10 Best Famous Droops Poems

Here is a collection of the top 10 all-time best famous Droops poems. This is a select list of the best famous Droops poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Droops poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of droops poems.

• All Famous Droops Poems

 EXULTING BEAUTY,­phantom of an hour, 
Whose magic spells enchain the heart, 
Ah ! what avails thy fascinating pow'r, 
Thy thrilling smile, thy witching art ? 
Thy lip, where balmy nectar glows; 
Thy cheek, where round the damask rose 
A thousand nameless Graces move, 
Thy mildly speaking azure eyes, 
Thy golden hair, where cunning Love 
In many a mazy ringlet lies? 
Soon as thy radiant form is seen, 
Thy native blush, thy timid mien, 
Thy hour is past ! thy charms are vain! 
ILL-NATURE haunts thee with her sallow train, 
Mean JEALOUSY deceives thy list'ning ear, 
And SLANDER stains thy cheek with many a bitter tear. 

In calm retirement form'd to dwell, 
NATURE, thy handmaid fair and kind, 
For thee, a beauteous garland twin'd; 
The vale-nurs'd Lily's downcast bell 
Thy modest mien display'd, 
The snow-drop, April's meekest child, 
With myrtle blossoms undefil'd, 
Thy mild and spotless mind pourtray'd; 
Dear blushing maid, of cottage birth, 
'Twas thine, o'er dewy meads to stray, 
While sparkling health, and frolic mirth 
Led on thy laughing Day. 

Lur'd by the babbling tongue of FAME, 
Too soon, insidious FLATT'RY came; 
Flush'd VANITY her footsteps led, 
To charm thee from thy blest repose, 
While Fashion twin'd about thy head 
A wreath of wounding woes; 
See Dissipation smoothly glide, 
Cold Apathy, and puny Pride, 
Capricious Fortune, dull, and blind, 
O'er splendid Folly throws her veil, 
While Envy's meagre tribe assail 
Thy gentle form, and spotless mind. 

Their spells prevail! no more those eyes 
Shoot undulating fires; 
On thy wan cheek, the young rose dies, 
Thy lip's deep tint expires; 
Dark Melancholy chills thy mind; 
Thy silent tear reveals thy woe; 
TIME strews with thorns thy mazy way, 
Where'er thy giddy footsteps stray, 
Thy thoughtless heart is doom'd to find 
An unrelenting foe. 

'Tis thus, the infant Forest flow'r 
Bespangled o'er with glitt'ring dew, 
At breezy morn's refreshing hour, 
Glows with pure tints of varying hue, 
Beneath an aged oak's wide spreading shade, 
Where no rude winds, or beating storms invade. 
Transplanted from its lonely bed, 
No more it scatters perfumes round, 
No more it rears its gentle head, 
Or brightly paints the mossy ground; 
For ah! the beauteous bud, too soon, 
Scorch'd by the burning eye of day; 
Shrinks from the sultry glare of noon, 
Droops its enamell'd brow, and blushing, dies away.

 My thoughts are crabbed and sallow,
My tears like vinegar,
Or the bitter blinking yellow
Of an acetic star.

Tonight the caustic wind, love,
Gossips late and soon,
And I wear the wry-faced pucker of
The sour lemon moon.

While like an early summer plum,
Puny, green, and tart,
Droops upon its wizened stem
My lean, unripened heart.

 THE groundflame of the crocus breaks the mould, 
Fair Spring slides hither o'er the Southern sea, 
Wavers on her thin stem the snowdrop cold 
That trembles not to kisses of the bee: 
Come Spring, for now from all the dripping eaves 
The spear of ice has wept itself away, 
And hour by hour unfolding woodbine leaves 
O'er his uncertain shadow droops the day. 
She comes! The loosen'd rivulets run; 
The frost-bead melts upon her golden hair; 
Her mantle, slowly greening in the Sun, 
Now wraps her close, now arching leaves her bar 
To breaths of balmier air; 

Up leaps the lark, gone wild to welcome her, 
About her glance the ****, and shriek the jays, 
Before her skims the jubilant woodpecker, 
The linnet's bosom blushes at her gaze, 
While round her brows a woodland culver flits, 
Watching her large light eyes and gracious looks, 
And in her open palm a halcyon sits 
Patient--the secret splendour of the brooks. 
Come Spring! She comes on waste and wood, 
On farm and field: but enter also here, 
Diffuse thyself at will thro' all my blood, 
And, tho' thy violet sicken into sere, 
Lodge with me all the year! 

