Get Your Premium Membership

Best Famous Earn Poems

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

Search and read the best famous Earn poems, articles about Earn poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Earn poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

See Also:
12
Written by Aleister Crowley | Create an image from this poem

A Birthday

 "Aug.
" 10, 1911.
Full moon to-night; and six and twenty years Since my full moon first broke from angel spheres! A year of infinite love unwearying --- No circling seasons, but perennial spring! A year of triumph trampling through defeat, The first made holy and the last made sweet By this same love; a year of wealth and woe, Joy, poverty, health, sickness --- all one glow In the pure light that filled our firmament Of supreme silence and unbarred extent, Wherein one sacrament was ours, one Lord, One resurrection, one recurrent chord, One incarnation, one descending dove, All these being one, and that one being Love! You sent your spirit into tunes; my soul Yearned in a thousand melodies to enscroll Its happiness: I left no flower unplucked That might have graced your garland.
I induct Tragedy, comedy, farce, fable, song, Each longing a little, each a little long, But each aspiring only to express Your excellence and my unworthiness --- Nay! but my worthiness, since I was sense And spirit too of that same excellence.
So thus we solved the earth's revolving riddle: I could write verse, and you could play the fiddle, While, as for love, the sun went through the signs, And not a star but told him how love twines A wreath for every decanate, degree, Minute and second, linked eternally In chains of flowers that never fading are, Each one as sempiternal as a star.
Let me go back to your last birthday.
Then I was already your one man of men Appointed to complete you, and fulfil From everlasting the eternal will.
We lay within the flood of crimson light In my own balcony that August night, And conjuring the aright and the averse Created yet another universe.
We worked together; dance and rite and spell Arousing heaven and constraining hell.
We lived together; every hour of rest Was honied from your tiger-lily breast.
We --- oh what lingering doubt or fear betrayed My life to fate! --- we parted.
Was I afraid? I was afraid, afraid to live my love, Afraid you played the serpent, I the dove, Afraid of what I know not.
I am glad Of all the shame and wretchedness I had, Since those six weeks have taught me not to doubt you, And also that I cannot live without you.
Then I came back to you; black treasons rear Their heads, blind hates, deaf agonies of fear, Cruelty, cowardice, falsehood, broken pledges, The temple soiled with senseless sacrileges, Sickness and poverty, a thousand evils, Concerted malice of a million devils; --- You never swerved; your high-pooped galleon Went marvellously, majestically on Full-sailed, while every other braver bark Drove on the rocks, or foundered in the dark.
Then Easter, and the days of all delight! God's sun lit noontide and his moon midnight, While above all, true centre of our world, True source of light, our great love passion-pearled Gave all its life and splendour to the sea Above whose tides stood our stability.
Then sudden and fierce, no monitory moan, Smote the mad mischief of the great cyclone.
How far below us all its fury rolled! How vainly sulphur tries to tarnish gold! We lived together: all its malice meant Nothing but freedom of a continent! It was the forest and the river that knew The fact that one and one do not make two.
We worked, we walked, we slept, we were at ease, We cried, we quarrelled; all the rocks and trees For twenty miles could tell how lovers played, And we could count a kiss for every glade.
Worry, starvation, illness and distress? Each moment was a mine of happiness.
Then we grew tired of being country mice, Came up to Paris, lived our sacrifice There, giving holy berries to the moon, July's thanksgiving for the joys of June.
And you are gone away --- and how shall I Make August sing the raptures of July? And you are gone away --- what evil star Makes you so competent and popular? How have I raised this harpy-hag of Hell's Malice --- that you are wanted somewhere else? I wish you were like me a man forbid, Banned, outcast, nice society well rid Of the pair of us --- then who would interfere With us? --- my darling, you would now be here! But no! we must fight on, win through, succeed, Earn the grudged praise that never comes to meed, Lash dogs to kennel, trample snakes, put bit In the mule-mouths that have such need of it, Until the world there's so much to forgive in Becomes a little possible to live in.
God alone knows if battle or surrender Be the true courage; either has its splendour.
But since we chose the first, God aid the right, And damn me if I fail you in the fight! God join again the ways that lie apart, And bless the love of loyal heart to heart! God keep us every hour in every thought, And bring the vessel of our love to port! These are my birthday wishes.
Dawn's at hand, And you're an exile in a lonely land.
But what were magic if it could not give My thought enough vitality to live? Do not then dream this night has been a loss! All night I have hung, a god, upon the cross; All night I have offered incense at the shrine; All night you have been unutterably mine, Miner in the memory of the first wild hour When my rough grasp tore the unwilling flower From your closed garden, mine in every mood, In every tense, in every attitude, In every possibility, still mine While the sun's pomp and pageant, sign to sign, Stately proceeded, mine not only so In the glamour of memory and austral glow Of ardour, but by image of my brow Stronger than sense, you are even here and now Miner, utterly mine, my sister and my wife, Mother of my children, mistress of my life! O wild swan winging through the morning mist! The thousand thousand kisses that we kissed, The infinite device our love devised If by some chance its truth might be surprised, Are these all past? Are these to come? Believe me, There is no parting; they can never leave me.
I have built you up into my heart and brain So fast that we can never part again.
Why should I sing you these fantastic psalms When all the time I have you in my arms? Why? 'tis the murmur of our love that swells Earth's dithyrambs and ocean's oracles.
But this is dawn; my soul shall make its nest Where your sighs swing from rapture into rest Love's thurible, your tiger-lily breast.


