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Best Famous Do Birds Fly Poems

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Written by Wallace Stevens | Create an image from this poem

Looking Across the Fields and Watching the Birds Fly

Among the more irritating minor ideas 
Of Mr. Homburg during his visits home 
To Concord, at the edge of things, was this: 
To think away the grass, the trees, the clouds, 
Not to transform them into other things, 
Is only what the sun does every day, 

Until we say to ourselves that there may be 
A pensive nature, a mechanical 
And slightly detestable operandum, free 

From man's ghost, larger and yet a little like, 
Without his literature and without his gods . . . 
No doubt we live beyond ourselves in air, 

In an element that does not do for us, 
so well, that which we do for ourselves, too big, 
A thing not planned for imagery or belief, 

Not one of the masculine myths we used to make, 
A transparency through which the swallow weaves, 
Without any form or any sense of form, 

What we know in what we see, what we feel in what 
We hear, what we are, beyond mystic disputation, 
In the tumult of integrations out of the sky, 

And what we think, a breathing like the wind, 
A moving part of a motion, a discovery 
Part of a discovery, a change part of a change, 

A sharing of color and being part of it. 
The afternoon is visibly a source, 
Too wide, too irised, to be more than calm, 

Too much like thinking to be less than thought, 
Obscurest parent, obscurest patriarch, 
A daily majesty of meditation, 

That comes and goes in silences of its own. 
We think, then as the sun shines or does not. 
We think as wind skitters on a pond in a field 

Or we put mantles on our words because 
The same wind, rising and rising, makes a sound 
Like the last muting of winter as it ends. 

A new scholar replacing an older one reflects 
A moment on this fantasia. He seeks 
For a human that can be accounted for. 

The spirit comes from the body of the world, 
Or so Mr. Homburg thought: the body of a world 
Whose blunt laws make an affectation of mind, 

The mannerism of nature caught in a glass 
And there become a spirit's mannerism, 
A glass aswarm with things going as far as they can.


Written by Robert Browning | Create an image from this poem

From ‘Paracelsus'

 I

TRUTH is within ourselves; it takes no rise 
From outward things, whate’er you may believe. 
There is an inmost centre in us all, 
Where truth abides in fullness; and around, 
Wall upon wall, the gross flesh hems it in, 
This perfect, clear perception—which is truth. 
A baffling and perverting carnal mesh 
Binds it, and makes all error: and, to KNOW, 
Rather consists in opening out a way 
Whence the imprisoned splendour may escape, 
Than in effecting entry for a light 
Supposed to be without. 

II

I knew, I felt, (perception unexpressed, 
Uncomprehended by our narrow thought, 
But somehow felt and known in every shift 
And change in the spirit,—nay, in every pore 
Of the body, even,)—what God is, what we are 
What life is—how God tastes an infinite joy 
In infinite ways—one everlasting bliss, 
From whom all being emanates, all power 
Proceeds; in whom is life for evermore, 
Yet whom existence in its lowest form 
Includes; where dwells enjoyment there is he: 
With still a flying point of bliss remote, 
A happiness in store afar, a sphere 
Of distant glory in full view; thus climbs 
Pleasure its heights for ever and for ever. 
The centre-fire heaves underneath the earth, 
And the earth changes like a human face; 
The molten ore bursts up among the rocks, 
Winds into the stone’s heart, outbranches bright 
In hidden mines, spots barren river-beds, 
Crumbles into fine sand where sunbeams bask— 
God joys therein! The wroth sea’s waves are edged 
With foam, white as the bitten lip of hate, 
When, in the solitary waste, strange groups 
Of young volcanos come up, cyclops-like, 
Staring together with their eyes on flame— 
God tastes a pleasure in their uncouth pride. 
Then all is still; earth is a wintry clod: 
But spring-wind, like a dancing psaltress, passes 
Over its breast to waken it, rare verdure 
Buds tenderly upon rough banks, between 
The withered tree-roots and the cracks of frost, 
Like a smile striving with a wrinkled face; 
The grass grows bright, the boughs are swoln with blooms 
Like chrysalids impatient for the air, 
The shining dorrs are busy, beetles run 
Along the furrows, ants make their ade; 
Above, birds fly in merry flocks, the lark 
Soars up and up, shivering for very joy; 
Afar the ocean sleeps; white fishing-gulls 
Flit where the strand is purple with its tribe 
Of nested limpets; savage creatures seek 
Their loves in wood and plain—and God renews 
His ancient rapture. Thus He dwells in all, 
From life’s minute beginnings, up at last 
To man—the consummation of this scheme 
Of being, the completion of this sphere 
Of life: whose attributes had here and there 
Been scattered o’er the visible world before, 
Asking to be combined, dim fragments meant 
To be united in some wondrous whole, 
Imperfect qualities throughout creation, 
Suggesting some one creature yet to make, 
Some point where all those scattered rays should meet 
Convergent in the faculties of man.
Written by Conrad Aiken | Create an image from this poem

