Best Famous Edging Poems

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

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• All Famous Edging Poems

Written by Erin Belieu | All Distance Writing from Boston, where sky is simply property, a flourish topping crowds of condos and historic real estate, I'm trying to imagine blue sky: the first time, where it happened, what I was becoming. Being taken there by car, from a town so newly born that grass still accounted all distance, an explanation drawn in measureless yellows, a tone stubbling the whole world, ten minutes away. Consider now how the single pussy willow edging a cattle pond in winter becomes a wind-shivered monument to what this mean a placid loneliness asking nothing, nothing?... Not knowing then the proper name for things green chubs of milo, the husbandry of soy, bovine patience, the rhythm of the cud, sea green foam washing round a cow's mouth, its tender udders, the surprise of an animal's dignity... but something comes before Before car or cow, before sky becomes... That sky, I mean, disregarded as buried memory ... Yes. There was a time before. Remember when the tiny sightless hand could not know, not say hand, but knew it in its straying, knew it in the cool condensation steaming the station wagon windows, thrums of heat blowing a brand of idiot's safety over the brightly-wrapped package that was then your body, well-loved? This must have been you, looking out at that world of flat, buttered fields and blackbirds ascending... ' But what was sky then? Today, I receive a postcard of a blue guitar. Here, snow falls with wings, tumbling in its feathered body, melting on the window glass. How each evening becomes another beautiful woman holding the color of expensive sapphires against her throat, I'll never know. It is an ordinary clarity. So then was it music? Something like love or words, a sentimental moment once years ago, that blue sky? How soon the sky and I have grown apart. On the postcard, an old man hangs half-dead, strung over his instrument, and what I have imagined is half-dead, too. Our bones end hollow, sky blue; the flute comes untuned.

Written by James A Emanuel | Emmett Till * I hear a whistling Through the water. Little Emmett Won't be still. He keeps floating Round the darkness, Edging through The silent chill. Tell me, please, That bedtime story Of the fairy River Boy Who swims forever, Deep in treasures, Necklaced in A coral toy. * In 1955, Till, a fourteen-year-old from Chicago, for allegedly whistling at a white woman in Mississippi, was murdered by white men who tied a gin mill fan around his neck and threw his body into the Tallahatchie River.

