Best Famous Edith Poems

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

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• All Famous Edith Poems

Written by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow | The Childrens Hour Between the dark and the daylight, When the night is beginning to lower, Comes a pause in the day's occupations, That is known as the Children's Hour. I hear in the chamber above me The patter of little feet, The sound of a door that is opened, And voices soft and sweet. From my study I see in the lamplight, Descending the broad hall stair, Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra, And Edith with golden hair. A whisper, and then a silence: Yet I know by their merry eyes They are plotting and planning together To take me by surprise. A sudden rush from the stairway, A sudden raid from the hall! By three doors left unguarded They enter my castle wall! They climb up into my turret O'er the arms and back of my chair; If I try to escape, they surround me; They seem to be everywhere. They almost devour me with kisses, Their arms about me entwine, Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine! Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti, Because you have scaled the wall, Such an old mustache as I am Is not a match for you all! I have you fast in my fortress, And will not let you depart, But put you down into the dungeon In the round-tower of my heart. And there will I keep you forever, Yes, forever and a day, Till the walls shall crumble to ruin, And moulder in dust away!

Written by Allen Ginsberg | Death and Fame When I die I don't care what happens to my body throw ashes in the air, scatter 'em in East River bury an urn in Elizabeth New Jersey, B'nai Israel Cemetery But l want a big funeral St. Patrick's Cathedral, St. Mark's Church, the largest synagogue in Manhattan First, there's family, brother, nephews, spry aged Edith stepmother 96, Aunt Honey from old Newark, Doctor Joel, cousin Mindy, brother Gene one eyed one ear'd, sister- in-law blonde Connie, five nephews, stepbrothers & sisters their grandchildren, companion Peter Orlovsky, caretakers Rosenthal & Hale, Bill Morgan-- Next, teacher Trungpa Vajracharya's ghost mind, Gelek Rinpoche, there Sakyong Mipham, Dalai Lama alert, chance visiting America, Satchitananda Swami Shivananda, Dehorahava Baba, Karmapa XVI, Dudjom Rinpoche, Katagiri & Suzuki Roshi's phantoms Baker, Whalen, Daido Loorie, Qwong, Frail White-haired Kapleau Roshis, Lama Tarchen -- Then, most important, lovers over half-century Dozens, a hundred, more, older fellows bald & rich young boys met naked recently in bed, crowds surprised to see each other, innumerable, intimate, exchanging memories "He taught me to meditate, now I'm an old veteran of the thousand day retreat --" "I played music on subway platforms, I'm straight but loved him he loved me" "I felt more love from him at 19 than ever from anyone" "We'd lie under covers gossip, read my poetry, hug & kiss belly to belly arms round each other" "I'd always get into his bed with underwear on & by morning my skivvies would be on the floor" "Japanese, always wanted take it up my bum with a master" "We'd talk all night about Kerouac & Cassady sit Buddhalike then sleep in his captain's bed." "He seemed to need so much affection, a shame not to make him happy" "I was lonely never in bed nude with anyone before, he was so gentle my stomach shuddered when he traced his finger along my abdomen nipple to hips-- " "All I did was lay back eyes closed, he'd bring me to come with mouth & fingers along my waist" "He gave great head" So there be gossip from loves of 1948, ghost of Neal Cassady commin- gling with flesh and youthful blood of 1997 and surprise -- "You too? But I thought you were straight!" "I am but Ginsberg an exception, for some reason he pleased me." "I forgot whether I was straight gay ***** or funny, was myself, tender and affectionate to be kissed on the top of my head, my forehead throat heart & solar plexus, mid-belly. on my prick, tickled with his tongue my behind" "I loved the way he'd recite 'But at my back allways hear/ time's winged chariot hurrying near,' heads together, eye to eye, on a pillow --" Among lovers one handsome youth straggling the rear "I studied his poetry class, 17 year-old kid, ran some errands to his walk-up flat, seduced me didn't want to, made me come, went home, never saw him again never wanted to... " "He couldn't get it up but loved me," "A clean old man." "He made sure I came first" This the crowd most surprised proud at ceremonial place of honor-- Then poets & musicians -- college boys' grunge bands -- age-old rock star Beatles, faithful guitar accompanists, gay classical con- ductors, unknown high Jazz music composers, funky trum- peters, bowed bass & french horn black geniuses, folksinger fiddlers with dobro tamborine harmonica mandolin auto- harp pennywhistles & kazoos Next, artist Italian romantic realists schooled in mystic 60's India, Late fauve Tuscan painter-poets, Classic draftsman Massa- chusets surreal jackanapes with continental wives, poverty sketchbook gesso oil watercolor masters from American provinces Then highschool teachers, lonely Irish librarians, delicate biblio- philes, sex liberation troops nay armies, ladies of either sex "I met him dozens of times he never remembered my name I loved him anyway, true artist" "Nervous breakdown after menopause, his poetry humor saved me from suicide hospitals" "Charmant, genius with modest manners, washed sink, dishes my studio guest a week in Budapest" Thousands of readers, "Howl changed my life in Libertyville Illinois" "I saw him read Montclair State Teachers College decided be a poet-- " "He turned me on, I started with garage rock sang my songs in Kansas City" "Kaddish made me weep for myself & father alive in Nevada City" "Father Death comforted me when my sister died Boston l982" "I read what he said in a newsmagazine, blew my mind, realized others like me out there" Deaf & Dumb bards with hand signing quick brilliant gestures Then Journalists, editors's secretaries, agents, portraitists & photo- graphy aficionados, rock critics, cultured laborors, cultural historians come to witness the historic funeral Super-fans, poetasters, aging Beatnicks & Deadheads, autograph- hunters, distinguished paparazzi, intelligent gawkers Everyone knew they were part of 'History" except the deceased who never knew exactly what was happening even when I was alive February 22, 1997

