Best Famous Crumpling Poems

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

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• All Famous Crumpling Poems

Written by John Clare | The Winters Spring The winter comes; I walk alone, I want no bird to sing; To those who keep their hearts their own The winter is the spring. No flowers to please—no bees to hum— The coming spring's already come. I never want the Christmas rose To come before its time; The seasons, each as God bestows, Are simple and sublime. I love to see the snowstorm hing; 'Tis but the winter garb of spring. I never want the grass to bloom: The snowstorm's best in white. I love to see the tempest come And love its piercing light. The dazzled eyes that love to cling O'er snow-white meadows sees the spring. I love the snow, the crumpling snow That hangs on everything, It covers everything below Like white dove's brooding wing, A landscape to the aching sight, A vast expanse of dazzling light. It is the foliage of the woods That winters bring—the dress, White Easter of the year in bud, That makes the winter Spring. The frost and snow his posies bring, Nature's white spurts of the spring.

Written by Ruth Padel | The Appointment Flamingo silk. New ruff, the ivory ghost of a halter. Chestnut curls, * commas behind the ear. "Taller, by half a head, than my Lord Walsingham." * His Devon-cream brogue, malt eyes. New cloak mussed in her mud. * The Queen leans forward, a rosy envelope of civet. A cleavage * whispering seed pearls. Her own sleeve rubs that speck of dirt * on his cheek. Three thousand ornamental fruit baskets swing in the smoke. * "It is our pleasure to have our servant trained some longer time * in Ireland." Stamp out marks of the Irish. Their saffron smocks. * All curroughs, bards and rhymers. Desmonds and Fitzgeralds * stuck on low spikes, an avenue of heads to the war tent. * Kerry timber sold to the Canaries. Pregnant girls * hung in their own hair on city walls. Plague crumpling gargoyles * through Munster. "They spoke like ghosts crying out of their graves."

Written by Marge Piercy | Implications of One Plus One Sometimes we collide, tectonic plates merging, continents shoving, crumpling down into the molten veins of fire deep in the earth and raising tons of rock into jagged crests of Sierra. Sometimes your hands drift on me, milkweed's airy silk, wingtip's feathery caresses, our lips grazing, a drift of desires gathering like fog over warm water, thickening to rain. Sometimes we go to it heartily, digging, burrowing, grunting, tossing up covers like loose earth, nosing into the other's flesh with hot nozzles and wallowing there. Sometimes we are kids making out, silly in the quilt, tickling the xylophone spine, blowing wet jokes, loud as a whole slumber party bouncing till the bed breaks. I go round and round you sometimes, scouting, blundering, seeking a way in, the high boxwood maze I penetrate running lungs bursting toward the fountain of green fire at the heart. Sometimes you open wide as cathedral doors and yank me inside. Sometimes you slither into me like a snake into its burrow. Sometimes you march in with a brass band. Ten years of fitting our bodies together and still they sing wild songs in new keys. It is more and less than love: timing, chemistry, magic and will and luck. One plus one equal one, unknowable except in the moment, not convertible into words, not explicable or philosophically interesting. But it is. And it is. And it is. Amen.

Written by Thomas Moore | Lesbia Hath a Beaming Eye Lesbia hath a beaming eye, But no one knows for whom it beameth; Right and left its arrows fly, But what they aim at no one dreameth. Sweeter 'tis to gaze upon My Nora's lid that seldom rises; Few its looks, but every one, Like unexpected light, surprises! Oh, my Nora Creina, dear, My gentle, bashful Nora Creina, Beauty lies In many eyes, But Love in yours, my Nora Creina. Lesbia wears a robe of gold, But all so close the nymph hath laced it, Not a charm of beauty's mould Presumes to stay where Nature placed it. Oh! my Nora's gown for me, That floats as wild as mountain breezes, Leaving every beauty free To sink or swell as Heaven pleases. Yes, my Nora Creina, dear, My simple, graceful Nora Creina, Nature's dress Is loveliness -- The dress you wear, my Nora Creina. Lesbia hath a wit refined, But, when its points are gleaning round us, Who can tell if they're design'd To dazzle merely, or to wound us? Pillow'd on my Nora's heart, In safer slumber Love reposes -- Bed of peace! whose roughest part Is but the crumpling of the roses. Oh! my Nora Creina, dear, My mild, my artless Nora Creina! Wit, though bright, Hath no such light As warms your eyes, my Nora Creina.

Written by John Berryman | Dream Song 56: Hell is empty. O that has come to pass Hell is empty. O that has come to pass which the cut Alexandrian foresaw, and Hell is empty. Lightning fell silent where the Devil knelt and over the whole grave space hath settled awe in a full death of guilt. The tinchel closes. Terror, & plunging, swipes. I lay my ears back. I am about to die. My cleft feet drum. Fierce, the two-footers club. My green world pipes a finish—for us all, my love, not some. Crumpling, I—why,— So in his crystal ball them two he weighs, solidly, dreaming of his sleepy son, ah him, and his new wife. What roar solved once the dilemma of the Ancient of Days, what sigh borrowed His mercy?—Who may, if we are all the same, make one.