Once more a downy drift against the brakes, 
Self-darken'd in the sky, descending slow! 
But gladly see I thro' the wavering flakes 
Yon blanching apricot like snow in snow. 
These will thine eyes not brook in forest-paths, 
On their perpetual pine, nor round the beech; 
They fuse themselves to little spicy baths, 
Solved in the tender blushes of the peach; 
They lose themselves and die 
On that new life that gems the hawthorn line; 
Thy gay lent-lilies wave and put them by, 
And out once more in varnish'd glory shine 
Thy stars of celandine. 

She floats across the hamlet. Heaven lours, 
But in the tearful splendour of her smiles 
I see the slowl-thickening chestnut towers 
Fill out the spaces by the barren tiles. 
Now past her feet the swallow circling flies, 
A clamorous cuckoo stoops to meet her hand; 
Her light makes rainbows in my closing eyes, 
I hear a charm of song thro' all the land. 
Come, Spring! She comes, and Earth is glad 
To roll her North below thy deepening dome, 
But ere thy maiden birk be wholly clad, 
And these low bushes dip their twigs in foam, 
Make all true hearths thy home. 

Across my garden! and the thicket stirs, 
The fountain pulses high in sunnier jets, 
The blackcap warbles, and the turtle purrs, 
The starling claps his tiny castanets. 
Still round her forehead wheels the woodland dove, 
And scatters on her throat the sparks of dew, 
The kingcup fills her footprint, and above 
Broaden the glowing isles of vernal blue. 
Hail ample presence of a Queen, 
Bountiful, beautiful, apparell'd gay, 
Whose mantle, every shade of glancing green, 
Flies back in fragrant breezes to display 
A tunic white as May! 

She whispers, 'From the South I bring you balm, 
For on a tropic mountain was I born, 
While some dark dweller by the coco-palm 
Watch'd my far meadow zoned with airy morn; 
From under rose a muffled moan of floods; 
I sat beneath a solitude of snow; 
There no one came, the turf was fresh, the woods 
Plunged gulf on gulf thro' all their vales below 
I saw beyond their silent tops 
The steaming marshes of the scarlet cranes, 
The slant seas leaning oll the mangrove copse, 
And summer basking in the sultry plains 
About a land of canes; 

'Then from my vapour-girdle soaring forth 
I scaled the buoyant highway of the birds, 
And drank the dews and drizzle of the North, 
That I might mix with men, and hear their words 
On pathway'd plains; for--while my hand exults 
Within the bloodless heart of lowly flowers 
To work old laws of Love to fresh results, 
Thro' manifold effect of simple powers-- 
I too would teach the man 
Beyond the darker hour to see the bright, 
That his fresh life may close as it began, 
The still-fulfilling promise of a light 
Narrowing the bounds of night.' 

So wed thee with my soul, that I may mark 
The coming year's great good and varied ills, 
And new developments, whatever spark 
Be struck from out the clash of warring wills; 
Or whether, since our nature cannot rest, 
The smoke of war's volcano burst again 
From hoary deeps that belt the changeful West, 
Old Empires, dwellings of the kings of men; 
Or should those fail, that hold the helm, 
While the long day of knowledge grows and warms, 
And in the heart of this most ancient realm 
A hateful voice be utter'd, and alarms 
Sounding 'To arms! to arms!' 

A simpler, saner lesson might he learn 
Who reads thy gradual process, Holy Spring. 
Thy leaves possess the season in their turn, 
And in their time thy warblers rise on wing. 
How surely glidest thou from March to May, 
And changest, breathing it, the sullen wind, 
Thy scope of operation, day by day, 
Larger and fuller, like the human mind ' 
Thy warmths from bud to bud 
Accomplish that blind model in the seed, 
And men have hopes, which race the restless blood 
That after many changes may succeed 
Life, which is Life indeed.

