Best Famous Culled Poems

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

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Written by Marilyn Hacker | Morning News Spring wafts up the smell of bus exhaust, of bread and fried potatoes, tips green on the branches, repeats old news: arrogance, ignorance, war. A cinder-block wall shared by two houses is new rubble. On one side was a kitchen sink and a cupboard, on the other was a bed, a bookshelf, three framed photographs. Glass is shattered across the photographs; two half-circles of hardened pocket bread sit on the cupboard. There provisionally was shelter, a plastic truck under the branches of a fig tree. A knife flashed in the kitchen, merely dicing garlic. Engines of war move inexorably toward certain houses while citizens sit safe in other houses reading the newspaper, whose photographs make sanitized excuses for the war. There are innumerable kinds of bread brought up from bakeries, baked in the kitchen: the date, the latitude, tell which one was dropped by a child beneath the bloodied branches. The uncontrolled and multifurcate branches of possibility infiltrate houses' walls, windowframes, ceilings. Where there was a tower, a town: ash and burnt wires, a graph on a distant computer screen. Elsewhere, a kitchen table's setting gapes, where children bred to branch into new lives were culled for war. Who wore this starched smocked cotton dress? Who wore this jersey blazoned for the local branch of the district soccer team? Who left this black bread and this flat gold bread in their abandoned houses? Whose father begged for mercy in the kitchen? Whose memory will frame the photograph and use the memory for what it was never meant for by this girl, that old man, who was caught on a ball field, near a window: war, exhorted through the grief a photograph revives. (Or was the team a covert branch of a banned group; were maps drawn in the kitchen, a bomb thrust in a hollowed loaf of bread?) What did the old men pray for in their houses of prayer, the teachers teach in schoolhouses between blackouts and blasts, when each word was flensed by new censure, books exchanged for bread, both hostage to the happenstance of war? Sometimes the only schoolroom is a kitchen. Outside the window, black strokes on a graph of broken glass, birds line up on bare branches. "This letter curves, this one spreads its branches like friends holding hands outside their houses." Was the lesson stopped by gunfire? Was there panic, silence? Does a torn photograph still gather children in the teacher's kitchen? Are they there meticulously learning war- time lessons with the signs for house, book, bread?