Improvisations: Light And Snow

 I

The girl in the room beneath 
Before going to bed 
Strums on a mandolin 
The three simple tunes she knows. 
How inadequate they are to tell how her heart feels! 
When she has finished them several times 
She thrums the strings aimlessly with her finger-nails 
And smiles, and thinks happily of many things.

II

I stood for a long while before the shop window 
Looking at the blue butterflies embroidered on tawny silk. 
The building was a tower before me, 
Time was loud behind me, 
Sun went over the housetops and dusty trees; 
And there they were, glistening, brilliant, motionless, 
Stitched in a golden sky 
By yellow patient fingers long since turned to dust.

III

The first bell is silver, 
And breathing darkness I think only of the long scythe of time. 
The second bell is crimson, 
And I think of a holiday night, with rockets 
Furrowing the sky with red, and a soft shatter of stars. 
The third bell is saffron and slow, 
And I behold a long sunset over the sea 
With wall on wall of castled cloud and glittering balustrades. 
The fourth bell is color of bronze, 
I walk by a frozen lake in the dun light of dusk: 
Muffled crackings run in the ice, 
Trees creak, birds fly. 
The fifth bell is cold clear azure, 
Delicately tinged with green: 
One golden star hangs melting in it, 
And towards this, sleepily, I go. 
The sixth bell is as if a pebble 
Had been dropped into a deep sea far above me . . . 
Rings of sound ebb slowly into the silence.

IV

On the day when my uncle and I drove to the cemetery, 
Rain rattled on the roof of the carriage; 
And talkng constrainedly of this and that 
We refrained from looking at the child's coffin on the seat before us. 
When we reached the cemetery 
We found that the thin snow on the grass 
Was already transparent with rain; 
And boards had been laid upon it 
That we might walk without wetting our feet.

V

When I was a boy, and saw bright rows of icicles 
In many lengths along a wall 
I was dissappointed to find 
That I could not play music upon them: 
I ran my hand lightly across them 
And they fell, tinkling. 
I tell you this, young man, so that your expectations of life 
Will not be too great.

VI

It is now two hours since I left you, 
And the perfume of your hands is still on my hands. 
And though since then 
I have looked at the stars, walked in the cold blue streets, 
And heard the dead leaves blowing over the ground 
Under the trees, 
I still remember the sound of your laughter. 
How will it be, lady, when there is none left to remember you 
Even as long as this? 
Will the dust braid your hair?

VII

The day opens with the brown light of snowfall 
And past the window snowflakes fall and fall. 
I sit in my chair all day and work and work 
Measuring words against each other. 
I open the piano and play a tune 
But find it does not say what I feel, 
I grow tired of measuring words against each other, 
I grow tired of these four walls, 
And I think of you, who write me that you have just had a daughter 
And named her after your first sweetheart, 
And you, who break your heart, far away, 
In the confusion and savagery of a long war, 
And you who, worn by the bitterness of winter, 
Will soon go south. 
The snowflakes fall almost straight in the brown light 
Past my window, 
And a sparrow finds refuge on my window-ledge. 
This alone comes to me out of the world outside 
As I measure word with word.

VIII

Many things perplex me and leave me troubled, 
Many things are locked away in the white book of stars 
Never to be opened by me. 
The starr'd leaves are silently turned, 
And the mooned leaves; 
And as they are turned, fall the shadows of life and death. 
Perplexed and troubled, 
I light a small light in a small room, 
The lighted walls come closer to me, 
The familiar pictures are clear. 
I sit in my favourite chair and turn in my mind 
The tiny pages of my own life, whereon so little is written, 
And hear at the eastern window the pressure of a long wind, coming 
From I know not where.

How many times have I sat here, 
How many times will I sit here again, 
Thinking these same things over and over in solitude 
As a child says over and over 
The first word he has learned to say.