NOW sleeps the crimson petal, now the white; 
Nor waves the cypress in the palace walk; 
Nor winks the gold fin in the porphyry font: 
The firefly wakens: waken thou with me. 

Now droops the milk-white peacock like a ghost, 5 
And like a ghost she glimmers on to me. 

Now lies the Earth all Dana? to the stars, 
And all thy heart lies open unto me. 

Now slides the silent meteor on, and leaves 
A shining furrow, as thy thoughts in me. 10 

Now folds the lily all her sweetness up, 
And slips into the bosom of the lake: 
So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip 
Into my bosom and be lost in me. 

 All things decay with time: The forest sees
The growth and down-fall of her aged trees;
That timber tall, which three-score lustres stood
The proud dictator of the state-like wood,
I mean the sovereign of all plants, the oak,
Droops, dies, and falls without the cleaver's stroke.

 Come, bright-eyed maid, 
Pure offspring of the tranquil mind,
Haste, my fev'rish temples bind
With olive wreaths of em'rald hue
Steep'd in morn's ethereal dew, 
Where in mild HELVETIA's shade, 
Blushing summer round her flings
Warm gales and sunny show'rs that hang upon her wings. 

I'll seek thee in ITALIA's bow'rs, 
Where supine on beds of flow'rs
Melody's soul-touching throng
Strike the soft lute or trill the melting song: 
Where blithe FANCY, queen of pleasure,
Pours each rich luxuriant treasure. 
For thee I'll climb the breezy hill, 
While the balmy dews distill 
Odours from the budding thorn, 
Drop'd from the lust'rous lids of morn; 
Who, starting from her shad'wy bed, 
Binds her gold fillet round the mountain's head. 

There I'll press from herbs and flow'rs
Juices bless'd with opiate pow'rs, 
Whose magic potency can heal
The throb of agonizing pain, 
And thro' the purple swelling vein
With subtle influence steal: 
Heav'n opes for thee its aromatic store
To bathe each languid gasping pore;
But where, O where, shall cherish'd sorrow find
The lenient balm to soothe the feeling mind. 

O, mem'ry! busy barb'rous foe, 
At thy fell touch I wake to woe: 
Alas! the flatt'ring dream is o'er, 
From thee the bright illusions fly, 
Thou bidst the glitt'ring phantoms die, 
And hope, and youth, and fancy, charm no more. 

No more for me the tip-toe SPRING
Drops flowrets from her infant wing; 
For me in vain the wild thymes bloom
Thro' the forest flings perfume; 
In vain I climb th'embroider'd hill 
To breathe the clear autumnal air; 
In vain I quaff the lucid rill 
Since jocund HEALTH delights not there
To greet my heart:­no more I view, 
With sparkling eye, the silv'ry dew 
Sprinkling May's tears upon the folded rose, 
As low it droops its young and blushing head, 
Press'd by grey twilight to its mossy bed: 
No more I lave amidst the tide, 
Or bound along the tufted grove, 
Or o'er enamel'd meadows rove, 
Where, on Zephyr's pinions, glide
Salubrious airs that waft the nymph repose. 

Lightly o'er the yellow heath
Steals thy soft and fragrant breath,
Breath inhal'd from musky flow'rs
Newly bath'd in perfum'd show'rs. 
See the rosy-finger'd morn
Opes her bright refulgent eye, 
Hills and valleys to adorn, 
While from her burning glance the scatter'd vapours fly. 

Soon, ah soon! the painted scene,
The hill's blue top, the valley's green, 
Midst clouds of snow, and whirlwinds drear, 
Shall cold and comfortless appear: 
The howling blast shall strip the plain, 
And bid my pensive bosom learn, 
Tho' NATURE's face shall smile again, 
And, on the glowing breast of Spring
Creation all her gems shall fling, 
YOUTH's April morn shall ne'er return. 

