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Best Famous Delivers Poems

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Written by Andrew Barton Paterson | Create an image from this poem

The Scapegoat

 We have all of us read how the Israelites fled 
From Egypt with Pharaoh in eager pursuit of 'em, 
And Pharaoh's fierce troop were all put "in the soup" 
When the waters rolled softly o'er every galoot of 'em.
The Jews were so glad when old Pharaoh was "had" That they sounded their timbrels and capered like mad.
You see he was hated from Jordan to Cairo -- Whence comes the expression "to buck against faro".
For forty long years, 'midst perils and fears In deserts with never a famine to follow by, The Israelite horde went roaming abroad Like so many sundowners "out on the wallaby".
When Moses, who led 'em, and taught 'em, and fed 'em, Was dying, he murmured, "A rorty old hoss you are: I give you command of the whole of the band" -- And handed the Government over to Joshua.
But Moses told 'em before he died, "Wherever you are, whatever betide, Every year as the time draws near By lot or by rote choose you a goat, And let the high priest confess on the beast The sins of the people the worst and the least, Lay your sins on the goat! Sure the plan ought to suit yer.
Because all your sins are 'his troubles' in future.
Then lead him away to the wilderness black To die with the weight of your sins on his back: Of thirst let him perish alone and unshriven, For thus shall your sins be absolved and forgiven!" 'Tis needless to say, though it reeked of barbarity This scapegoat arrangement gained great popularity.
By this means a Jew, whate'er he might do, Though he burgled, or murdered, or cheated at loo, Or meat on Good Friday (a sin most terrific) ate, Could get his discharge, like a bankrupt's certificate; Just here let us note -- Did they choose their best goat? It's food for conjecture, to judge from the picture By Hunt in the Gallery close to our door, a Man well might suppose that the scapegoat they chose Was a long way from being their choicest Angora.
In fact I should think he was one of their weediest: 'Tis a rule that obtains, no matter who reigns, When making a sacrifice, offer the seediest; Which accounts for a theory known to my hearers Who live in the wild by the wattle beguiled, That a "stag" makes quite good enough mutton for shearers.
Be that as it may, as each year passed away, a scapegoat was led to the desert and freighted With sin (the poor brute must have been overweighted) And left there -- to die as his fancy dictated.
The day it has come, with trumpet and drum.
With pomp and solemnity fit for the tomb They lead the old billy-goat off to his doom: On every hand a reverend band, Prophets and preachers and elders stand And the oldest rabbi, with a tear in his eye, Delivers a sermon to all standing by.
(We haven't his name -- whether Cohen or Harris, he No doubt was the "poisonest" kind of Pharisee.
) The sermon was marked by a deal of humility And pointed the fact, with no end of ability.
That being a Gentile's no mark of gentility, And, according to Samuel, would certainly d--n you well.
Then, shedding his coat, he approaches the goat And, while a red fillet he carefully pins on him, Confesses the whole of the Israelites' sins on him.
With this eloquent burst he exhorts the accurst -- "Go forth in the desert and perish in woe, The sins of the people are whiter than snow!" Then signs to his pal "for to let the brute go".
(That "pal" as I've heard, is an elegant word, Derived from the Persian "Palaykhur" or "Pallaghur"), As the scapegoat strains and tugs at the reins The Rabbi yells rapidly, "Let her go, Gallagher!" The animal, freed from all restraint Lowered his head, made a kind of feint, And charged straight at that elderly saint.
So fierce his attack and so very severe, it Quite floored the Rabbi, who, ere he could fly, Was rammed on the -- no, not the back -- but just near it.
The scapegoat he snorted, and wildly cavorted, A light-hearted antelope "out on the ramp", Then stopped, looked around, got the "lay of the ground", And made a beeline back again to the camp.
The elderly priest, as he noticed the beast So gallantly making his way to the east, Says he, "From the tents may I never more roam again If that there old billy-goat ain't going home again.