Written by Walt Whitman | Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking 1 OUT of the cradle endlessly rocking, Out of the mocking-bird’s throat, the musical shuttle, Out of the Ninth-month midnight, Over the sterile sands, and the fields beyond, where the child, leaving his bed, wander’d alone, bare-headed, barefoot, Down from the shower’d halo, Up from the mystic play of shadows, twining and twisting as if they were alive, Out from the patches of briers and blackberries, From the memories of the bird that chanted to me, From your memories, sad brother—from the fitful risings and fallings I heard, From under that yellow half-moon, late-risen, and swollen as if with tears, From those beginning notes of sickness and love, there in the transparent mist, From the thousand responses of my heart, never to cease, From the myriad thence-arous’d words, From the word stronger and more delicious than any, From such, as now they start, the scene revisiting, As a flock, twittering, rising, or overhead passing, Borne hither—ere all eludes me, hurriedly, A man—yet by these tears a little boy again, Throwing myself on the sand, confronting the waves, I, chanter of pains and joys, uniter of here and hereafter, Taking all hints to use them—but swiftly leaping beyond them, A reminiscence sing. 2 Once, Paumanok, When the snows had melted—when the lilac-scent was in the air, and the Fifth-month grass was growing, Up this sea-shore, in some briers, Two guests from Alabama—two together, And their nest, and four light-green eggs, spotted with brown, And every day the he-bird, to and fro, near at hand, And every day the she-bird, crouch’d on her nest, silent, with bright eyes, And every day I, a curious boy, never too close, never disturbing them, Cautiously peering, absorbing, translating. 3 Shine! shine! shine! Pour down your warmth, great Sun! While we bask—we two together. Two together! Winds blow South, or winds blow North, Day come white, or night come black, Home, or rivers and mountains from home, Singing all time, minding no time, While we two keep together. 4 Till of a sudden, May-be kill’d, unknown to her mate, One forenoon the she-bird crouch’d not on the nest, Nor return’d that afternoon, nor the next, Nor ever appear’d again. And thenceforward, all summer, in the sound of the sea, And at night, under the full of the moon, in calmer weather, Over the hoarse surging of the sea, Or flitting from brier to brier by day, I saw, I heard at intervals, the remaining one, the he-bird, The solitary guest from Alabama. 5 Blow! blow! blow! Blow up, sea-winds, along Paumanok’s shore! I wait and I wait, till you blow my mate to me. 6 Yes, when the stars glisten’d, All night long, on the prong of a moss-scallop’d stake, Down, almost amid the slapping waves, Sat the lone singer, wonderful, causing tears. He call’d on his mate; He pour’d forth the meanings which I, of all men, know. Yes, my brother, I know; The rest might not—but I have treasur’d every note; For once, and more than once, dimly, down to the beach gliding, Silent, avoiding the moonbeams, blending myself with the shadows, Recalling now the obscure shapes, the echoes, the sounds and sights after their sorts, The white arms out in the breakers tirelessly tossing, I, with bare feet, a child, the wind wafting my hair, Listen’d long and long. Listen’d, to keep, to sing—now translating the notes, Following you, my brother. 7 Soothe! soothe! soothe! Close on its wave soothes the wave behind, And again another behind, embracing and lapping, every one close, But my love soothes not me, not me. Low hangs the moon—it rose late; O it is lagging—O I think it is heavy with love, with love. O madly the sea pushes, pushes upon the land, With love—with love. O night! do I not see my love fluttering out there among the breakers? What is that little black thing I see there in the white? Loud! loud! loud! Loud I call to you, my love! High and clear I shoot my voice over the waves; Surely you must know who is here, is here; You must know who I am, my love. Low-hanging moon! What is that dusky spot in your brown yellow? O it is the shape, the shape of my mate! O moon, do not keep her from me any longer. Land! land! O land! Whichever way I turn, O I think you could give me my mate back again, if you only would; For I am almost sure I see her dimly whichever way I look. O rising stars! Perhaps the one I want so much will rise, will rise with some of you. O throat! O trembling throat! Sound clearer through the atmosphere! Pierce the woods, the earth; Somewhere listening to catch you, must be the one I want. Shake out, carols! Solitary here—the night’s carols! Carols of lonesome love! Death’s carols! Carols under that lagging, yellow, waning moon! O, under that moon, where she droops almost down into the sea! O reckless, despairing carols. But soft! sink low; Soft! let me just murmur; And do you wait a moment, you husky-noised sea; For somewhere I believe I heard my mate responding to me, So faint—I must be still, be still to listen; But not altogether still, for then she might not come immediately to me. Hither, my love! Here I am! Here! With this just-sustain’d note I announce myself to you; This gentle call is for you, my love, for you. Do not be decoy’d elsewhere! That is the whistle of the wind—it is not my voice; That is the fluttering, the fluttering of the spray; Those are the shadows of leaves. O darkness! O in vain! O I am very sick and sorrowful. O brown halo in the sky, near the moon, drooping upon the sea! O troubled reflection in the sea! O throat! O throbbing heart! O all—and I singing uselessly, uselessly all the night. Yet I murmur, murmur on! O murmurs—you yourselves make me continue to sing, I know not why. O past! O life! O songs of joy! In the air—in the woods—over fields; Loved! loved! loved! loved! loved! But my love no more, no more with me! We two together no more. 8 The aria sinking; All else continuing—the stars shining, The winds blowing—the notes of the bird continuous echoing, With angry moans the fierce old mother incessantly moaning, On the sands of Paumanok’s shore, gray and rustling; The yellow half-moon enlarged, sagging down, drooping, the face of the sea almost touching; The boy extatic—with his bare feet the waves, with his hair the atmosphere dallying, The love in the heart long pent, now loose, now at last tumultuously bursting, The aria’s meaning, the ears, the Soul, swiftly depositing, The strange tears down the cheeks coursing, The colloquy there—the trio—each uttering, The undertone—the savage old mother, incessantly crying, To the boy’s Soul’s questions sullenly timing—some drown’d secret hissing, To the outsetting bard of love. 9 Demon or bird! (said the boy’s soul,) Is it indeed toward your mate you sing? or is it mostly to me? For I, that was a child, my tongue’s use sleeping, Now I have heard you, Now in a moment I know what I am for—I awake, And already a thousand singers—a thousand songs, clearer, louder and more sorrowful than yours, A thousand warbling echoes have started to life within me, Never to die. O you singer, solitary, singing by yourself—projecting me; O solitary me, listening—nevermore shall I cease perpetuating you; Never more shall I escape, never more the reverberations, Never more the cries of unsatisfied love be absent from me, Never again leave me to be the peaceful child I was before what there, in the night, By the sea, under the yellow and sagging moon, The messenger there arous’d—the fire, the sweet hell within, The unknown want, the destiny of me. O give me the clew! (it lurks in the night here somewhere;) O if I am to have so much, let me have more! O a word! O what is my destination? (I fear it is henceforth chaos;) O how joys, dreads, convolutions, human shapes, and all shapes, spring as from graves around me! O phantoms! you cover all the land and all the sea! O I cannot see in the dimness whether you smile or frown upon me; O vapor, a look, a word! O well-beloved! O you dear women’s and men’s phantoms! A word then, (for I will conquer it,) The word final, superior to all, Subtle, sent up—what is it?—I listen; Are you whispering it, and have been all the time, you sea-waves? Is that it from your liquid rims and wet sands? 10 Whereto answering, the sea, Delaying not, hurrying not, Whisper’d me through the night, and very plainly before day-break, Lisp’d to me the low and delicious word DEATH; And again Death—ever Death, Death, Death, Hissing melodious, neither like the bird, nor like my arous’d child’s heart, But edging near, as privately for me, rustling at my feet, Creeping thence steadily up to my ears, and laving me softly all over, Death, Death, Death, Death, Death. Which I do not forget, But fuse the song of my dusky demon and brother, That he sang to me in the moonlight on Paumanok’s gray beach, With the thousand responsive songs, at random, My own songs, awaked from that hour; And with them the key, the word up from the waves, The word of the sweetest song, and all songs, That strong and delicious word which, creeping to my feet, The sea whisper’d me.