Written by Amy Levy | A Minor Poet "What should such fellows as I do, Crawling between earth and heaven?" Here is the phial; here I turn the key Sharp in the lock. Click!--there's no doubt it turned. This is the third time; there is luck in threes-- Queen Luck, that rules the world, befriend me now And freely I'll forgive you many wrongs! Just as the draught began to work, first time, Tom Leigh, my friend (as friends go in the world), Burst in, and drew the phial from my hand, (Ah, Tom! ah, Tom! that was a sorry turn!) And lectured me a lecture, all compact Of neatest, newest phrases, freshly culled From works of newest culture: "common good ;" "The world's great harmonies;""must be content With knowing God works all things for the best, And Nature never stumbles." Then again, "The common good," and still, "the common, good;" And what a small thing was our joy or grief When weigh'd with that of thousands. Gentle Tom, But you might wag your philosophic tongue From morn till eve, and still the thing's the same: I am myself, as each man is himself-- Feels his own pain, joys his own joy, and loves With his own love, no other's. Friend, the world Is but one man; one man is but the world. And I am I, and you are Tom, that bleeds When needles prick your flesh (mark, yours, not mine). I must confess it; I can feel the pulse A-beating at my heart, yet never knew The throb of cosmic pulses. I lament The death of youth's ideal in my heart; And, to be honest, never yet rejoiced In the world's progress--scarce, indeed, discerned; (For still it seems that God's a Sisyphus With the world for stone). You shake your head. I'm base, Ignoble? Who is noble--you or I? I was not once thus? Ah, my friend, we are As the Fates make us. This time is the third; The second time the flask fell from my hand, Its drowsy juices spilt upon the board; And there my face fell flat, and all the life Crept from my limbs, and hand and foot were bound With mighty chains, subtle, intangible; While still the mind held to its wonted use, Or rather grew intense and keen with dread, An awful dread--I thought I was in Hell. In Hell, in Hell ! Was ever Hell conceived By mortal brain, by brain Divine devised, Darker, more fraught with torment, than the world For such as I? A creature maimed and marr'd From very birth. A blot, a blur, a note All out of tune in this world's instrument. A base thing, yet not knowing to fulfil Base functions. A high thing, yet all unmeet For work that's high. A dweller on the earth, Yet not content to dig with other men Because of certain sudden sights and sounds (Bars of broke music; furtive, fleeting glimpse Of angel faces 'thwart the grating seen) Perceived in Heaven. Yet when I approach To catch the sound's completeness, to absorb The faces' full perfection, Heaven's gate, Which then had stood ajar, sudden falls to, And I, a-shiver in the dark and cold, Scarce hear afar the mocking tones of men: "He would not dig, forsooth ; but he must strive For higher fruits than what our tillage yields; Behold what comes, my brothers, of vain pride!" Why play with figures? trifle prettily With this my grief which very simply's said, "There is no place for me in all the world"? The world's a rock, and I will beat no more A breast of flesh and blood against a rock. . . A stride across the planks for old time's sake. Ah, bare, small room that I have sorrowed in; Ay, and on sunny days, haply, rejoiced; We know some things together, you and I! Hold there, you rangèd row of books ! In vain You beckon from your shelf. You've stood my friends Where all things else were foes; yet now I'll turn My back upon you, even as the world Turns it on me. And yet--farewell, farewell! You, lofty Shakespere, with the tattered leaves And fathomless great heart, your binding's bruised Yet did I love you less? Goethe, farewell; Farewell, triumphant smile and tragic eyes, And pitiless world-wisdom! For all men These two. And 'tis farewell with you, my friends, More dear because more near: Theokritus; Heine that stings and smiles; Prometheus' bard; (I've grown too coarse for Shelley latterly:) And one wild singer of to-day, whose song Is all aflame with passionate bard's blood Lash'd into foam by pain and the world's wrong. At least, he has a voice to cry his pain; For him, no silent writhing in the dark, No muttering of mute lips, no straining out Of a weak throat a-choke with pent-up sound, A-throb with pent-up passion. . . Ah, my sun! That's you, then, at the window, looking in To beam farewell on one who's loved you long And very truly. Up, you creaking thing, You squinting, cobwebbed casement! So, at last, I can drink in the sunlight. How it falls. Across that endless sea of London roofs, Weaving such golden wonders on the grey, That almost, for the moment, we forget The world of woe beneath them. Underneath, For all the sunset glory, Pain is king. Yet, the sun's there, and very sweet withal; And I'll not grumble that it's only sun, But open wide my lips--thus--drink it in; Turn up my face to the sweet evening sky (What royal wealth of scarlet on the blue So tender toned, you'd almost think it green) And stretch my hands out--so--to grasp it tight. Ha, ha! 'tis sweet awhile to cheat the Fates, And be as happy as another man. The sun works in my veins like wine, like wine! 'Tis a fair world: if dark, indeed, with woe, Yet having hope and hint of such a joy, That a man, winning, well might turn aside, Careless of Heaven . . . O enough; I turn From the sun's light, or haply I shall hope. I have hoped enough; I would not hope again: 'Tis hope that is most cruel. Tom, my friend, You very sorry philosophic fool; 'Tis you, I think, that bid me be resign'd, Trust, and be thankful. Out on you! Resign'd? I'm not resign'd, not patient, not school'd in To take my starveling's portion and pretend I'm grateful for it. I want all, all, all; I've appetite for all. I want the best: Love, beauty, sunlight, nameless joy of life. There's too much patience in the world, I think. We have grown base with crooking of the knee. Mankind--say--God has bidden to a feast; The board is spread, and groans with cates and drinks; In troop the guests; each man with appetite Keen-whetted with expectance. In they troop, Struggle for seats, jostle and push and seize. What's this? what's this? There are not seats for all! Some men must stand without the gates; and some Must linger by the table, ill-supplied With broken meats. One man gets meat for two, The while another hungers. If I stand Without the portals, seeing others eat Where I had thought to satiate the pangs Of mine own hunger; shall I then come forth When all is done, and drink my Lord's good health In my Lord's water? Shall I not rather turn And curse him, curse him for a niggard host? O, I have hungered, hungered, through the years, Till appetite grows craving, then disease; I am starved, wither'd, shrivelled. Peace, O peace! This rage is idle; what avails to curse The nameless forces, the vast silences That work in all things. This time is the third, I wrought before in heat, stung mad with pain, Blind, scarcely understanding; now I know What thing I do. There was a woman once; Deep eyes she had, white hands, a subtle smile, Soft speaking tones: she did not break my heart, Yet haply had her heart been otherwise Mine had not now been broken. Yet, who knows? My life was jarring discord from the first: Tho' here and there brief hints of melody, Of melody unutterable, clove the air. From this bleak world, into the heart of night, The dim, deep bosom of the universe, I cast myself. I only crave for rest; Too heavy is the load. I fling it down. EPILOGUE. We knocked and knocked; at last, burst in the door, And found him as you know--the outstretched arms Propping the hidden face. The sun had set, And all the place was dim with lurking shade. There was no written word to say farewell, Or make more clear the deed. I search'd and search'd; The room held little: just a row of books Much scrawl'd and noted; sketches on the wall, Done rough in charcoal; the old instrument (A violin, no Stradivarius) He played so ill on; in the table drawer Large schemes of undone work. Poems half-writ; Wild drafts of symphonies; big plans of fugues; Some scraps of writing in a woman's hand: No more--the scattered pages of a tale, A sorry tale that no man cared to read. Alas, my friend, I lov'd him well, tho' he Held me a cold and stagnant-blooded fool, Because I am content to watch, and wait With a calm mind the issue of all things. Certain it is my blood's no turbid stream; Yet, for all that, haply I understood More than he ever deem'd; nor held so light The poet in him. Nay, I sometimes doubt If they have not, indeed, the better part-- These poets, who get drunk with sun, and weep Because the night or a woman's face is fair. Meantime there is much talk about my friend. The women say, of course, he died for love; The men, for lack of gold, or cavilling Of carping critics. I, Tom Leigh, his friend I have no word at all to say of this. Nay, I had deem'd him more philosopher; For did he think by this one paltry deed To cut the knot of circumstance, and snap The chain which binds all being?

