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Best Famous Doubled Poems

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

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Written by Thomas Hardy | Create an image from this poem

A Christmas Ghost Story

 South of the Line, inland from far Durban,
A mouldering soldier lies--your countryman.
Awry and doubled up are his gray bones, And on the breeze his puzzled phantom moans Nightly to clear Canopus: "I would know By whom and when the All-Earth-gladdening Law Of Peace, brought in by that Man Crucified, Was ruled to be inept, and set aside? And what of logic or of truth appears In tacking 'Anno Domini' to the years? Near twenty-hundred livened thus have hied, But tarries yet the Cause for which He died.
"


Written by T S (Thomas Stearns) Eliot | Create an image from this poem

A GAME OF CHESS

  The Chair she sat in, like a burnished throne,
  Glowed on the marble, where the glass
  Held up by standards wrought with fruited vines
  From which a golden Cupidon peeped out                                  80
  (Another hid his eyes behind his wing)
  Doubled the flames of sevenbranched candelabra
  Reflecting light upon the table as
  The glitter of her jewels rose to meet it,
  From satin cases poured in rich profusion;
  In vials of ivory and coloured glass
  Unstoppered, lurked her strange synthetic perfumes,
  Unguent, powdered, or liquid— troubled, confused
  And drowned the sense in odours; stirred by the air
  That freshened from the window, these ascended                          90
  In fattening the prolonged candle-flames,
  Flung their smoke into the laquearia,
  Stirring the pattern on the coffered ceiling.
Huge sea-wood fed with copper Burned green and orange, framed by the coloured stone, In which sad light a carved dolphin swam.
Above the antique mantel was displayed As though a window gave upon the sylvan scene The change of Philomel, by the barbarous king So rudely forced; yet there the nightingale 100 Filled all the desert with inviolable voice And still she cried, and still the world pursues, "Jug Jug" to dirty ears.
And other withered stumps of time Were told upon the walls; staring forms Leaned out, leaning, hushing the room enclosed.
Footsteps shuffled on the stair.
Under the firelight, under the brush, her hair Spread out in fiery points Glowed into words, then would be savagely still.
110 "My nerves are bad to-night.
Yes, bad.
Stay with me.
"Speak to me.
Why do you never speak.
Speak.
"What are you thinking of? What thinking? What? "I never know what you are thinking.
Think.
" I think we are in rats' alley Where the dead men lost their bones.
"What is that noise?" The wind under the door.
"What is that noise now? What is the wind doing?" Nothing again nothing.
120 "Do "You know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you remember "Nothing?" I remember Those are pearls that were his eyes.
"Are you alive, or not? Is there nothing in your head?" But O O O O that Shakespeherian Rag— It's so elegant So intelligent 130 "What shall I do now? What shall I do?" I shall rush out as I am, and walk the street "With my hair down, so.
What shall we do to-morrow? "What shall we ever do?" The hot water at ten.
And if it rains, a closed car at four.
And we shall play a game of chess, Pressing lidless eyes and waiting for a knock upon the door.
When Lil's husband got demobbed, I said— I didn't mince my words, I said to her myself, 140 HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME Now Albert's coming back, make yourself a bit smart.
He'll want to know what you done with that money he gave you To get yourself some teeth.
He did, I was there.
You have them all out, Lil, and get a nice set, He said, I swear, I can't bear to look at you.
And no more can't I, I said, and think of poor Albert, He's been in the army four years, he wants a good time, And if you don't give it him, there's others will, I said.
Oh is there, she said.
Something o' that, I said.
150 Then I'll know who to thank, she said, and give me a straight look.
HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME If you don't like it you can get on with it, I said.
Others can pick and choose if you can't.
But if Albert makes off, it won't be for lack of telling.
You ought to be ashamed, I said, to look so antique.
(And her only thirty-one.
) I can't help it, she said, pulling a long face, It's them pills I took, to bring it off, she said.
(She's had five already, and nearly died of young George.
) 160 The chemist said it would be alright, but I've never been the same.
You are a proper fool, I said.
Well, if Albert won't leave you alone, there it is, I said, What you get married for if you don't want children? HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME Well, that Sunday Albert was home, they had a hot gammon, And they asked me in to dinner, to get the beauty of it hot— HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME Goonight Bill.
Goonight Lou.
Goonight May.
Goonight.
170 Ta ta.
Goonight.
Goonight.
Good night, ladies, good night, sweet ladies, good night, good night.
Written by Pablo Neruda | Create an image from this poem

