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Best Famous Dante Alighieri Poems

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

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Written by Dante Alighieri | Create an image from this poem

Love and the Gentle Heart

 Love and the gentle heart are one thing,
just as the poet says in his verse,
each from the other one as well divorced
as reason from the mind’s reasoning.
Nature craves love, and then creates love king, and makes the heart a palace where he’ll stay, perhaps a shorter or a longer day, breathing quietly, gently slumbering.
Then beauty in a virtuous woman’s face makes the eyes yearn, and strikes the heart, so that the eyes’ desire’s reborn again, and often, rooting there with longing, stays, Till love, at last, out of its dreaming starts.
Woman’s moved likewise by a virtuous man.

Written by Dante Alighieri | Create an image from this poem

There is a Gentle Thought

 There is a gentle thought that often springs
to life in me, because it speaks of you.
Its reasoning about love’s so sweet and true, the heart is conquered, and accepts these things.
‘Who is this’ the mind enquires of the heart, ‘who comes here to seduce our intellect? Is his power so great we must reject every other intellectual art? The heart replies ‘O, meditative mind this is love’s messenger and newly sent to bring me all Love’s words and desires.
His life, and all the strength that he can find, from her sweet eyes are mercifully lent, who feels compassion for our inner fires.
Written by Dante Alighieri | Create an image from this poem


 I have come, alas, to the great circle of shadow,
to the short day and to the whitening hills,
when the colour is all lost from the grass,
though my desire will not lose its green,
so rooted is it in this hardest stone,
that speaks and feels as though it were a woman.
And likewise this heaven-born woman stays frozen, like the snow in shadow, and is unmoved, or moved like a stone, by the sweet season that warms all the hills, and makes them alter from pure white to green, so as to clothe them with the flowers and grass.
When her head wears a crown of grass she draws the mind from any other woman, because she blends her gold hair with the green so well that Amor lingers in their shadow, he who fastens me in these low hills, more certainly than lime fastens stone.
Her beauty has more virtue than rare stone.
The wound she gives cannot be healed with grass, since I have travelled, through the plains and hills, to find my release from such a woman, yet from her light had never a shadow thrown on me, by hill, wall, or leaves’ green.
I have seen her walk all dressed in green, so formed she would have sparked love in a stone, that love I bear for her very shadow, so that I wished her, in those fields of grass, as much in love as ever yet was woman, closed around by all the highest hills.
The rivers will flow upwards to the hills before this wood, that is so soft and green, takes fire, as might ever lovely woman, for me, who would choose to sleep on stone, all my life, and go eating grass, only to gaze at where her clothes cast shadow.
Whenever the hills cast blackest shadow, with her sweet green, the lovely woman hides it, as a man hides stone in grass.
Written by Ezra Pound | Create an image from this poem

Sestina: Altaforte

 LOQUITUR: En Bertans de Born.
Dante Alighieri put this man in hell for that he was a stirrer up of strife.
Eccovi! Judge ye! Have I dug him up again? The scene is at his castle, Altaforte.
"Papiols" is his jongleur.
"The Leopard," the device of Richard Coeur de Lion.
I Damn it all! all this our South stinks peace.
You whoreson dog, Papiols, come! Let's to music! I have no life save when the swords clash.
But ah! when I see the standards gold, vair, purple, opposing And the broad fields beneath them turn crimson, Then howl I my heart nigh mad with rejoicing.
II In hot summer I have great rejoicing When the tempests kill the earth's foul peace, And the lightning from black heav'n flash crimson, And the fierce thunders roar me their music And the winds shriek through the clouds mad, opposing, And through all the riven skies God's swords clash.
III Hell grant soon we hear again the swords clash! And the shrill neighs of destriers in battle rejoicing, Spiked breast to spiked breat opposing! Better one hour's stour than a year's peace With fat boards, bawds, wine and frail music! Bah! there's no wine like the blood's crimson! IV And I love to see the sun rise blood-crimson.
And I watch his spears through the dark clash And it fills all my heart with rejoicing And pries wide my mouth with fast music When I see him so scorn and defy peace, His long might 'gainst all darkness opposing.
V The man who fears war and squats opposing My words for stour, hath no blood of crimson But is fit only to rot in womanish peace Far from where worth's won and the swords clash For the death of such sluts I go rejoicing; Yea, I fill all the air with my music.
VI Papiols, Papiols, to the music! There's no sound like to swords swords opposing, No cry like the battle's rejoicing When our elbows and swords drip the crimson And our charges 'gainst "The Leopard's" rush clash.
May God damn for ever all who cry "Peace!" VII And let the music of the swords make them crimson! Hell grant soon we hear again the swords clash! Hell blot black for always the thought "Peace!"
Written by William Butler Yeats | Create an image from this poem

Ego Dominus Tuus

On the grey sand beside the shallow stream Under your old wind-beaten tower, where still A lamp burns on beside the open book That Michael Robartes left, you walk in the moon, And, though you have passed the best of life, still trace, Enthralled by the unconquerable delusion, Magical shapes.
By the help of an image I call to my own opposite, summon all That I have handled least, least looked upon.
And I would find myself and not an image.
That is our modern hope, and by its light We have lit upon the gentle, sensitive mind And lost the old nonchalance of the hand; Whether we have chosen chisel, pen or brush, We are but critics, or but half create, Timid, entangled, empty and abashed, Lacking the countenance of our friends.
And yet The chief imagination of Christendom, Dante Alighieri, so utterly found himself That he has made that hollow face of his More plain to the mind's eye than any face But that of Christ.
And did he find himself Or was the hunger that had made it hollow A hunger for the apple on the bough Most out of reach? and is that spectral image The man that Lapo and that Guido knew? I think he fashioned from his opposite An image that might have been a stony face Staring upon a Bedouin's horse-hair roof From doored and windowed cliff, or half upturned Among the coarse grass and the camel-dung.
He set his chisel to the hardest stone.
Being mocked by Guido for his lecherous life, Derided and deriding, driven out To climb that stair and eat that bitter bread, He found the unpersuadable justice, he found The most exalted lady loved by a man.
Yet surely there are men who have made their art Out of no tragic war, lovers of life, Impulsive men that look for happiness And sing when t"hey have found it.
No, not sing, For those that love the world serve it in action, Grow rich, popular and full of influence, And should they paint or write, still it is action: The struggle of the fly in marmalade.
The rhetorician would deceive his neighbours, The sentimentalist himself; while art Is but a vision of reality.
What portion in the world can the artist have Who has awakened from the common dream But dissipation and despair? Hic.
And yet No one denies to Keats love of the world; Remember his deliberate happiness.
His art is happy, but who knows his mind? I see a schoolboy when I think of him, With face and nose pressed to a sweet-shop window, For certainly he sank into his grave His senses and his heart unsatisfied, And made - being poor, ailing and ignorant, Shut out from all the luxury of the world, The coarse-bred son of a livery-stable keeper -- Luxuriant song.
Why should you leave the lamp Burning alone beside an open book, And trace these characters upon the sands? A style is found by sedentary toil And by the imitation of great masters.
Because I seek an image, not a book.
Those men that in their writings are most wise, Own nothing but their blind, stupefied hearts.
I call to the mysterious one who yet Shall walk the wet sands by the edge of the stream And look most like me, being indeed my double, And prove of all imaginable things The most unlike, being my anti-self, And, standing by these characters, disclose All that I seek; and whisper it as though He were afraid the birds, who cry aloud Their momentary cries before it is dawn, Would carry it away to blasphemous men.