Written by Robert Browning | Create an image from this poem

The Glove

 (PETER RONSARD _loquitur_.
) ``Heigho!'' yawned one day King Francis, ``Distance all value enhances! ``When a man's busy, why, leisure ``Strikes him as wonderful pleasure: `` 'Faith, and at leisure once is he? ``Straightway he wants to be busy.
``Here we've got peace; and aghast I'm ``Caught thinking war the true pastime.
``Is there a reason in metre? ``Give us your speech, master Peter!'' I who, if mortal dare say so, Ne'er am at loss with my Naso, ``Sire,'' I replied, ``joys prove cloudlets: ``Men are the merest Ixions''--- Here the King whistled aloud, ``Let's ``---Heigho---go look at our lions!'' Such are the sorrowful chances If you talk fine to King Francis.
And so, to the courtyard proceeding, Our company, Francis was leading, Increased by new followers tenfold Before be arrived at the penfold; Lords, ladies, like clouds which bedizen At sunset the western horizon.
And Sir De Lorge pressed 'mid the foremost With the dame he professed to adore most.
Oh, what a face! One by fits eyed Her, and the horrible pitside; For the penfold surrounded a hollow Which led where the eye scarce dared follow, And shelved to the chamber secluded Where Bluebeard, the great lion, brooded.
The King bailed his keeper, an Arab As glossy and black as a scarab,*1 And bade him make sport and at once stir Up and out of his den the old monster.
They opened a hole in the wire-work Across it, and dropped there a firework, And fled: one's heart's beating redoubled; A pause, while the pit's mouth was troubled, The blackness and silence so utter, By the firework's slow sparkling and sputter; Then earth in a sudden contortion Gave out to our gaze her abortion.
Such a brute! Were I friend Clement Marot (Whose experience of nature's but narrow, And whose faculties move in no small mist When he versifies David the Psalmist) I should study that brute to describe you _Illim Juda Leonem de Tribu_.
One's whole blood grew curdling and creepy To see the black mane, vast and heapy, The tail in the air stiff and straining, The wide eyes, nor waxing nor waning, As over the barrier which bounded His platform, and us who surrounded The barrier, they reached and they rested On space that might stand him in best stead: For who knew, he thought, what the amazement, The eruption of clatter and blaze meant, And if, in this minute of wonder, No outlet, 'mid lightning and thunder, Lay broad, and, his shackles all shivered, The lion at last was delivered? Ay, that was the open sky o'erhead! And you saw by the flash on his forehead, By the hope in those eyes wide and steady, He was leagues in the desert already, Driving the flocks up the mountain, Or catlike couched hard by the fountain To waylay the date-gathering negress: So guarded he entrance or egress.
``How he stands!'' quoth the King: ``we may well swear, (``No novice, we've won our spurs elsewhere ``And so can afford the confession,) ``We exercise wholesome discretion ``In keeping aloof from his threshold; ``Once hold you, those jaws want no fresh hold, ``Their first would too pleasantly purloin ``The visitor's brisket or surloin: ``But who's he would prove so fool-hardy? ``Not the best man of Marignan, pardie!'' The sentence no sooner was uttered, Than over the rails a glove flattered, Fell close to the lion, and rested: The dame 'twas, who flung it and jested With life so, De Lorge had been wooing For months past; he sat there pursuing His suit, weighing out with nonchalance Fine speeches like gold from a balance.
Sound the trumpet, no true knight's a tarrier! De Lorge made one leap at the barrier, Walked straight to the glove,---while the lion Neer moved, kept his far-reaching eye on The palm-tree-edged desert-spring's sapphire, And the musky oiled skin of the Kaffir,--- Picked it up, and as calmly retreated, Leaped back where the lady was seated, And full in the face of its owner Flung the glove.