He's hurrying, too! This never will do.
Can't somebody stop him? I'm all of a stew.
After all our confessions, so openly granted, He's taking our sins back to where they're not wanted.
We've come all this distance salvation to win agog, If he takes home our sins, it'll burst up the Synagogue!" He turned to an Acolyte who was making his bacca light, A fleet-footed youth who could run like a crack o' light.
"Run, Abraham, run! Hunt him over the plain, And drive back the brute to the desert again.
The Sphinx is a-watching, the Pyramids will frown on you, From those granite tops forty cent'ries look down on you -- Run, Abraham, run! I'll bet half-a-crown on you.
" So Abraham ran, like a man did he go for him, But the goat made it clear each time he drew near That he had what the racing men call "too much toe" for him.
The crowd with great eagerness studied the race -- "Great Scott! isn't Abraham forcing the pace -- And don't the goat spiel? It is hard to keep sight on him, The sins of the Israelites ride mighty light on him.
The scapegoat is leading a furlong or more, And Abraham's tiring -- I'll lay six to four! He rolls in his stride; he's done, there's no question!" But here the old Rabbi brought up a suggestion.
('Twas strange that in racing he showed so much cunning), "It's a hard race," said he, "and I think it would be A good thing for someone to take up the running.
" As soon said as done, they started to run -- The priests and the deacons, strong runners and weak 'uns All reckoned ere long to come up with the brute, And so the whole boiling set off in pursuit.
And then it came out, as the rabble and rout Streamed over the desert with many a shout -- The Rabbi so elderly, grave, and patrician, Had been in his youth a bold metallician, And offered, in gasps, as they merrily spieled, "Any price Abraham! Evens the field!" Alas! the whole clan, they raced and they ran, And Abraham proved him an "even time" man, But the goat -- now a speck they could scarce keep their eyes on -- Stretched out in his stride in a style most surprisin' And vanished ere long o'er the distant horizon.
Away in the camp the bill-sticker's tramp Is heard as he wanders with paste, brush, and notices, And paling and wall he plasters them all, "I wonder how's things gettin' on with the goat," he says, The pulls out his bills, "Use Solomon's Pills" "Great Stoning of Christians! To all devout Jews! you all Must each bring a stone -- Great sport will be shown; Enormous Attractions! And prices as usual! Roll up to the Hall!! Wives, children and all, For naught the most delicate feelings to hurt is meant!!" Here his eyes opened wide, for close by his side Was the scapegoat: And eating his latest advertisement! One shriek from him burst -- "You creature accurst!" And he ran from the spot like one fearing the worst.
His language was chaste, as he fled in his haste, But the goat stayed behind him -- and "scoffed up" the paste.
With downcast head, and sorrowful tread, The people came back from the desert in dread.
"The goat -- was he back there? Had anyone heard of him?" In very short order they got plenty word of him.
In fact as they wandered by street, lane and hall, "The trail of the serpent was over them all.
" A poor little child knocked out stiff in the gutter Proclaimed that the scapegoat was bred for a "butter".
The bill-sticker's pail told a sorrowful tale, The scapegoat had licked it as dry as a nail; He raced through their houses, and frightened their spouses, But his latest achievement most anger arouses, For while they were searching, and scratching their craniums, One little Ben Ourbed, who looked in the flow'r-bed, Discovered him eating the Rabbi's geraniums.
Moral The moral is patent to all the beholders -- Don't shift your own sins on to other folks' shoulders; Be kind to dumb creatures and never abuse them, Nor curse them nor kick them, nor spitefully use them: Take their lives if needs must -- when it comes to the worst, But don't let them perish of hunger or thirst.
Remember, no matter how far you may roam That dogs, goats, and chickens, it's simply the dickens, Their talent stupendous for "getting back home".
Your sins, without doubt, will aye find you out, And so will a scapegoat, he's bound to achieve it, But, die in the wilderness! Don't you believe it!


