Best Famous Dolefully Poems

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

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• All Famous Dolefully Poems

Written by Vladimir Mayakovsky | My Soviet Passport I'd tear like a wolf at bureaucracy. For mandates my respect's but the slightest. To the devil himself I'd chuck without mercy every red-taped paper. But this ... Down the long front of coupés and cabins File the officials politely. They gather up passports and I give in My own vermilion booklet. For one kind of passport - smiling lips part For others - an attitude scornful. They take with respect, for instance, the passport From a sleeping-car English Lionel. The good fellows eyes almost slip like pips when, bowing as low as men can, they take, as if they were taking a tip, the passport from an American. At the Polish, they dolefully blink and wheeze in dumb police elephantism - where are they from, and what are these geographical novelties? And without a turn of their cabbage heads, their feelings hidden in lower regions, they take without blinking, the passports from Swedes and various old Norwegians. Then sudden as if their mouths were aquake those gentlemen almost whine Those very official gentlemen take that red-skinned passport of mine. Take- like a bomb take - like a hedgehog, like a razor double-edge stropped, take - like a rattlesnake huge and long with at least 20 fangs poison-tipped. The porter's eyes give a significant flick (I'll carry your baggage for nix, mon ami...) The gendarmes enquiringly look at the tec, the tec, - at the gendarmerie. With what delight that gendarme caste would have me strung-up and whipped raw because I hold in my hands hammered-fast sickle-clasped my red Soviet passport. I'd tear like a wolf at bureaucracy. For mandates my respect's but the slightest. To the devil himself I'd chuck without mercy every red-taped paper, But this ... I pull out of my wide trouser-pockets duplicate of a priceless cargo. You now: read this and envy, I'm a citizen of the Soviet Socialist Union! Transcribed: by Liviu Iacob.

Written by Robert William Service | It Is Later Than You Think Lone amid the cafe's cheer, Sad of heart am I to-night; Dolefully I drink my beer, But no single line I write. There's the wretched rent to pay, Yet I glower at pen and ink: Oh, inspire me, Muse, I pray, It is later than you think! Hello! there's a pregnant phrase. Bravo! let me write it down; Hold it with a hopeful gaze, Gauge it with a fretful frown; Tune it to my lyric lyre . . . Ah! upon starvation's brink, How the words are dark and dire: It is later than you think. Weigh them well. . . . Behold yon band, Students drinking by the door, Madly merry, bock in hand, Saucers stacked to mark their score. Get you gone, you jolly scamps; Let your parting glasses clink; Seek your long neglected lamps: It is later than you think. Look again: yon dainty blonde, All allure and golden grace, Oh so willing to respond Should you turn a smiling face. Play your part, poor pretty doll; Feast and frolic, pose and prink; There's the Morgue to end it all, And it's later than you think. Yon's a playwright -- mark his face, Puffed and purple, tense and tired; Pasha-like he holds his place, Hated, envied and admired. How you gobble life, my friend; Wine, and woman soft and pink! Well, each tether has its end: Sir, it's later than you think. See yon living scarecrow pass With a wild and wolfish stare At each empty absinthe glass, As if he saw Heaven there. Poor damned wretch, to end your pain There is still the Greater Drink. Yonder waits the sanguine Seine . . . It is later than you think. Lastly, you who read; aye, you Who this very line may scan: Think of all you planned to do . . . Have you done the best you can? See! the tavern lights are low; Black's the night, and how you shrink! God! and is it time to go? Ah! the clock is always slow; It is later than you think; Sadly later than you think; Far, far later than you think.

Written by Walt Whitman | Aboard at a Ship's Helm , at a ship’s helm, A young steersman, steering with care. A bell through fog on a sea-coast dolefully ringing, An ocean-bell—O a warning bell, rock’d by the waves. O you give good notice indeed, you bell by the sea-reefs ringing, Ringing, ringing, to warn the ship from its wreck-place. For, as on the alert, O steersman, you mind the bell’s admonition, The bows turn,—the freighted ship, tacking, speeds away under her gray sails, The beautiful and noble ship, with all her precious wealth, speeds away gaily and safe. But O the ship, the immortal ship! O ship aboard the ship! O ship of the body—ship of the soul—voyaging, voyaging, voyaging.