Then come, Oh quickly come, Hygeian Maid! 
Each throbbing pulse, each quiv'ring nerve pervade. 
Flash thy bright fires across my languid eye, 
Tint my pale visage with thy roseate die, 
Bid my heart's current own a temp'rate glow, 
And from its crimson source in tepid channels flow. 

O HEALTH, celestial Nymph! without thy aid
Creation sickens in oblivions shade: 
Along the drear and solitary gloom
We steal on thorny footsteps to the tomb; 
Youth, age, wealth, poverty alike agree 
To live is anguish, when depriv'd of Thee. 
To THEE indulgent Heav'n benignly gave
The touch to heal, the extacy to save. 
The balmy incense of thy fost'ring breath
Wafts the wan victim from the fangs of Death, 
Robs the grim Tyrant of his trembling prize, 
Cheers the faint soul, and lifts it to the skies. 

Let not the gentle rose thy bounty drest 
To meet the rising son with od'rous breast, 
Which glow'd with artless tints at noon-tide hour, 
And shed soft tears upon each drooping flower, 
With with'ring anguish mourn the parting Day, 
Shrink to the Earth, and sorrowing fade away.

 I taught myself to live simply and wisely,
to look at the sky and pray to God,
and to wander long before evening
to tire my superfluous worries.
When the burdocks rustle in the ravine
and the yellow-red rowanberry cluster droops
I compose happy verses
about life's decay, decay and beauty.
I come back. The fluffy cat
licks my palm, purrs so sweetly
and the fire flares bright
on the saw-mill turret by the lake.
Only the cry of a stork landing on the roof
occasionally breaks the silence.
If you knock on my door
I may not even hear.

 GIVE me your hand, old Revolutionary; 
The hill-top is nigh—but a few steps, (make room, gentlemen;) 
Up the path you have follow’d me well, spite of your hundred and extra years; 
You can walk, old man, though your eyes are almost done; 
Your faculties serve you, and presently I must have them serve me.

Rest, while I tell what the crowd around us means; 
On the plain below, recruits are drilling and exercising; 
There is the camp—one regiment departs to-morrow; 
Do you hear the officers giving the orders? 
Do you hear the clank of the muskets?

Why, what comes over you now, old man? 
Why do you tremble, and clutch my hand so convulsively? 
The troops are but drilling—they are yet surrounded with smiles; 
Around them, at hand, the well-drest friends, and the women; 
While splendid and warm the afternoon sun shines down;
Green the midsummer verdure, and fresh blows the dallying breeze, 
O’er proud and peaceful cities, and arm of the sea between. 
But drill and parade are over—they march back to quarters; 
Only hear that approval of hands! hear what a clapping! 

As wending, the crowds now part and disperse—but we, old man,
Not for nothing have I brought you hither—we must remain; 
You to speak in your turn, and I to listen and tell. 

THE CENTENARIAN.
When I clutch’d your hand, it was not with terror; 
But suddenly, pouring about me here, on every side, 
And below there where the boys were drilling, and up the slopes they ran,
And where tents are pitch’d, and wherever you see, south and south-east and
 south-west, 
Over hills, across lowlands, and in the skirts of woods, 
And along the shores, in mire (now fill’d over), came again, and suddenly raged, 
As eighty-five years agone, no mere parade receiv’d with applause of friends, 
But a battle, which I took part in myself—aye, long ago as it is, I took part in it,
Walking then this hill-top, this same ground. 

Aye, this is the ground; 
My blind eyes, even as I speak, behold it re-peopled from graves; 
The years recede, pavements and stately houses disappear; 
Rude forts appear again, the old hoop’d guns are mounted;
I see the lines of rais’d earth stretching from river to bay; 
I mark the vista of waters, I mark the uplands and slopes: 
Here we lay encamp’d—it was this time in summer also. 

As I talk, I remember all—I remember the Declaration; 
It was read here—the whole army paraded—it was read to us here;
By his staff surrounded, the General stood in the middle—he held up his
 unsheath’d
 sword, 
It glitter’d in the sun in full sight of the army. 