Written by William Shakespeare | Create an image from this poem

Sonnet 113: Since I left you mine eye is in my mind

 Since I left you, mine eye is in my mind,
And that which governs me to go about
Doth part his function, and is partly blind,
Seems seeing, but effectually is out;
For it no form delivers to the heart
Of bird, of flower, or shape which it doth latch;
Of his quick objects hath the mind no part,
Nor his own vision holds what it doth catch;
For if it see the rud'st or gentlest sight,
The most sweet-favour or deformed'st creature,
The mountain or the sea, the day or night,
The crow or dove, it shapes them to your feature.
Incapable of more, replete with you, My most true mind thus maketh mine untrue.
Written by Alec Derwent (A D) Hope | Create an image from this poem

Death of the Bird

 For every bird there is this last migration;
Once more the cooling year kindles her heart;
With a warm passage to the summer station
Love pricks the course in lights across the chart.
Year after year a speck on the map, divided By a whole hemisphere, summons her to come; Season after season, sure and safely guided, Going away she is also coming home.
And being home, memory becomes a passion With which she feeds her brood and straws her nest, Aware of ghosts that haunt the heart's possession And exiled love mourning within the breast.
The sands are green with a mirage of valleys; The palm tree casts a shadow not its own; Down the long architrave of temple or palace Blows a cool air from moorland scarps of stone.
And day by day the whisper of love grows stronger; That delicate voice, more urgent with despair, Custom and fear constraining her no longer, Drives her at last on the waste leagues of air.
A vanishing speck in those inane dominions, Single and frail, uncertain of her place, Alone in the bright host of her companions, Lost in the blue unfriendliness of space.
She feels it close now, the appointed season; The invisible thread is broken as she flies; Suddenly, without warning, without reason, The guiding spark of instinct winks and dies.
Try as she will, the trackless world delivers No way, the wilderness of light no sign; Immense,complex contours of hills and rivers Mock her small wisdom with their vast design.
The darkness rises from the eastern valleys, And the winds buffet her with their hungry breath, And the great earth, with neither grief nor malice, Receives the tiny burden of her death.
Written by Algernon Charles Swinburne | Create an image from this poem