IX

This girl gave her heart to me, 
And this, and this. 
This one looked at me as if she loved me, 
And silently walked away. 
This one I saw once and loved, and never saw her again.

Shall I count them for you upon my fingers? 
Or like a priest solemnly sliding beads? 
Or pretend they are roses, pale pink, yellow, and white, 
And arrange them for you in a wide bowl 
To be set in sunlight? 
See how nicely it sounds as I count them for you—
'This girl gave her heart to me 
And this, and this, . . . ! 
And nevertheless, my heart breaks when I think of them, 
When I think their names, 
And how, like leaves, they have changed and blown 
And will lie, at last, forgotten, 
Under the snow. 

X

It is night time, and cold, and snow is falling, 
And no wind grieves the walls. 
In the small world of light around the arc-lamp 
A swarm of snowflakes falls and falls. 
The street grows silent. The last stranger passes. 
The sound of his feet, in the snow, is indistinct.

What forgotten sadness is it, on a night like this, 
Takes possession of my heart? 
Why do I think of a camellia tree in a southern garden, 
With pink blossoms among dark leaves, 
Standing, surprised, in the snow? 
Why do I think of spring?

The snowflakes, helplessly veering,, 
Fall silently past my window; 
They come from darkness and enter darkness. 
What is it in my heart is surprised and bewildered 
Like that camellia tree, 
Beautiful still in its glittering anguish? 
And spring so far away!

XI

As I walked through the lamplit gardens, 
On the thin white crust of snow, 
So intensely was I thinking of my misfortune, 
So clearly were my eyes fixed 
On the face of this grief which has come to me, 
That I did not notice the beautiful pale colouring 
Of lamplight on the snow; 
Nor the interlaced long blue shadows of trees;

And yet these things were there, 
And the white lamps, and the orange lamps, and the lamps of lilac were there, 
As I have seen them so often before; 
As they will be so often again 
Long after my grief is forgotten.

And still, though I know this, and say this, it cannot console me.

XII

How many times have we been interrupted 
Just as I was about to make up a story for you! 
One time it was because we suddenly saw a firefly 
Lighting his green lantern among the boughs of a fir-tree. 
Marvellous! Marvellous! He is making for himself 
A little tent of light in the darkness! 
And one time it was because we saw a lilac lightning flash 
Run wrinkling into the blue top of the mountain,—
We heard boulders of thunder rolling down upon us 
And the plat-plat of drops on the window, 
And we ran to watch the rain 
Charging in wavering clouds across the long grass of the field! 
Or at other times it was because we saw a star 
Slipping easily out of the sky and falling, far off, 
Among pine-dark hills; 
Or because we found a crimson eft 
Darting in the cold grass!

These things interrupted us and left us wondering; 
And the stories, whatever they might have been, 
Were never told. 
A fairy, binding a daisy down and laughing? 
A golden-haired princess caught in a cobweb? 
A love-story of long ago? 
Some day, just as we are beginning again, 
Just as we blow the first sweet note, 
Death itself will interrupt us.

XIII

My heart is an old house, and in that forlorn old house, 
In the very centre, dark and forgotten, 
Is a locked room where an enchanted princess 
Lies sleeping. 
But sometimes, in that dark house, 
As if almost from the stars, far away, 
Sounds whisper in that secret room—
Faint voices, music, a dying trill of laughter? 
And suddenly, from her long sleep, 
The beautiful princess awakes and dances.

Who is she? I do not know. 
Why does she dance? Do not ask me!—
Yet to-day, when I saw you, 
When I saw your eyes troubled with the trouble of happiness, 
And your mouth trembling into a smile, 
And your fingers pull shyly forward,—
Softly, in that room, 
The little princess arose 
And danced; 
And as she danced the old house gravely trembled 
With its vague and delicious secret.

XIV

Like an old tree uprooted by the wind 
And flung down cruelly 
With roots bared to the sun and stars 
And limp leaves brought to earth—
Torn from its house—
So do I seem to myself 
When you have left me.