Written by T Wignesan | Blinks through Blood-shot Walks When at five-thirty In the rubbed-eye haziness Of ferreting lonesome night walks The camera-eye refugee Asleep in the half awakefulness Of the hour Peers out of his high turbanned sockets: Hyde Park's through road links London's diurnally estranged couple - The Arch and Gate. When at five-thirty The foot falls gently Of the vision cut in dark recesses And the man, finger gingerly on the fly Gapes dolefully about For a while Exchanges a casual passing word Standing in the Rembrandtesque clefts And the multipled ma'm'selle trips out: Neat and slick. They say you meet the girls at parties And get deeper than swine in orgies. When at five-thirty The fisherman's chilled chips Lie soggy and heeled under the Arch Where patchy transparent wrappers cling To slippery hands jingling the inexact change That mounted the trustful fisherman's credit: The stub legged fisher of diplomat And cool cat And the prostitutes' confidant; Each shivering pimp's warming pan. Then at five-thirty The bowels of Hyde Park Improperly growled and shunted And shook the half-night-long Lazily swaggering double deckers, Suddenly as in a rude recollection, To break and pull, grind and swing away And around, drawing the knotting air after Curling and unfurling on the pavements. And at five-thirty The prostrate mindful old refugee Dares not stir Nor cares to wake and swallow The precisely half-downed bottle Of Coke clinging to the pearly dew Nor lick the clasp knife clean Lying bare by a tin of' skewed top Corned beef, incisively culled Look! that garden all spruced up An incongruous lot of hair on that bald pate No soul stirs in there but the foul air No parking alongside but from eight to eight. Learning so hard and late No time to scratch the bald pate. At five-thirty-one A minute just gone The thud is on, the sledge-hammer yawns And in the back of ears, strange noises As from afar and a million feet tramp. One infinitesimal particle knocks another And the whirl begins in a silent rage And the human heart beats harder While in and around, this London This atomic mammoth roams In the wastes of wars and tumbling empires.