Your Feet

 When I cannot look at your face 
I look at your feet.
Your feet of arched bone, your hard little feet.
I know that they support you, and that your sweet weight rises upon them.
Your waist and your breasts, the doubled purple of your nipples, the sockets of your eyes that have just flown away, your wide fruit mouth, your red tresses, my little tower.
But I love your feet only because they walked upon the earth and upon the wind and upon the waters, until they found me.
Written by Philip Larkin | Create an image from this poem

Lines On A Young Ladys Photograph Album

 At last you yielded up the album, which
Once open, sent me distracted.
All your ages Matt and glossy on the thick black pages! Too much confectionery, too rich: I choke on such nutritious images.
My swivel eye hungers from pose to pose -- In pigtails, clutching a reluctant cat; Or furred yourself, a sweet girl-graduate; Or lifting a heavy-headed rose Beneath a trellis, or in a trilby-hat (Faintly disturbing, that, in several ways) -- From every side you strike at my control, Not least through those these disquieting chaps who loll At ease about your earlier days: Not quite your class, I'd say, dear, on the whole.
But o, photography! as no art is, Faithful and disappointing! that records Dull days as dull, and hold-it smiles as frauds, And will not censor blemishes Like washing-lines, and Hall's-Distemper boards, But shows a cat as disinclined, and shades A chin as doubled when it is, what grace Your candour thus confers upon her face! How overwhelmingly persuades That this is a real girl in a real place, In every sense empirically true! Or is it just the past? Those flowers, that gate, These misty parks and motors, lacerate Simply by being you; you Contract my heart by looking out of date.
Yes, true; but in the end, surely, we cry Not only at exclusion, but because It leaves us free to cry.
We know what was Won't call on us to justify Our grief, however hard we yowl across The gap from eye to page.
So I am left To mourn (without a chance of consequence) You, balanced on a bike against a fence; To wonder if you'd spot the theft Of this one of you bathing; to condense, In short, a past that no one now can share, No matter whose your future; calm and dry, It holds you like a heaven, and you lie Unvariably lovely there, Smaller and clearer as the years go by.
Written by Jonathan Swift | Create an image from this poem

Stellas Birthday March 13 1719

 Stella this day is thirty-four, 
(We shan't dispute a year or more:)
However, Stella, be not troubled,
Although thy size and years are doubled,
Since first I saw thee at sixteen,
The brightest virgin on the green;
So little is thy form declin'd;
Made up so largely in thy mind.
Oh, would it please the gods to split Thy beauty, size, and years, and wit; No age could furnish out a pair Of nymphs so graceful, wise, and fair; With half the lustre of your eyes, With half your wit, your years, and size.
And then, before it grew too late, How should I beg of gentle Fate, (That either nymph might have her swain,) To split my worship too in twain.


Written by Michael Drayton | Create an image from this poem

Sonnet I: Like an Adventrous Seafarer

 Like an advent'rous seafarer am I, 
Who hath some long and dang'rous voyage been, 
And, call'd to tell of his discovery, 
How far he sail'd, what countries he had seen; 
Proceeding from the port whence he put forth, 
Shows by his compass how his course he steer'd, 
When East, when West, when South, and when by North, 
As how the Pole to every place was rear'd, 
What capes he doubled, of what Continent, 
The gulfs and straits that strangely he had past, 
Where most becalm'd, where with foul weather spent, 
And on what rocks in peril to be cast: 
Thus in my love, Time calls me to relate 
My tedious travels and oft-varying fate.
Written by Elizabeth Bishop | Create an image from this poem