XV

The music of the morning is red and warm; 
Snow lies against the walls; 
And on the sloping roof in the yellow sunlight 
Pigeons huddle against the wind. 
The music of evening is attenuated and thin—
The moon seen through a wave by a mermaid; 
The crying of a violin. 
Far down there, far down where the river turns to the west, 
The delicate lights begin to twinkle 
On the dusky arches of the bridge: 
In the green sky a long cloud, 
A smouldering wave of smoky crimson, 
Breaks in the freezing wind: and above it, unabashed, 
Remote, untouched, fierly palpitant, 
Sings the first star.
Written by William Blake | Create an image from this poem

Nurses Song (Innocence)

 When voices of children are heard on the green
And laughing is heard on the hill,
My heart is at rest within my breast
And everything else is still

Then come home my children the sun is gone down
And the dews of night arise
Come come leave off play, and let us away
Till the morning appears in the skies

No no let us play, for it is yet day
And we cannot go to sleep
Besides in the sky, the little birds fly
And the hills are all covered with sheep

Well well go & play till the light fades away
And then go home to bed
The little ones leaped & shouted & laugh'd
And all the hills echoed
Written by Sir Philip Sidney | Create an image from this poem

Sonnet LXXI: Who Will in Fairest Book

 Who will in fairest book of nature know
How virtue may best lodg'd in beauty be,
Let him but learn of love to read in thee,
Stella, those fair lines which true goodness show.
There shall he find all vices' overthrow,
Not by rude force, but sweetest sovereignty
Of reason, from whose light those night-birds fly;
That inward sun in thine eyes shineth so.
And, not content to be perfection's heir
Thyself, dost strive all minds that way to move,
Who mark in thee what is in thee most fair.
So while thy beauty draws thy heart to love,
As fast thy virtue bends that love to good:
But "Ah," Desire still cries, "Give me some food!"


Written by Adela Florence Cory Nicolson | Create an image from this poem

Ojira, to Her Lover

   I am waiting in the desert, looking out towards the sunset,
   And counting every moment till we meet.
   I am waiting by the marshes and I tremble and I listen
   Till the soft sands thrill beneath your coming feet.

   Till I see you, tall and slender, standing clear against the skyline
   A graceful shade across the lingering red,
   While your hair the breezes ruffle, turns to silver in the twilight,
   And makes a fair faint aureole round your head.

   Far away towards the sunset I can see a narrow river,
   That unwinds itself in red tranquillity;
   I can hear its rippled meeting, and the gurgle of its greeting,
   As it mingles with the loved and long sought sea.

   In the purple sky above me showing dark against the starlight,
   Long wavering flights of homeward birds fly low,
   They cry each one to the other, and their weird and wistful calling,
   Makes most melancholy music as they go.

   Oh, my dearest hasten, hasten!  It is lonely here.  Already
   Have I heard the jackals' first assembling cry,
   And among the purple shadows of the mangroves and the marshes
   Fitful echoes of their footfalls passing by.

   Ah, come soon! my arms are empty, and so weary for your beauty,
   I am thirsty for the music of your voice.
   Come to make the marshes joyous with the sweetness of your presence,
   Let your nearing feet bid all the sands rejoice!

   My hands, my lips are feverish with the longing and the waiting
   And no softness of the twilight soothes their heat,
   Till I see your radiant eyes, shining stars beneath the starlight,
   Till I kiss the slender coolness of your feet.

   Ah, loveliest, most reluctant, when you lay yourself beside me
   All the planets reel around me—fade away,
   And the sands grow dim, uncertain,—I stretch out my hands towards you
   While I try to speak but know not what I say!

   I am faint with love and longing, and my burning eyes are gazing
   Where the furtive Jackals wage their famished strife,
   Oh, your shadow on the mangroves! and your step upon the sandhills,—
   This is the loveliest evening of my Life!
Written by Sir Philip Sidney | Create an image from this poem

Astrophel and Stella: LXXI

 Who will in fairest book of nature know
How virtue may best lodg'd in beauty be,
Let him but learn of love to read in thee,
Stella, those fair lines which true goodness show.
There shall he find all vices' overthrow,
Not by rude force, but sweetest sovereignty
Of reason, from whose light those night-birds fly;
That inward sun in thine eyes shineth so.
And, not content to be perfection's heir
Thyself, dost strive all minds that way to move,
Who mark in thee what is in thee most fair.
So while thy beauty draws thy heart to love,
As fast thy virtue bends that love to good:
But "Ah," Desire still cries, "Give me some food!"
Written by Carl Sandburg | Create an image from this poem

They Ask Each Other Where They Came From

 AM I the river your white birds fly over?
Are you the green valley my silver channels roam?
The two of us a bowl of blue sky day time and a bowl of red stars night time?
 Who picked you
 out of the first great whirl of nothings
 and threw you here?

Book: Reflection on the Important Things