``Your heart's queen, you dethrone her? ``So should I!''---cried the King---``'twas mere vanity, ``Not love, set that task to humanity!'' Lords and ladies alike turned with loathing From such a proved wolf in sheep's clothing.
Not so, I; for I caught an expression In her brow's undisturbed self-possession Amid the Court's scoffing and merriment,--- As if from no pleasing experiment She rose, yet of pain not much heedful So long as the process was needful,--- As if she had tried in a crucible, To what ``speeches like gold'' were reducible, And, finding the finest prove copper, Felt the smoke in her face was but proper; To know what she had _not_ to trust to, Was worth all the ashes and dust too.
She went out 'mid hooting and laughter; Clement Marot stayed; I followed after, And asked, as a grace, what it all meant? If she wished not the rash deed's recalment? ``For I''---so I spoke---``am a poet: ``Human nature,---behoves that I know it!'' She told me, ``Too long had I heard ``Of the deed proved alone by the word: ``For my love---what De Lorge would not dare! ``With my scorn---what De Lorge could compare! ``And the endless descriptions of death ``He would brave when my lip formed a breath, ``I must reckon as braved, or, of course, ``Doubt his word---and moreover, perforce, ``For such gifts as no lady could spurn, ``Must offer my love in return.
``When I looked on your lion, it brought ``All the dangers at once to my thought, ``Encountered by all sorts of men, ``Before he was lodged in his den,--- ``From the poor slave whose club or bare hands ``Dug the trap, set the snare on the sands, ``With no King and no Court to applaud, ``By no shame, should he shrink, overawed, ``Yet to capture the creature made shift, ``That his rude boys might laugh at the gift, ``---To the page who last leaped o'er the fence ``Of the pit, on no greater pretence ``Than to get back the bonnet he dropped, ``Lest his pay for a week should be stopped.
``So, wiser I judged it to make ``One trial what `death for my sake' ``Really meant, while the power was yet mine, ``Than to wait until time should define ``Such a phrase not so simply as I, ``Who took it to mean just `to die.
' ``The blow a glove gives is but weak: ``Does the mark yet discolour my cheek? ``But when the heart suffers a blow, ``Will the pain pass so soon, do you know?'' I looked, as away she was sweeping, And saw a youth eagerly keeping As close as he dared to the doorway.
No doubt that a noble should more weigh His life than befits a plebeian; And yet, had our brute been Nemean--- (I judge by a certain calm fervour The youth stepped with, forward to serve her) ---He'd have scarce thought you did him the worst turn If you whispered ``Friend, what you'd get, first earn!'' And when, shortly after, she carried Her shame from the Court, and they married, To that marriage some happiness, maugre The voice of the Court, I dared augur.
For De Lorge, he made women with men vie, Those in wonder and praise, these in envy; And in short stood so plain a head taller That he wooed and won .
.
.
how do you call her? The beauty, that rose in the sequel To the King's love, who loved her a week well.
And 'twas noticed he never would honour De Lorge (who looked daggers upon her) With the easy commission of stretching His legs in the service, and fetching His wife, from her chamber, those straying Sad gloves she was always mislaying, While the King took the closet to chat in,--- But of course this adventure came pat in.
And never the King told the story, How bringing a glove brought such glory, But the wife smiled---``His nerves are grown firmer: ``Mine he brings now and utters no murmur.
'' _Venienti occurrite morbo!_ With which moral I drop my theorbo.
*1 A beetle.
Written by Robert Frost | Create an image from this poem