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 Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | Hans Sachs Poetical Mission [I feel considerable hesitation in venturing to offer this version of a poem which Carlyle describes to be 'a beautiful piece (a very Hans Sacks beatified, both in character and style), which we wish there was any possibility of translating.' The reader will be aware that Hans Sachs was the celebrated Minstrel- Cobbler of Nuremberg, who Wrote 208 plays, 1700 comic tales, and between 4000 and 5000 lyric poems. He flourished throughout almost the whole of the 16th century.] EARLY within his workshop here, On Sundays stands our master dear; His dirty apron he puts away, And wears a cleanly doublet to-day; Lets wax'd thread, hammer, and pincers rest, And lays his awl within his chest; The seventh day he takes repose From many pulls and many blows. Soon as the spring-sun meets his view, Repose begets him labour anew; He feels that he holds within his brain A little world, that broods there amain, And that begins to act and to live, Which he to others would gladly give. He had a skilful eye and true, And was full kind and loving too. For contemplation, clear and pure,-- For making all his own again, sure; He had a tongue that charm'd when 'twas heard, And graceful and light flow'd ev'ry word; Which made the Muses in him rejoice, The Master-singer of their choice. And now a maiden enter'd there, With swelling breast, and body fair; With footing firm she took her place, And moved with stately, noble grace; She did not walk in wanton mood, Nor look around with glances lewd. She held a measure in her hand, Her girdle was a golden band, A wreath of corn was on her head, Her eye the day's bright lustre shed; Her name is honest Industry, Else, Justice, Magnanimity. She enter'd with a kindly greeting; He felt no wonder at the meeting, For, kind and fair as she might be, He long had known her, fancied he. "I have selected thee," she said, "From all who earth's wild mazes tread, That thou shouldst have clear-sighted sense, And nought that's wrong shouldst e'er commence. When others run in strange confusion, Thy gaze shall see through each illusion When others dolefully complain, Thy cause with jesting thou shalt gain, Honour and right shalt value duly, In everything act simply, truly,-- Virtue and godliness proclaim, And call all evil by its name, Nought soften down, attempt no quibble, Nought polish up, nought vainly scribble. The world shall stand before thee, then, As seen by Albert Durer's ken, In manliness and changeless life, In inward strength, with firmness rife. Fair Nature's Genius by the hand Shall lead thee on through every land, Teach thee each different life to scan, Show thee the wondrous ways of man, His shifts, confusions, thrustings, and drubbings, Pushings, tearings, pressings, and rubbings; The varying madness of the crew, The anthill's ravings bring to view; But thou shalt see all this express'd, As though 'twere in a magic chest. Write these things down for folks on earth, In hopes they may to wit give birth."-- Then she a window open'd wide, And show'd a motley crowd outside, All kinds of beings 'neath the sky, As in his writings one may spy. Our master dear was, after this, On Nature thinking, full of bliss, When tow'rd him, from the other side He saw an aged woman glide; The name she bears, Historia, Mythologia, Fabula; With footstep tottering and unstable She dragg'd a large and wooden carved-table, Where, with wide sleeves and human mien, The Lord was catechizing seen; Adam, Eve, Eden, the Serpent's seduction, Gomorrah and Sodom's awful destruction, The twelve illustrious women, too, That mirror of honour brought to view; All kinds of bloodthirstiness, murder, and sin, The twelve wicked tyrants also were in, And all kinds of goodly doctrine and law; Saint Peter with his scourge you saw, With the world's ways dissatisfied, And by our Lord with power supplied. Her train and dress, behind and before, And e'en the seams, were painted o'er With tales of worldly virtue and crime.-- Our master view'd all this for a time; The sight right gladly he survey'd, So useful for him in his trade, Whence he was able to procure Example good and precept sure, Recounting all with truthful care, As though he had been present there. His spirit seem'd from earth to fly, He ne'er had turned away his eye, Did he not just behind him hear A rattle of bells approaching near. And now a fool doth catch his eye, With goat and ape's leap drawing nigh A merry interlude preparing With fooleries and jests unsparing. Behind him, in a line drawn out, He dragg'd all fools, the lean and stout, The great and little, the empty and full, All too witty, and all too dull, A lash he flourish'd overhead, As though a dance of apes he led, Abusing them with bitterness, As though his wrath would ne'er grow less. While on this sight our master gazed, His head was growing well-nigh crazed: What words for all could he e'er find, Could such a medley be combined? Could he continue with delight For evermore to sing and write? When lo, from out a cloud's dark bed In at the upper window sped The Muse, in all her majesty, As fair as our loved maids we see. With clearness she around him threw Her truth, that ever stronger grew. "I, to ordain thee come," she spake: "So prosper, and my blessing take! The holy fire that slumb'ring lies Within thee, in bright flames shall rise; Yet that thine ever-restless life May still with kindly strength be rife, I, for thine inward spirit's calm. Have granted nourishment and balm, That rapture may thy soul imbue, Like some fair blossom bathed in dew."-- Behind his house then secretly Outside the doorway pointed she, Where, in a shady garden-nook, A beauteous maid with downcast look Was sitting where a stream was flowing, With elder bushes near it growing, She sat beneath an apple tree, And nought around her seem'd to see. Her lap was full of roses fair, Which in a wreath she twined with care. And, with them, leaves and blossoms blended: For whom was that sweet wreath intended? Thus sat she, modest and retired, Her bosom throbb'd, with hope inspired; Such deep forebodings fill'd her mind, No room for wishing could she find, And with the thoughts that o'er it flew, Perchance a sigh was mingled too. "But why should sorrow cloud thy brow? That, dearest love, which fills thee now Is fraught with joy and ecstasy. Prepared in one alone for thee, That he within thine eye may find Solace when fortune proves unkind, And be newborn through many a kiss, That he receives with inward bliss; When'er he clasps thee to his breast. May he from all his toils find rest When he in thy dear arms shall sink, May he new life and vigour drink: Fresh joys of youth shalt thou obtain, In merry jest rejoice again. With raillery and roguish spite, Thou now shalt tease him, now delight. Thus Love will nevermore grow old, Thus will the minstrel ne'er be cold!" While he thus lives, in secret bless'd, Above him in the clouds doth rest An oak-wreath, verdant and sublime, Placed on his brow in after-time; While they are banish'd to the slough, Who their great master disavow. 1776.