The Litany Of Nations

 CHORUS

If with voice of words or prayers thy sons may reach thee,
We thy latter sons, the men thine after-birth,
We the children of thy grey-grown age, O Earth,
O our mother everlasting, we beseech thee,
By the sealed and secret ages of thy life;
By the darkness wherein grew thy sacred forces;
By the songs of stars thy sisters in their courses;
By thine own song hoarse and hollow and shrill with strife;
By thy voice distuned and marred of modulation;
By the discord of thy measure's march with theirs;
By the beauties of thy bosom, and the cares;
By thy glory of growth, and splendour of thy station;
By the shame of men thy children, and the pride;
By the pale-cheeked hope that sleeps and weeps and passes,
As the grey dew from the morning mountain-grasses;
By the white-lipped sightless memories that abide;
By the silence and the sound of many sorrows;
By the joys that leapt up living and fell dead;
By the veil that hides thy hands and breasts and head,
Wrought of divers-coloured days and nights and morrows;
Isis, thou that knowest of God what worlds are worth,
Thou the ghost of God, the mother uncreated,
Soul for whom the floating forceless ages waited
As our forceless fancies wait on thee, O Earth;
Thou the body and soul, the father-God and mother,
If at all it move thee, knowing of all things done
Here where evil things and good things are not one,
But their faces are as fire against each other;
By thy morning and thine evening, night and day;
By the first white light that stirs and strives and hovers
As a bird above the brood her bosom covers,
By the sweet last star that takes the westward way;
By the night whose feet are shod with snow or thunder,
Fledged with plumes of storm, or soundless as the dew;
By the vesture bound of many-folded blue
Round her breathless breasts, and all the woven wonder;
By the golden-growing eastern stream of sea;
By the sounds of sunrise moving in the mountains;
By the forces of the floods and unsealed fountains;
Thou that badest man be born, bid man be free.
GREECE I am she that made thee lovely with my beauty From north to south: Mine, the fairest lips, took first the fire of duty From thine own mouth.
Mine, the fairest eyes, sought first thy laws and knew them Truths undefiled; Mine, the fairest hands, took freedom first into them, A weanling child.
By my light, now he lies sleeping, seen above him Where none sees other; By my dead that loved and living men that love him; (Cho.
) Hear us, O mother.
ITALY I am she that was the light of thee enkindled When Greece grew dim; She whose life grew up with man's free life, and dwindled With wane of him.
She that once by sword and once by word imperial Struck bright thy gloom; And a third time, casting off these years funereal, Shall burst thy tomb.
By that bond 'twixt thee and me whereat affrighted Thy tyrants fear us; By that hope and this remembrance reunited; (Cho.
) O mother, hear us.
SPAIN I am she that set my seal upon the nameless West worlds of seas; And my sons as brides took unto them the tameless Hesperides.
Till my sins and sons through sinless lands dispersed, With red flame shod, Made accurst the name of man, and thrice accursed The name of God.
Lest for those past fires the fires of my repentance Hell's fume yet smother, Now my blood would buy remission of my sentence; (Cho.
) Hear us, O mother.
FRANCE I am she that was thy sign and standard-bearer, Thy voice and cry; She that washed thee with her blood and left thee fairer, The same was I.
Were not these the hands that raised thee fallen and fed thee, These hands defiled? Was not I thy tongue that spake, thine eye that led thee, Not I thy child? By the darkness on our dreams, and the dead errors Of dead times near us; By the hopes that hang around thee, and the terrors; (Cho.
) O mother, hear us.
RUSSIA I am she whose hands are strong and her eyes blinded And lips athirst Till upon the night of nations many-minded One bright day burst: Till the myriad stars be molten into one light, And that light thine; Till the soul of man be parcel of the sunlight, And thine of mine.
By the snows that blanch not him nor cleanse from slaughter Who slays his brother; By the stains and by the chains on me thy daughter; (Cho.
) Hear us, O mother.
SWITZERLAND I am she that shews on mighty limbs and maiden Nor chain nor stain; For what blood can touch these hands with gold unladen, These feet what chain? By the surf of spears one shieldless bosom breasted And was my shield, Till the plume-plucked Austrian vulture-heads twin-crested Twice drenched the field; By the snows and souls untrampled and untroubled That shine to cheer us, Light of those to these responsive and redoubled; (Cho.
) O mother, hear us.
GERMANY I am she beside whose forest-hidden fountains Slept freedom armed, By the magic born to music in my mountains Heart-chained and charmed.
By those days the very dream whereof delivers My soul from wrong; By the sounds that make of all my ringing rivers None knows what song; By the many tribes and names of my division One from another; By the single eye of sun-compelling vision; (Cho.
) Hear us, O mother.
ENGLAND I am she that was and was not of thy chosen, Free, and not free; She that fed thy springs, till now her springs are frozen; Yet I am she.
By the sea that clothed and sun that saw me splendid And fame that crowned, By the song-fires and the sword-fires mixed and blended That robed me round; By the star that Milton's soul for Shelley's lighted, Whose rays insphere us; By the beacon-bright Republic far-off sighted; (Cho.
) O mother, hear us.
CHORUS Turn away from us the cross-blown blasts of error, That drown each other; Turn away the fearful cry, the loud-tongued terror, O Earth, O mother.
Turn away their eyes who track, their hearts who follow, The pathless past; Shew the soul of man, as summer shews the swallow, The way at last.
By the sloth of men that all too long endure men On man to tread; By the cry of men, the bitter cry of poor men That faint for bread; By the blood-sweat of the people in the garden Inwalled of kings; By his passion interceding for their pardon Who do these things; By the sightless souls and fleshless limbs that labour For not their fruit; By the foodless mouth with foodless heart for neighbour, That, mad, is mute; By the child that famine eats as worms the blossom --Ah God, the child! By the milkless lips that strain the bloodless bosom Till woe runs wild; By the pastures that give grass to feed the lamb in, Where men lack meat; By the cities clad with gold and shame and famine; By field and street; By the people, by the poor man, by the master That men call slave; By the cross-winds of defeat and of disaster, By wreck, by wave; By the helm that keeps us still to sunwards driving, Still eastward bound, Till, as night-watch ends, day burn on eyes reviving, And land be found: We thy children, that arraign not nor impeach thee Though no star steer us, By the waves that wash the morning we beseech thee, O mother, hear us.
Written by Rg Gregory | Create an image from this poem