The Star-Splitter

 `You know Orion always comes up sideways.
Throwing a leg up over our fence of mountains, And rising on his hands, he looks in on me Busy outdoors by lantern-light with something I should have done by daylight, and indeed, After the ground is frozen, I should have done Before it froze, and a gust flings a handful Of waste leaves at my smoky lantern chimney To make fun of my way of doing things, Or else fun of Orion's having caught me.
Has a man, I should like to ask, no rights These forces are obliged to pay respect to?' So Brad McLaughlin mingled reckless talk Of heavenly stars with hugger-mugger farming, Till having failed at hugger-mugger farming He burned his house down for the fire insurance And spent the proceeds on a telescope To satisfy a lifelong curiosity About our place among the infinities.
`What do you want with one of those blame things?' I asked him well beforehand.
`Don't you get one!' `Don't call it blamed; there isn't anything More blameless in the sense of being less A weapon in our human fight,' he said.
`I'll have one if I sell my farm to buy it.
' There where he moved the rocks to plow the ground And plowed between the rocks he couldn't move, Few farms changed hands; so rather than spend years Trying to sell his farm and then not selling, He burned his house down for the fire insurance And bought the telescope with what it came to.
He had been heard to say by several: `The best thing that we're put here for's to see; The strongest thing that's given us to see with's A telescope.
Someone in every town Seems to me owes it to the town to keep one.
In Littleton it might as well be me.
' After such loose talk it was no surprise When he did what he did and burned his house down.
Mean laughter went about the town that day To let him know we weren't the least imposed on, And he could wait---we'd see to him tomorrow.
But the first thing next morning we reflected If one by one we counted people out For the least sin, it wouldn't take us long To get so we had no one left to live with.
For to be social is to be forgiving.
Our thief, the one who does our stealing from us, We don't cut off from coming to church suppers, But what we miss we go to him and ask for.
He promptly gives it back, that is if still Uneaten, unworn out, or undisposed of.
It wouldn't do to be too hard on Brad About his telescope.
Beyond the age Of being given one for Christmas gift, He had to take the best way he knew how To find himself in one.
Well, all we said was He took a strange thing to be roguish over.
Some sympathy was wasted on the house, A good old-timer dating back along; But a house isn't sentient; the house Didn't feel anything.
And if it did, Why not regard it as a sacrifice, And an old-fashioned sacrifice by fire, Instead of a new-fashioned one at auction? Out of a house and so out of a farm At one stroke (of a match), Brad had to turn To earn a living on the Concord railroad, As under-ticket-agent at a station Where his job, when he wasn't selling tickets, Was setting out, up track and down, not plants As on a farm, but planets, evening stars That varied in their hue from red to green.
He got a good glass for six hundred dollars.
His new job gave him leisure for stargazing.
Often he bid me come and have a look Up the brass barrel, velvet black inside, At a star quaking in the other end.
I recollect a night of broken clouds And underfoot snow melted down to ice, And melting further in the wind to mud.
Bradford and I had out the telescope.
We spread our two legs as we spread its three, Pointed our thoughts the way we pointed it, And standing at our leisure till the day broke, Said some of the best things we ever said.
That telescope was christened the Star-Splitter, Because it didn't do a thing but split A star in two or three, the way you split A globule of quicksilver in your hand With one stroke of your finger in the middle.
It's a star-splitter if there ever was one, And ought to do some good if splitting stars 'Sa thing to be compared with splitting wood.
We've looked and looked, but after all where are we? Do we know any better where we are, And how it stands between the night tonight And a man with a smoky lantern chimney? How different from the way it ever stood?
Written by Louisa May Alcott | Create an image from this poem

Transfiguration

 Mysterious death! who in a single hour 
Life's gold can so refine 
And by thy art divine 
Change mortal weakness to immortal power! 