Written by Robert Pinsky | Shirt The back, the yoke, the yardage. Lapped seams, The nearly invisible stitches along the collar Turned in a sweatshop by Koreans or Malaysians Gossiping over tea and noodles on their break Or talking money or politics while one fitted This armpiece with its overseam to the band Of cuff I button at my wrist. The presser, the cutter, The wringer, the mangle. The needle, the union, The treadle, the bobbin. The code. The infamous blaze At the Triangle Factory in nineteen-eleven. One hundred and forty-six died in the flames On the ninth floor, no hydrants, no fire escapes-- The witness in a building across the street Who watched how a young man helped a girl to step Up to the windowsill, then held her out Away from the masonry wall and let her drop. And then another. As if he were helping them up To enter a streetcar, and not eternity. A third before he dropped her put her arms Around his neck and kissed him. Then he held Her into space, and dropped her. Almost at once He stepped up to the sill himself, his jacket flared And fluttered up from his shirt as he came down, Air filling up the legs of his gray trousers-- Like Hart Crane's Bedlamite, "shrill shirt ballooning." Wonderful how the patern matches perfectly Across the placket and over the twin bar-tacked Corners of both pockets, like a strict rhyme Or a major chord. Prints, plaids, checks, Houndstooth, Tattersall, Madras. The clan tartans Invented by mill-owners inspired by the hoax of Ossian, To control their savage Scottish workers, tamed By a fabricated heraldry: MacGregor, Bailey, MacMartin. The kilt, devised for workers to wear among the dusty clattering looms. Weavers, carders, spinners. The loader, The docker, the navvy. The planter, the picker, the sorter Sweating at her machine in a litter of cotton As slaves in calico headrags sweated in fields: George Herbert, your descendant is a Black Lady in South Carolina, her name is Irma And she inspected my shirt. Its color and fit And feel and its clean smell have satisfied both her and me. We have culled its cost and quality Down to the buttons of simulated bone, The buttonholes, the sizing, the facing, the characters Printed in black on neckband and tail. The shape, The label, the labor, the color, the shade. The shirt.

Written by Martin Armstrong | Honey Harvest Late in March, when the days are growing longer And sight of early green Tells of the coming spring and suns grow stronger, Round the pale willow-catkins there are seen The year's first honey-bees Stealing the nectar: and bee-masters know This for the first sign of the honey-flow. Then in the dark hillsides the Cherry-trees Gleam white with loads of blossom where the gleams Of piled snow lately hung, and richer streams The honey. Now, if chilly April days Delay the Apple-blossom, and the May's First week come in with sudden summer weather, The Apple and the Hawthorn bloom together, And all day long the plundering hordes go round And every overweighted blossom nods. But from that gathered essence they compound Honey more sweet than nectar of the gods. Those blossoms fall ere June, warm June that brings The small white Clover. Field by scented field, Round farms like islands in the rolling weald, It spreads thick-flowering or in wildness springs Short-stemmed upon the naked downs, to yield A richer store of honey than the Rose, The Pink, the Honeysuckle. Thence there flows Nectar of clearest amber, redolent Of every flowery scent That the warm wind upgathers as he goes. In mid-July be ready for the noise Of million bees in old Lime-avenues, As though hot noon had found a droning voice To ease her soul. Here for those busy crews Green leaves and pale-stemmed clusters of green strong flowers Build heavy-perfumed, cool, green-twilight bowers Whence, load by load, through the long summer days They fill their glassy cells With dark green honey, clear as chrysoprase, Which housewives shun; but the bee-master tells This brand is more delicious than all else. In August-time, if moors are near at hand, Be wise and in the evening-twilight load Your hives upon a cart, and take the road By night: that, ere the early dawn shall spring And all the hills turn rosy with the Ling, Each waking hive may stand Established in its new-appointed land Without harm taken, and the earliest flights Set out at once to loot the heathery heights. That vintage of the Heather yields so dense And glutinous a syrup that it foils Him who would spare the comb and drain from thence Its dark, full-flavoured spoils: For he must squeeze to wreck the beautiful Frail edifice. Not otherwise he sacks Those many-chambered palaces of wax. Then let a choice of every kind be made, And, labelled, set upon your storehouse racks — Of Hawthorn-honey that of almond smacks: The luscious Lime-tree-honey, green as jade: Pale Willow-honey, hived by the first rover: That delicate honey culled From Apple-blossom, that of sunlight tastes: And sunlight-coloured honey of the Clover. Then, when the late year wastes, When night falls early and the noon is dulled And the last warm days are over, Unlock the store and to your table bring Essence of every blossom of the spring. And if, when wind has never ceased to blow All night, you wake to roofs and trees becalmed In level wastes of snow, Bring out the Lime-tree-honey, the embalmed Soul of a lost July, or Heather-spiced Brown-gleaming comb wherein sleeps crystallised All the hot perfume of the heathery slope. And, tasting and remembering, live in hope.