the adventures (from frederick and the enchantress – dance drama)

  (i) introduction

  his home in ruins
  his parents gone
  frederick seeks
  to reclaim his throne

   to the golden mountain
   he sets his path
   the enchantress listening
   schemes with wrath

  four desperate trials
  which she takes from store
  to silence frederick
  for ever more

 (ii) the mist

  softly mist suppress all sight
  swirling stealthily as night
  slur the sureness of his steps
  suffocate his sweetest hopes
  swirling curling slip and slide
  persuasively seduce his stride

  from following its essential course
  seal his senses at its source
  bemuse the soil he stands upon
  till power of choice has wholly gone
  seething surreptitious veil
  across the face of light prevail
  against this taciturn and proud
  insurgent - o smother him swift cloud

  yet if you cannot steal his breath
  thus snuffing him to hasty death
  at least in your umbrageous mask
  stifle his ambitious task
  mystify his restless brain
  sweep him swirl him home again


 (iii) the bog

  once more the muffling mists enclose
  frederick in their vaporous throes
  forcing him with unseeing sway
  to veer from his intended way

  back they push and back
  make him fall
  stumble catch
  his foot become
  emmired snatch
  hopelessly at fog
  no grip slip further back
  into the sucking fingers of the bog
  into the slush

  squelching and splotch-
  ing the marsh
  gushes and gurgles
  engulfing foot leg
  chuckling suckles
  the heaving thigh
  the plush slugged waist
  sucking still and still flushing
  with suggestive slurp
  plop slap
  sluggishly upwards
  unctuous lugubrious
  soaking and enjoying
  with spongy gestures
  the swallowed wallowing
  body - the succulence
  of soft shoulder
  squirming
  elbow
  wrist
  then
  all.
.
.
.
.
.
.
but no his desperate palm struggling to forsake the clutches of the swamp finds one stark branch overhanging to fix glad fingers to and out of the maw of the murderous mud safely delivers him (iv) the magic forest safely - distorted joke from bog to twisted forest gnarled trees writhe and fork asphixiated trunks - angular branches hook claw throttle frederick in their creaking joints jagged weird knotted and misshapen petrified maniacal figures frantically contorted grotesque eccentric in the moon-toothed half-light tug clutch struggle with the haggard form zigzag he staggers awe-plagued giddy near-garrotted mind-deranged forcing his sagging limbs through the mangled danger till almost beyond redemption beyond self-care he once again survives to breathe free air (v) the barrier of thorns immediately a barrier of thorns springs up to choke his track thick brier evil bramble twitch stick sharp needles in his skin hag's spite inflicts its bitter sting frederick (provoked to attack stung stabbed by jabbing spines wincing with agony and grief) seeks to hack a clear way through picking swinging at the spiky barricade inch by prickly inch smarting with anger bristling with a thin itch and tingling of success - acute with aching glory the afflicted victim of a witch's pique frederick frederick the king snips hews chops rips slashes cracks cleaves rends pierces pierces and shatters into pointless pieces this mighty barrier of barbs - comes through at last (belzivetta's malignant magic smashed) to freedom peace of mind and dreamless sleep


Written by Russell Edson | Create an image from this poem

Conjugal

 A man is bending his wife.
He is bending her around something that she has bent herself around.
She is around it, bent as he has bent her.
He is convincing her.
It is all so private.
He is bending her around the bedpost.
No, he is bending her around the tripod of his camera.
It is as if he teaches her to swim.
As if he teaches acrobatics.
As if he could form her into something wet that he delivers out of one life into another.
And it is such a private thing the thing they do.
He is forming her into the wallpaper.
He is smoothing her down into the flowers there.
He is finding her nipples there.
And he is kissing her pubis there.
He climbs into the wallpaper among the flowers.
And his buttocks move in and out of the wall.
Written by Edgar Lee Masters | Create an image from this poem

Elijah Browning

 I was among multitudes of children
Dancing at the foot of a mountain.
A breeze blew out of the east and swept them as leaves, Driving some up the slopes.
.
.
.
All was changed.
Here were flying lights, and mystic moons, and dream-music.
A cloud fell upon us.
When it lifted all was changed.
I was now amid multitudes who were wrangling.
Then a figure in shimmering gold, and one with a trumpet, And one with a sceptre stood before me.
They mocked me and danced a rigadoon and vanished.
.
.
.
All was changed again.
Out of a bower of poppies A woman bared her breasts and lifted her open mouth to mine.
I kissed her.
The taste of her lips was like salt.
She left blood on my lips.
I fell exhausted.
I arose and ascended higher, but a mist as from an iceberg Clouded my steps.
I was cold and in pain.
Then the sun streamed on me again, And I saw the mists below me hiding all below them.
And I, bent over my staff, knew myself Silhouetted against the snow.
And above me Was the soundless air, pierced by a cone of ice, Over which hung a solitary star! A shudder of ecstasy, a shudder of fear Ran through me.
But I could not return to the slopes -- Nay, I wished not to return.
For the spent waves of the symphony of freedom Lapped the ethereal cliffs about me.
Therefore I climbed to the pinnacle.
I flung away my staff.
I touched that star With my outstretched hand.
I vanished utterly.
For the mountain delivers to Infinite Truth Whosoever touches the star!
Written by Robert Burns | Create an image from this poem

400. Song—Lovely young Jessie

 TRUE hearted was he, the sad swain o’ the Yarrow,
 And fair are the maids on the banks of the Ayr;
But by the sweet side o’ the Nith’s winding river,
 Are lovers as faithful, and maidens as fair:
To equal young JESSIE seek Scotland all over;
 To equal young JESSIE you seek it in vain,
Grace, beauty, and elegance, fetter her lover,
 And maidenly modesty fixes the chain.
O, fresh is the rose in the gay, dewy morning, And sweet is the lily, at evening close; But in the fair presence o’ lovely young Jessie, Unseen is the lily, unheeded the rose.
Love sits in her smile, a wizard ensnaring; Enthron’d in her een he delivers his law: And still to her charms SHE alone is a stranger; Her modest demeanour’s the jewel of a’.
Written by William Shakespeare | Create an image from this poem

Sonnet CXIII

 Since I left you, mine eye is in my mind;
And that which governs me to go about
Doth part his function and is partly blind,
Seems seeing, but effectually is out;
For it no form delivers to the heart
Of bird of flower, or shape, which it doth latch:
Of his quick objects hath the mind no part,
Nor his own vision holds what it doth catch:
For if it see the rudest or gentlest sight,
The most sweet favour or deformed'st creature,
The mountain or the sea, the day or night,
The crow or dove, it shapes them to your feature:
Incapable of more, replete with you,
My most true mind thus makes mine eye untrue.