Bending beneath the weight of eighty years 
Spent with the noble strife 
of a victorious life 
We watched her fading heavenward, through our tears.
But ere the sense of loss our hearts had wrung A miracle was wrought; And swift as happy thought She lived again -- brave, beautiful, and young.
Age, pain, and sorrow dropped the veils they wore And showed the tender eyes Of angels in disguise, Whose discipline so patiently she bore.
The past years brought their harvest rich and fair; While memory and love, Together, fondly wove A golden garland for the silver hair.
How could we mourn like those who are bereft, When every pang of grief found balm for its relief In counting up the treasures she had left?-- Faith that withstood the shocks of toil and time; Hope that defied despair; Patience that conquered care; And loyalty, whose courage was sublime; The great deep heart that was a home for all-- Just, eloquent, and strong In protest against wrong; Wide charity, that knew no sin, no fall; The spartan spirit that made life so grand, Mating poor daily needs With high, heroic deeds, That wrested happiness from Fate's hard hand.
We thought to weep, but sing for joy instead, Full of the grateful peace That follows her release; For nothing but the weary dust lies dead.
Oh, noble woman! never more a queen Than in the laying down Of sceptre and of crown To win a greater kingdom, yet unseen; Teaching us how to seek the highest goal, To earn the true success -- To live, to love, to bless -- And make death proud to take a royal soul.
Written by Robert Southey | Create an image from this poem

Mary - A Ballad

 Author Note: The story of the following ballad was related to me, when a school boy, as a fact which had really happened in the North of England.
I have adopted the metre of Mr.
Lewis's Alonzo and Imogene--a poem deservedly popular.
I.
Who is she, the poor Maniac, whose wildly-fix'd eyes Seem a heart overcharged to express? She weeps not, yet often and deeply she sighs, She never complains, but her silence implies The composure of settled distress.
II.
No aid, no compassion the Maniac will seek, Cold and hunger awake not her care: Thro' her rags do the winds of the winter blow bleak On her poor withered bosom half bare, and her cheek Has the deathy pale hue of despair.
III.
Yet chearful and happy, nor distant the day, Poor Mary the Maniac has been; The Traveller remembers who journeyed this way No damsel so lovely, no damsel so gay As Mary the Maid of the Inn.
IV.
Her chearful address fill'd the guests with delight As she welcomed them in with a smile: Her heart was a stranger to childish affright, And Mary would walk by the Abbey at night When the wind whistled down the dark aisle.
V.
She loved, and young Richard had settled the day, And she hoped to be happy for life; But Richard was idle and worthless, and they Who knew him would pity poor Mary and say That she was too good for his wife.
VI.
'Twas in autumn, and stormy and dark was the night, And fast were the windows and door; Two guests sat enjoying the fire that burnt bright, And smoking in silence with tranquil delight They listen'd to hear the wind roar.
VII.
"Tis pleasant," cried one, "seated by the fire side "To hear the wind whistle without.
" "A fine night for the Abbey!" his comrade replied, "Methinks a man's courage would now be well tried "Who should wander the ruins about.
VIII.
"I myself, like a school-boy, should tremble to hear "The hoarse ivy shake over my head; "And could fancy I saw, half persuaded by fear, "Some ugly old Abbot's white spirit appear, "For this wind might awaken the dead!" IX.
"I'll wager a dinner," the other one cried, "That Mary would venture there now.
" "Then wager and lose!" with a sneer he replied, "I'll warrant she'd fancy a ghost by her side, "And faint if she saw a white cow.
" X.
"Will Mary this charge on her courage allow?" His companion exclaim'd with a smile; "I shall win, for I know she will venture there now, "And earn a new bonnet by bringing a bough "From the elder that grows in the aisle.
" XI.
With fearless good humour did Mary comply, And her way to the Abbey she bent; The night it was dark, and the wind it was high And as hollowly howling it swept thro' the sky She shiver'd with cold as she went.
XII.
O'er the path so well known still proceeded the Maid Where the Abbey rose dim on the sight, Thro' the gate-way she entered, she felt not afraid Yet the ruins were lonely and wild, and their shade Seem'd to deepen the gloom of the night.
XIII.
All around her was silent, save when the rude blast Howl'd dismally round the old pile; Over weed-cover'd fragments still fearless she past, And arrived in the innermost ruin at last Where the elder tree grew in the aisle.
XIV.
Well-pleas'd did she reach it, and quickly drew near And hastily gather'd the bough: When the sound of a voice seem'd to rise on her ear, She paus'd, and she listen'd, all eager to hear, Aud her heart panted fearfully now.
XV.
The wind blew, the hoarse ivy shook over her head, She listen'd,--nought else could she hear.
The wind ceas'd, her heart sunk in her bosom with dread For she heard in the ruins distinctly the tread Of footsteps approaching her near.
XVI.
Behind a wide column half breathless with fear She crept to conceal herself there: That instant the moon o'er a dark cloud shone clear, And she saw in the moon-light two ruffians appear And between them a corpse did they bear.
XVII.
Then Mary could feel her heart-blood curdle cold! Again the rough wind hurried by,-- It blew off the hat of the one, and behold Even close to the feet of poor Mary it roll'd,-- She felt, and expected to die.
XVIII.
"Curse the hat!" he exclaims.
"Nay come on and first hide "The dead body," his comrade replies.
She beheld them in safety pass on by her side, She seizes the hat, fear her courage supplied, And fast thro' the Abbey she flies.
XIX.
She ran with wild speed, she rush'd in at the door, She gazed horribly eager around, Then her limbs could support their faint burthen no more, And exhausted and breathless she sunk on the floor Unable to utter a sound.
XX.
Ere yet her pale lips could the story impart, For a moment the hat met her view;-- Her eyes from that object convulsively start, For--oh God what cold horror then thrill'd thro' her heart, When the name of her Richard she knew! XXI.
Where the old Abbey stands, on the common hard by His gibbet is now to be seen.
Not far from the road it engages the eye, The Traveller beholds it, and thinks with a sigh Of poor Mary the Maid of the Inn.