Written by Robert Southey | Ariste Let ancient stories round the painter's art, Who stole from many a maid his Venus' charms, Till warm devotion fired each gazer's heart And every bosom bounded with alarms. He culled the beauties of his native isle, From some the blush of beauty's vermeil dyes, From some the lovely look, the winning smile, From some the languid lustre of the eyes. Low to the finished form the nations round In adoration bent the pious knee; With myrtle wreaths the artist's brow they crowned, Whose skill, Ariste, only imaged thee. Ill-fated artist, doomed so wide to seek The charms that blossom on Ariste's cheek!

Written by Robert Louis Stevenson | To Rosabelle WHEN my young lady has grown great and staid, And in long raiment wondrously arrayed, She may take pleasure with a smile to know How she delighted men-folk long ago. For her long after, then, this tale I tell Of the two fans and fairy Rosabelle. Hot was the day; her weary sire and I Sat in our chairs companionably nigh, Each with a headache sat her sire and I. Instant the hostess waked: she viewed the scene, Divined the giants' languor by their mien, And with hospitable care Tackled at once an Atlantean chair. Her pigmy stature scarce attained the seat - She dragged it where she would, and with her feet Surmounted; thence, a Phaeton launched, she crowned The vast plateau of the piano, found And culled a pair of fans; wherewith equipped, Our mountaineer back to the level slipped; And being landed, with considerate eyes, Betwixt her elders dealt her double prize; The small to me, the greater to her sire. As painters now advance and now retire Before the growing canvas, and anon Once more approach and put the climax on: So she awhile withdrew, her piece she viewed - For half a moment half supposed it good - Spied her mistake, nor sooner spied than ran To remedy; and with the greater fan, In gracious better thought, equipped the guest. From ill to well, from better on to best, Arts move; the homely, like the plastic kind; And high ideals fired that infant mind. Once more she backed, once more a space apart Considered and reviewed her work of art: Doubtful at first, and gravely yet awhile; Till all her features blossomed in a smile. And the child, waking at the call of bliss, To each she ran, and took and gave a kiss.

Written by Friedrich von Schiller | The Maiden From Afar Within a vale, each infant year, When earliest larks first carol free, To humble shepherds cloth appear A wondrous maiden, fair to see. Not born within that lowly place-- From whence she wandered, none could tell; Her parting footsteps left no trace, When once the maiden sighed farewell. And blessed was her presence there-- Each heart, expanding, grew more gay; Yet something loftier still than fair Kept man's familiar looks away. From fairy gardens, known to none, She brought mysterious fruits and flowers-- The things of some serener sun-- Some Nature more benign than ours. With each her gifts the maiden shared-- To some the fruits, the flowers to some; Alike the young, the aged fared; Each bore a blessing back to home. Though every guest was welcome there, Yet some the maiden held more dear, And culled her rarest sweets whene'er She saw two hearts that loved draw near.

Written by Omar Khayyam | When you are in the company of a beauty with cypress-like When you are in the company of a beauty with cypress-like figure and a color fresher than the newly-culled rose, put not far from thee the flowers of the field, nor let the cup escape from thy hand; [do this] before the north-wind of death, like a gale which disperses the leaves of the roses, tears in tatters the envelope of thy being.