spring in the courtyard yonder; Her eyes from their stain she purified, And,--wonder!-- Her face and eyes were radiant and bright, And the maid of the mill was disclosed to the sight Of the startled and angry stripling! THE MAID OF THE MILL. Thou sweetest, fairest, dearly-loved life! Before thine anger I cower; But blows I dread not, nor sharp-edged knife,-- This hour Of sorrow and love to thee I'll sing, And myself before thy feet I'll fling, And either live or die there! YOUTH. Affection, say, why buried so deep In my heart hast thou lain hidden? By whom hast thou now to awake from thy sleep Been bidden? Ah love, that thou art immortal I see! Nor knavish cunning nor treachery Can destroy thy life so godlike. THE MAID OF THE MILL. If still with as fond and heartfelt love, As thou once didst swear, I'm cherish'd, Then nought of the rapture we used to prove Is perish'd. So take the woman so dear to thy breast! In her young and innocent charms be blest, For all are thine from henceforward! BOTH. Now, sun, sink to rest! Now, sun, arise! Ye stars, be now shining, now darkling! A star of love now gleams in the skies, All-sparkling! As long as the fountain may spring and run, So long will we two be blended in one, Upon each other's bosoms! 1797.

Written by Francesco Petrarch | Sonnet CLXX SONNET CLXX. Lasso, ch' i' ardo, ed altri non mel crede! POSTERITY WILL ACCORD TO HIM THE PITY WHICH LAURA REFUSES. Alas, with ardour past belief I glow!None doubt this truth, except one only fair,Who all excels, for whom alone I care;She plainly sees, yet disbelieves my woe.O rich in charms, but poor in faith! canst thouLook in these eyes, nor read my whole heart there?Were I not fated by my baleful star,For me from pity's fount might favour flow.My flame, of which thou tak'st so little heed,And thy high praises pour'd through all my song,O'er many a breast may future influence spread:These, my sweet fair, so warns prophetic thought,Closed thy bright eye, and mute thy poet's tongue,E'en after death shall still with sparks be fraught. Nott. Alas! I burn, yet credence fail to gainAll others credit it save only sheAll others who excels, alone for me;She seems to doubt it still, yet sees it plain[Pg 182]Infinite beauty, little faith and slow,Perceive ye not my whole heart in mine eyes?Well might I hope, save for my hostile skies,From mercy's fount some pitying balm to flow.Yet this my flame which scarcely moves your care,And your warm praises sung in these fond rhymes,May thousands yet inflame in after times;These I foresee in fancy, my sweet fair,Though your bright eyes be closed and cold my breath,Shall lighten other loves and live in death. Macgregor.

Written by Francesco Petrarch | Sonnet CLVIII SONNET CLVIII. Siccome eterna vita è veder Dio. ALL HIS HAPPINESS IS IN GAZING UPON HER. As life eternal is with God to be,No void left craving, there of all possess'd,So, lady mine, to be with you makes blest,This brief frail span of mortal life to me.So fair as now ne'er yet was mine to see—[Pg 174]If truth from eyes to heart be well express'd—Lovely and blessèd spirit of my breast,Which levels all high hopes and wishes free.Nor would I more demand if less of hasteShe show'd to part; for if, as legends tellAnd credence find, are some who live by smell,On water some, or fire who touch and taste,All, things which neither strength nor sweetness give,Why should not I upon your dear sight live? Macgregor.