Written by Bertolt Brecht | Create an image from this poem

To Posterity

 Indeed I live in the dark ages!
A guileless word is an absurdity.
A smooth forehead betokens A hard heart.
He who laughs Has not yet heard The terrible tidings.
Ah, what an age it is When to speak of trees is almost a crime For it is a kind of silence about injustice! And he who walks calmly across the street, Is he not out of reach of his friends In trouble? It is true: I earn my living But, believe me, it is only an accident.
Nothing that I do entitles me to eat my fill.
By chance I was spared.
(If my luck leaves me I am lost.
) They tell me: eat and drink.
Be glad you have it! But how can I eat and drink When my food is snatched from the hungry And my glass of water belongs to the thirsty? And yet I eat and drink.
I would gladly be wise.
The old books tell us what wisdom is: Avoid the strife of the world Live out your little time Fearing no one Using no violence Returning good for evil -- Not fulfillment of desire but forgetfulness Passes for wisdom.
I can do none of this: Indeed I live in the dark ages! 2.
I came to the cities in a time of disorder When hunger ruled.
I came among men in a time of uprising And I revolted with them.
So the time passed away Which on earth was given me.
I ate my food between massacres.
The shadow of murder lay upon my sleep.
And when I loved, I loved with indifference.
I looked upon nature with impatience.
So the time passed away Which on earth was given me.
In my time streets led to the quicksand.
Speech betrayed me to the slaughterer.
There was little I could do.
But without me The rulers would have been more secure.
This was my hope.
So the time passed away Which on earth was given me.
3.
You, who shall emerge from the flood In which we are sinking, Think -- When you speak of our weaknesses, Also of the dark time That brought them forth.
For we went,changing our country more often than our shoes.
In the class war, despairing When there was only injustice and no resistance.
For we knew only too well: Even the hatred of squalor Makes the brow grow stern.
Even anger against injustice Makes the voice grow harsh.
Alas, we Who wished to lay the foundations of kindness Could not ourselves be kind.
But you, when at last it comes to pass That man can help his fellow man, Do no judge us Too harshly.
translated by H.
R.
Hays
Written by Robert Browning | Create an image from this poem