’Twas a bold act then; 
The English war-ships had just arrived—the king had sent them from over the sea; 
We could watch down the lower bay where they lay at anchor,
And the transports, swarming with soldiers. 

A few days more, and they landed—and then the battle. 

Twenty thousand were brought against us, 
A veteran force, furnish’d with good artillery. 

I tell not now the whole of the battle;
But one brigade, early in the forenoon, order’d forward to engage the red-coats; 
Of that brigade I tell, and how steadily it march’d, 
And how long and how well it stood, confronting death. 

Who do you think that was, marching steadily, sternly confronting death? 
It was the brigade of the youngest men, two thousand strong,
Rais’d in Virginia and Maryland, and many of them known personally to the General. 

Jauntily forward they went with quick step toward Gowanus’ waters; 
Till of a sudden, unlook’d for, by defiles through the woods, gain’d at night, 
The British advancing, wedging in from the east, fiercely playing their guns, 
That brigade of the youngest was cut off, and at the enemy’s mercy.

The General watch’d them from this hill; 
They made repeated desperate attempts to burst their environment; 
Then drew close together, very compact, their flag flying in the middle; 
But O from the hills how the cannon were thinning and thinning them! 

It sickens me yet, that slaughter!
I saw the moisture gather in drops on the face of the General; 
I saw how he wrung his hands in anguish. 

Meanwhile the British maneuver’d to draw us out for a pitch’d battle; 
But we dared not trust the chances of a pitch’d battle. 

We fought the fight in detachments;
Sallying forth, we fought at several points—but in each the luck was against us; 
Our foe advancing, steadily getting the best of it, push’d us back to the works on
 this
 hill; 
Till we turn’d, menacing, here, and then he left us. 

That was the going out of the brigade of the youngest men, two thousand strong; 
Few return’d—nearly all remain in Brooklyn.

That, and here, my General’s first battle; 
No women looking on, nor sunshine to bask in—it did not conclude with applause; 
Nobody clapp’d hands here then. 

But in darkness, in mist, on the ground, under a chill rain, 
Wearied that night we lay, foil’d and sullen;
While scornfully laugh’d many an arrogant lord, off against us encamp’d, 
Quite within hearing, feasting, klinking wine-glasses together over their victory. 

So, dull and damp, and another day; 
But the night of that, mist lifting, rain ceasing, 
Silent as a ghost, while they thought they were sure of him, my General retreated.

I saw him at the river-side, 
Down by the ferry, lit by torches, hastening the embarcation; 
My General waited till the soldiers and wounded were all pass’d over; 
And then, (it was just ere sunrise,) these eyes rested on him for the last time. 

Every one else seem’d fill’d with gloom;
Many no doubt thought of capitulation. 

But when my General pass’d me, 
As he stood in his boat, and look’d toward the coming sun, 
I saw something different from capitulation. 

TERMINUS.
Enough—the Centenarian’s story ends;
The two, the past and present, have interchanged; 
I myself, as connecter, as chansonnier of a great future, am now speaking. 

And is this the ground Washington trod? 
And these waters I listlessly daily cross, are these the waters he cross’d, 
As resolute in defeat, as other generals in their proudest triumphs?

It is well—a lesson like that, always comes good; 
I must copy the story, and send it eastward and westward; 
I must preserve that look, as it beam’d on you, rivers of Brooklyn. 

See! as the annual round returns, the phantoms return; 
It is the 27th of August, and the British have landed;
The battle begins, and goes against us—behold! through the smoke, Washington’s
 face; 
The brigade of Virginia and Maryland have march’d forth to intercept the enemy; 
They are cut off—murderous artillery from the hills plays upon them; 
Rank after rank falls, while over them silently droops the flag, 
Baptized that day in many a young man’s bloody wounds,
In death, defeat, and sisters’, mothers’ tears. 

Ah, hills and slopes of Brooklyn! I perceive you are more valuable than your owners
 supposed; 
Ah, river! henceforth you will be illumin’d to me at sunrise with something besides
 the
 sun. 