Written by Dame Edith Sitwell | Four in the Morning Cried the navy-blue ghost Of Mr. Belaker The allegro ***** cocktail-shaker, "Why did the cock crow, Why am I lost, Down the endless road to Infinity toss'd? The tropical leaves are whispering white As water; I race the wind in my flight. The white lace houses are carried away By the tide; far out they float and sway. White is the nursemaid on the parade. Is she real, as she flirts with me unafraid? I raced through the leaves as white as water... Ghostly, flowed over the nursemaid, caught her, Left her...edging the far-off sand Is the foam of the sirens' Metropole and Grand; And along the parade I am blown and lost, Down the endless road to Infinity toss'd. The guinea-fowl-plumaged houses sleep... On one, I saw the lone grass weep, Where only the whimpering greyhound wind Chased me, raced me, for what it could find." And there in the black and furry boughs How slowly, coldly, old Time grows, Where the pigeons smelling of gingerbread, And the spectacled owls so deeply read, And the sweet ring-doves of curded milk Watch the Infanta's gown of silk In the ghost-room tall where the governante Gesticulates lente and walks andante. 'Madam, Princesses must be obedient; For a medicine now becomes expedient-- Of five ingredients--a diapente, Said the governante, fading lente... In at the window then looked he, The navy-blue ghost of Mr. Belaker, The allegro ***** cocktail-shaker-- And his flattened face like the moon saw she-- Rhinoceros-black (a flowing sea!).

Written by Henry Lawson | Dan The Wreck Tall, and stout, and solid-looking, Yet a wreck; None would think Death's finger's hooking Him from deck. Cause of half the fun that's started -- `Hard-case' Dan -- Isn't like a broken-hearted, Ruined man. Walking-coat from tail to throat is Frayed and greened -- Like a man whose other coat is Being cleaned; Gone for ever round the edging Past repair -- Waistcoat pockets frayed with dredging After `sprats' no longer there. Wearing summer boots in June, or Slippers worn and old -- Like a man whose other shoon are Getting soled. Pants? They're far from being recent -- But, perhaps, I'd better not -- Says they are the only decent Pair he's got. And his hat, I am afraid, is Troubling him -- Past all lifting to the ladies By the brim. But, although he'd hardly strike a Girl, would Dan, Yet he wears his wreckage like a Gentleman! Once -- no matter how the rest dressed -- Up or down -- Once, they say, he was the best-dressed Man in town. Must have been before I knew him -- Now you'd scarcely care to meet And be noticed talking to him In the street. Drink the cause, and dissipation, That is clear -- Maybe friend or kind relation Cause of beer. And the talking fool, who never Reads or thinks, Says, from hearsay: `Yes, he's clever; But, you know, he drinks.' Been an actor and a writer -- Doesn't whine -- Reckoned now the best reciter In his line. Takes the stage at times, and fills it -- `Princess May' or `Waterloo'. Raise a sneer! -- his first line kills it, `Brings 'em', too. Where he lives, or how, or wherefore No one knows; Lost his real friends, and therefore Lost his foes. Had, no doubt, his own romances -- Met his fate; Tortured, doubtless, by the chances And the luck that comes too late. Now and then his boots are polished, Collar clean, And the worst grease stains abolished By ammonia or benzine: Hints of some attempt to shove him From the taps, Or of someone left to love him -- Sister, p'r'aps. After all, he is a grafter, Earns his cheer -- Keeps the room in roars of laughter When he gets outside a beer. Yarns that would fall flat from others He can tell; How he spent his `stuff', my brothers, You know well. Manner puts a man in mind of Old club balls and evening dress, Ugly with a handsome kind of Ugliness. . . . . . One of those we say of often, While hearts swell, Standing sadly by the coffin: `He looks well.' . . . . . We may be -- so goes a rumour -- Bad as Dan; But we may not have the humour Of the man; Nor the sight -- well, deem it blindness, As the general public do -- And the love of human kindness, Or the GRIT to see it through!

Written by A R Ammons | Design The drop seeps whole from boulder-lichen or ledge moss and drops, joining, to trickle, run, fall, dash, sprawl in held deeps, to rush shallows, spill thin through heights, but then, edging, to eddy aside, nothing of all but nothing's curl of motion spent.

Written by Francesco Petrarch | Sonnet CI SONNET CI. Io canterei d' Amor sì novamente. REPLY TO A SONNET OF JACOPO DA LENTINO. Ways apt and new to sing of love I'd find,Forcing from her hard heart full many a sigh,And re-enkindle in her frozen mindDesires a thousand, passionate and high;O'er her fair face would see each swift change pass,See her fond eyes at length where pity reigns,As one who sorrows when too late, alas!For his own error and another's pains;See the fresh roses edging that fair snowMove with her breath, that ivory descried,Which turns to marble him who sees it near;See all, for which in this brief life belowMyself I weary not but rather prideThat Heaven for later times has kept me here. Macgregor.