A Grammarians Funeral

 SHORTLY AFTER THE REVIVAL OF
LEARNING IN EUROPE.
Let us begin and carry up this corpse, Singing together.
Leave we the common crofts, the vulgar thorpes Each in its tether Sleeping safe on the bosom of the plain, Cared-for till cock-crow: Look out if yonder be not day again Rimming the rock-row! That's the appropriate country; there, man's thought, Rarer, intenser, Self-gathered for an outbreak, as it ought, Chafes in the censer.
Leave we the unlettered plain its herd and crop; Seek we sepulture On a tall mountain, citied to the top, Crowded with culture! All the peaks soar, but one the rest excels; Clouds overcome it; No! yonder sparkle is the citadel's Circling its summit.
Thither our path lies; wind we up the heights: Wait ye the warning? Our low life was the level's and the night's; He's for the morning.
Step to a tune, square chests, erect each head, 'Ware the beholders! This is our master, famous calm and dead, Borne on our shoulders.
Sleep, crop and herd! sleep, darkling thorpe and croft, Safe from the weather! He, whom we convoy to his grave aloft, Singing together, He was a man born with thy face and throat, Lyric Apollo! Long he lived nameless: how should spring take note Winter would follow? Till lo, the little touch, and youth was gone! Cramped and diminished, Moaned he, ``New measures, other feet anon! ``My dance is finished?'' No, that's the world's way: (keep the mountain-side, Make for the city!) He knew the signal, and stepped on with pride Over men's pity; Left play for work, and grappled with the world Bent on escaping: ``What's in the scroll,'' quoth he, ``thou keepest furled? ``Show me their shaping, ``Theirs who most studied man, the bard and sage,--- ``Give!''---So, he gowned him, Straight got by heart that hook to its last page: Learned, we found him.
Yea, but we found him bald too, eyes like lead, Accents uncertain: ``Time to taste life,'' another would have said, ``Up with the curtain!'' This man said rather, ``Actual life comes next? ``Patience a moment! ``Grant I have mastered learning's crabbed text, ``Still there's the comment.
``Let me know all! Prate not of most or least, ``Painful or easy! ``Even to the crumbs I'd fain eat up the feast, ``Ay, nor feel queasy.
'' Oh, such a life as he resolved to live, When he had learned it, When he had gathered all books had to give! Sooner, he spurned it.
Image the whole, then execute the parts--- Fancy the fabric Quite, ere you build, ere steel strike fire from quartz, Ere mortar dab brick! (Here's the town-gate reached: there's the market-place Gaping before us.
) Yea, this in him was the peculiar grace (Hearten our chorus!) That before living he'd learn how to live--- No end to learning: Earn the means first---God surely will contrive Use for our earning.
Others mistrust and say, ``But time escapes: ``Live now or never!'' He said, ``What's time? Leave Now for dogs and apes! ``Man has Forever.
'' Back to his book then: deeper drooped his head _Calculus_ racked him: Leaden before, his eyes grew dross of lead: _Tussis_ attacked him.
``Now, master, take a little rest!''---not he! (Caution redoubled, Step two abreast, the way winds narrowly!) Not a whit troubled Back to his studies, fresher than at first, Fierce as a dragon He (soul-hydroptic with a sacred thirst) Sucked at the flagon.
Oh, if we draw a circle premature, Heedless of far gain, Greedy for quick returns of profit, sure Bad is our bargain! Was it not great? did not he throw on God, (He loves the burthen)--- God's task to make the heavenly period Perfect the earthen? Did not he magnify the mind, show clear Just what it all meant? He would not discount life, as fools do here, Paid by instalment.
He ventured neck or nothing---heaven's success Found, or earth's failure: ``Wilt thou trust death or not?'' He answered ``Yes: ``Hence with life's pale lure!'' That low man seeks a little thing to do, Sees it and does it: This high man, with a great thing to pursue, Dies ere he knows it.
That low man goes on adding nine to one, His hundred's soon hit: This high man, aiming at a million, Misses an unit.
That, has the world here---should he need the next, Let the world mind him! This, throws himself on God, and unperplexed Seeking shall find him.
So, with the throttling hands of death at strife, Ground he at grammar; Still, thro' the rattle, parts of speech were rife: While he could stammer He settled _Hoti's_ business---let it be!--- Properly based _Oun_--- Gave us the doctrine of the enclitic _De_, Dead from the waist down.
Well, here's the platform, here's the proper place: Hail to your purlieus, All ye highfliers of the feathered race, Swallows and curlews! Here's the top-peak; the multitude below Live, for they can, there: This man decided not to Live but Know--- Bury this man there? Here---here's his place, where meteors shoot, clouds form, Lightnings are loosened, Stars come and go! Let joy break with the storm, Peace let the dew send! Lofty designs must close in like effects Loftily lying, Leave him---still loftier than the world suspects, Living and dying.
Written by Vladimir Mayakovsky | Create an image from this poem