Written by Anne Bronte | Gloomily the Clouds Gloomily the clouds are sailing O'er the dimly moonlit sky; Dolefully the wind is wailing; Not another sound is nigh; Only I can hear it sweeping Heathclad hill and woodland dale, And at times the nights's sad weeping Sounds above its dying wail. Now the struggling moonbeams glimmer; Now the shadows deeper fall, Till the dim light, waxing dimmer, Scarce reveals yon stately hall. All beneath its roof are sleeping; Such a silence reigns around I can hear the cold rain steeping Dripping roof and plashy ground. No: not all are wrapped in slumber; At yon chamber window stands One whose years can scarce outnumber The tears that dew his clasped hands. From the open casement bending He surveys the murky skies, Dreary sighs his bosom rending; Hot tears gushing from his eyes. Now that Autumn's charms are dying, Summer's glories long since gone, Faded leaves on damp earth lying, Hoary winter striding on, -- 'Tis no marvel skies are lowering, Winds are moaning thus around, And cold rain, with ceaseless pouring, Swells the streams and swamps the ground; But such wild, such bitter grieving Fits not slender boys like thee; Such deep sighs should not be heaving Breasts so young as thine must be. Life with thee is only springing; Summer in thy pathway lies; Every day is nearer bringing June's bright flowers and glowing skies. Ah, he sees no brighter morrow! He is not too young to prove All the pain and all the sorrow That attend the steps of love.

Written by Marina Tsvetaeva | Much Like Me Much like me, you make your way forward, Walking with downturned eyes. Well, I too kept mine lowered. Passer-by, stop here, please. Read, when you've picked your nosegay Of henbane and poppy flowers, That I was once called Marina, And discover how old I was. Don't think that there's any grave here, Or that I'll come and throw you out ... I myself was too much given To laughing when one ought not. The blood hurtled to my complexion, My curls wound in flourishes ... I was, passer-by, I existed! Passer-by, stop here, please. And take, pluck a stem of wildness, The fruit that comes with its fall -- It's true that graveyard strawberries Are the biggest and sweetest of all. All I care is that you don't stand there, Dolefully hanging your head. Easily about me remember, Easily about me forget. How rays of pure light suffuse you! A golden dust wraps you round ... And don't let it confuse you, My voice from under the ground.

Written by Dorothy Parker | I Know I Have Been Happiest I know I have been happiest at your side; But what is done, is done, and all's to be. And small the good, to linger dolefully- Gayly it lived, and gallantly it died. I will not make you songs of hearts denied, And you, being man, would have no tears of me, And should I offer you fidelity, You'd be, I think, a little terrified. Yet this the need of woman, this her curse: To range her little gifts, and give, and give, Because the throb of giving's sweet to bear. To you, who never begged me vows or verse, My gift shall be my absence, while I live; But after that, my dear, I cannot swear.