Encampments new! in the midst of you stands an encampment very old; 
Stands forever the camp of the dead brigade.

 III 
Our sons have gone 
to serve the Reds 
to serve the Reds 
to risk their heads! 

O bitter,bitter pain, 
Sweet living! 
A torn overcoat 
an Austrian gun! 

-To get the bourgeosie 
We'll start a fire 
a worldwide fire, and drench it 
in blood- 
The good Lord bless us! 


-O you bitter bitterness, 
boring boredom, 
deadly boredom. 

This is how I will 
spend my time. 

This is how I will 
scratch my head, 

munch on seeds, 
some sunflower seeds, 

play with my knife 
play with my knife. 

You bourgeosie, fly as a sparrow! 
I'll drink your blood, 

your warm blood, for love, 
for dark-eyed love. 

God, let this soul, your servant, 
rest in peace. 

Such boredom! 


XII 
... On they march with sovereign tread... 
‘Who else goes there? Come out! I said 
come out!’ It is the wind and the red 
flag plunging gaily at their head. 

The frozen snow-drift looms in front. 
‘Who’s in the drift! Come out! Come here!’ 
There’s only the homeless mongrel runt 
limping wretchedly in the rear ... 

‘You mangy beast, out of the way 
before you taste my bayonet. 
Old mongrel world, clear off I say! 
I’ll have your hide to sole my boot! 

The shivering cur, the mongrel cur 
bares his teeth like a hungry wolf, 
droops his tail, but does not stir ... 
‘Hey answer, you there, show yourself.’ 

‘Who’s that waving the red flag?’ 
‘Try and see! It’s as dark as the tomb!’ 
‘Who’s that moving at a jog 
trot, keeping to the back-street gloom?’ 

‘Don’t you worry ~ I’ll catch you yet; 
better surrender to me alive!’ 
‘Come out, comrade, or you’ll regret 
it ~ we’ll fire when I’ve counted five!’ 

Crack ~ crack ~ crack! But only the echo 
answers from among the eaves ... 
The blizzard splits his seams, the snow 
laughs wildly up the wirlwind’s sleeve ... 

Crack ~ crack ~ crack! 
Crack ~ crack ~ crack! 
... So they march with sovereign tread ... 
Behind them limps the hungry dog, 
and wrapped in wild snow at their head 
carrying a blood-red flag ~ 
soft-footed where the blizzard swirls, 
invulnerable where bullets crossed ~ 
crowned with a crown of snowflake pearls, 
a flowery diadem of frost, 
ahead of them goes Jesus Christ.

 O Love, Love, Love! O withering might!
O sun, that from thy noonday height
Shudderest when I strain my sight,
Throbbing thro' all thy heat and light,
 Lo, falling from my constant mind,
 Lo, parch'd and wither'd, deaf and blind,
 I whirl like leaves in roaring wind.

Last night I wasted hateful hours
Below the city's eastern towers:
I thirsted for the brooks, the showers:
I roll'd among the tender flowers:
 I crush'd them on my breast, my mouth;
 I look'd athwart the burning drouth
 Of that long desert to the south.

Last night, when some one spoke his name,
>From my swift blood that went and came
A thousand little shafts of flame
Were shiver'd in my narrow frame.
 O Love, O fire! once he drew
 With one long kiss my whole soul thro'
 My lips, as sunlight drinketh dew.

Before he mounts the hill, I know
He cometh quickly: from below
Sweet gales, as from deep gardens, blow
Before him, striking on my brow.
 In my dry brain my spirit soon,
 Down-deepening from swoon to swoon,
 Faints like a daled morning moon.

The wind sounds like a silver wire,
And from beyond the noon a fire
Is pour'd upon the hills, and nigher
The skies stoop down in their desire;
 And, isled in sudden seas of light,
 My heart, pierced thro' with fierce delight,
 Bursts into blossom in his sight.

My whole soul waiting silently,
All naked in a sultry sky,
Droops blinded with his shining eye:
I will possess him or will die.
 I will grow round him in his place,
 Grow, live, die looking on his face,
 Die, dying clasp'd in his embrace.