Back Home

 Thoughts, go your way home.
Embrace, depths of the soul and the sea.
In my view, it is stupid to be always serene.
My cabin is the worst of all cabins - All night above me Thuds a smithy of feet.
All night, stirring the ceiling’s calm, dancers stampede to a moaning motif: “Marquita, Marquita, Marquita my darling, why won’t you, Marquita, why won’t you love me …” But why Should marquita love me?! I have no francs to spare.
And Marquita (at the slightest wink!) for a hundred francs she’d be brought to your room.
The sum’s not large - just live for show - No, you highbrow, ruffling your matted hair, you would thrust upon her a sewing machine, in stitches scribbling the silk of verse.
Proletarians arrive at communism from below - by the low way of mines, sickles, and pitchforks - But I, from poetry’s skies, plunge into communism, because without it I feel no love.
Whether I’m self-exiled or sent to mamma - the steel of words corrodes, the brass of the brass tarnishes.
Why, beneath foreign rains, must I soak, rot, and rust? Here I recline, having gone oversea, in my idleness barely moving my machine parts.
I myself feel like a Soviet factory, manufacturing happiness.
I object to being torn up, like a flower of the fields, after a long day’s work.
I want the Gosplan to sweat in debate, assignning me goals a year ahead.
I want a commissar with a decree to lean over the thought of the age.
I want the heart to earn its love wage at a specialist’s rate.
I want the factory committee to lock My lips when the work is done.
I want the pen to be on a par with the bayonet; and Stalin to deliver his Politbureau reports about verse in the making as he would about pig iron and the smelting of steel.
“That’s how it is, the way it goes … We’ve attained the topmost level, climbing from the workers’ bunks: in the Union of Republics the understanding of verse now tops the prewar norm …” Transcribed: by Mitch Abidor.
Written by Robert Burns | Create an image from this poem

25. My Father was a Farmer: A Ballad

 MY father was a farmer upon the Carrick border, O,
And carefully he bred me in decency and order, O;
He bade me act a manly part, though I had ne’er a farthing, O;
For without an honest manly heart, no man was worth regarding, O.
Then out into the world my course I did determine, O; Tho’ to be rich was not my wish, yet to be great was charming, O; My talents they were not the worst, nor yet my education, O: Resolv’d was I at least to try to mend my situation, O.
In many a way, and vain essay, I courted Fortune’s favour, O; Some cause unseen still stept between, to frustrate each endeavour, O; Sometimes by foes I was o’erpower’d, sometimes by friends forsaken, O; And when my hope was at the top, I still was worst mistaken, O.
Then sore harass’d and tir’d at last, with Fortune’s vain delusion, O, I dropt my schemes, like idle dreams, and came to this conclusion, O; The past was bad, and the future hid, its good or ill untried, O; But the present hour was in my pow’r, and so I would enjoy it, O.
No help, nor hope, nor view had I, nor person to befriend me, O; So I must toil, and sweat, and moil, and labour to sustain me, O; To plough and sow, to reap and mow, my father bred me early, O; For one, he said, to labour bred, was a match for Fortune fairly, O.
Thus all obscure, unknown, and poor, thro’ life I’m doom’d to wander, O, Till down my weary bones I lay in everlasting slumber, O: No view nor care, but shun whate’er might breed me pain or sorrow, O; I live to-day as well’s I may, regardless of to-morrow, O.
But cheerful still, I am as well as a monarch in his palace, O, Tho’ Fortune’s frown still hunts me down, with all her wonted malice, O: I make indeed my daily bread, but ne’er can make it farther, O: But as daily bread is all I need, I do not much regard her, O.
When sometimes by my labour, I earn a little money, O, Some unforeseen misfortune comes gen’rally upon me, O; Mischance, mistake, or by neglect, or my goodnatur’d folly, O: But come what will, I’ve sworn it still, I’ll ne’er be melancholy, O.
All you who follow wealth and power with unremitting ardour, O, The more in this you look for bliss, you leave your view the farther, O: Had you the wealth Potosi boasts, or nations to adore you, O, A cheerful honest-hearted clown I will prefer before you, O.
Written by Galway Kinnell | Create an image from this poem

Blackberry Eating

I love to go out in late September 
among the fat, overripe, icy black blackberries 
to eat blackberries for breakfast, 
the stalks are very prickly, a penalty 
they earn for knowing the black art 
of blackberry-making; and as I stand among them 
lifting the stalks to my mouth, the ripest berries 
fall almost unbidden to my tongue, 
as words sometimes do, certain peculiar words 
like strengths or squinched, 
many-lettered, one-syllabled lumps 
which I squeeze, squinch open, and splurge well 
in the silent, startled, icy, black language 
of blackberry-eating in late September.
12