The End Of March

 For John Malcolm Brinnin and Bill Read: Duxbury


It was cold and windy, scarcely the day 
to take a walk on that long beach 
Everything was withdrawn as far as possible, 
indrawn: the tide far out, the ocean shrunken, 
seabirds in ones or twos.
The rackety, icy, offshore wind numbed our faces on one side; disrupted the formation of a lone flight of Canada geese; and blew back the low, inaudible rollers in upright, steely mist.
The sky was darker than the water --it was the color of mutton-fat jade.
Along the wet sand, in rubber boots, we followed a track of big dog-prints (so big they were more like lion-prints).
Then we came on lengths and lengths, endless, of wet white string, looping up to the tide-line, down to the water, over and over.
Finally, they did end: a thick white snarl, man-size, awash, rising on every wave, a sodden ghost, falling back, sodden, giving up the ghost.
.
.
A kite string?--But no kite.
I wanted to get as far as my proto-dream-house, my crypto-dream-house, that crooked box set up on pilings, shingled green, a sort of artichoke of a house, but greener (boiled with bicarbonate of soda?), protected from spring tides by a palisade of--are they railroad ties? (Many things about this place are dubious.
) I'd like to retire there and do nothing, or nothing much, forever, in two bare rooms: look through binoculars, read boring books, old, long, long books, and write down useless notes, talk to myself, and, foggy days, watch the droplets slipping, heavy with light.
At night, a grog a l'américaine.
I'd blaze it with a kitchen match and lovely diaphanous blue flame would waver, doubled in the window.
There must be a stove; there is a chimney, askew, but braced with wires, and electricity, possibly --at least, at the back another wire limply leashes the whole affair to something off behind the dunes.
A light to read by--perfect! But--impossible.
And that day the wind was much too cold even to get that far, and of course the house was boarded up.
On the way back our faces froze on the other side.
The sun came out for just a minute.
For just a minute, set in their bezels of sand, the drab, damp, scattered stones were multi-colored, and all those high enough threw out long shadows, individual shadows, then pulled them in again.
They could have been teasing the lion sun, except that now he was behind them --a sun who'd walked the beach the last low tide, making those big, majestic paw-prints, who perhaps had batted a kite out of the sky to play with.
Written by Katherine Philips | Create an image from this poem

Friendships Mystery To My Dearest Lucasia

 Come, my Lucasia, since we see 
That miracles Men's Faith do move,
By wonder and by prodigy
To the dull angry World let's prove
There's a Religion in our Love.
For Though we were design'd t'agree, That Fate no liberty destroys, But our Election is as free As Angels, who with greedy choice Are yet determin'd to their joys.
Our hearts are doubled by the loss, Here Mixture is Addition grown; We both diffuse, and both ingross: And we whose minds are so much one, Never, yet ever are alone.
We court our own Captivity Than Thrones more great and innocent: `Twere banishment to be set free, Since we wear fetters whose intent Not Bondage is but Ornament Divided joys are tedious found, And griefs united easier grow: We are our selves but by rebound, And all our Titles shuffled so, Both Princes, and both Subjects too.
Our Hearts are mutual Victims laid, While they (such power in Friendship lies) Are Altars, Priests, and Off'rings made: And each Heart which thus kindly dies, Grows deathless by the Sacrifice.
Written by John Keats | Create an image from this poem

Bards of Passion and of Mirth written on the Blank Page before Beaumont and Fletchers Tragi-Comedy The Fair Maid of the Inn

 BARDS of Passion and of Mirth, 
Ye have left your souls on earth! 
Have ye souls in heaven too, 
Doubled-lived in regions new? 
Yes, and those of heaven commune 
With the spheres of sun and moon; 
With the noise of fountains wondrous, 
And the parle of voices thund'rous; 
With the whisper of heaven's trees 
And one another, in soft ease 
Seated on Elysian lawns 
Browsed by none but Dian's fawns; 
Underneath large blue-bells tented, 
Where the daisies are rose-scented, 
And the rose herself has got 
Perfume which on earth is not; 
Where the nightingale doth sing 
Not a senseless, tranced thing, 
But divine melodious truth; 
Philosophic numbers smooth; 
Tales and golden histories 
Of heaven and its mysteries.
Thus ye live on high, and then On the earth ye live again; And the souls ye left behind you Teach us, here, the way to find you, Where your other souls are joying, Never slumber'd, never cloying.
Here, your earth-born souls still speak To mortals, of their little week; Of their sorrows and delights; Of their passions and their spites; Of their glory and their shame; What doth strengthen and what maim.
Thus ye teach us, every day, Wisdom, though fled far away.
Bards of Passion and of Mirth, Ye have left your souls on earth! Ye have souls in heaven too, Double-lived in regions new!
Written by David Ignatow | Create an image from this poem

The Bagel

 I stopped to pick up the bagel
rolling away in the wind,
annoyed with myself
for having dropped it
as if it were a portent.
Faster and faster it rolled, with me running after it bent low, gritting my teeth, and I found myself doubled over and rolling down the street head over heels, one complete somersault after another like a bagel and strangely happy with myself.