Written by Edith Wharton | An Autumn Sunset I Leaguered in fire The wild black promontories of the coast extend Their savage silhouettes; The sun in universal carnage sets, And, halting higher, The motionless storm-clouds mass their sullen threats, Like an advancing mob in sword-points penned, That, balked, yet stands at bay. Mid-zenith hangs the fascinated day In wind-lustrated hollows crystalline, A wan Valkyrie whose wide pinions shine Across the ensanguined ruins of the fray, And in her hand swings high o'erhead, Above the waste of war, The silver torch-light of the evening star Wherewith to search the faces of the dead. II Lagooned in gold, Seem not those jetty promontories rather The outposts of some ancient land forlorn, Uncomforted of morn, Where old oblivions gather, The melancholy unconsoling fold Of all things that go utterly to death And mix no more, no more With life's perpetually awakening breath? Shall Time not ferry me to such a shore, Over such sailless seas, To walk with hope's slain importunities In miserable marriage? Nay, shall not All things be there forgot, Save the sea's golden barrier and the black Close-crouching promontories? Dead to all shames, forgotten of all glories, Shall I not wander there, a shadow's shade, A spectre self-destroyed, So purged of all remembrance and sucked back Into the primal void, That should we on that shore phantasmal meet I should not know the coming of your feet?

Written by Edith Nesbit | St. Valentines Day The South is a dream of flowers With a jewel for sky and sea, Rose-crowns for the dancing hours, Gold fruits upon every tree; But cold from the North The wind blows forth That blows my love to me. The stars in the South are gold Like lamps between sky and sea; The flowers that the forests hold. Like stars between tree and tree; But little and white Is the pale moon's light That lights my love to me. In the South the orange grove Makes dusk by the dusky sea, White palaces wrought for love Gleam white between tree and tree, But under bare boughs Is the little house Warm-lit for my love and me.

Written by Dame Edith Sitwell | Came the Great Popinjay CAME the great Popinjay Smelling his nosegay: In cages like grots The birds sang gavottes. 'Herodiade's flea Was named sweet Amanda, She danced like a lady From here to Uganda. Oh, what a dance was there! Long-haired, the candle Salome-like tossed her hair To a dance tune by Handel.' . . . Dance they still? Then came Courtier Death, Blew out the candle flame With civet breath.

Written by Erica Jong | Henry James in the Heart of the City We have a small sculpture of Henry James on our terrace in New York City. Nothing would surprise him. The beast in the jungle was what he saw-- Edith Wharton's obfuscating older brother. . . He fled the demons of Manhattan for fear they would devour his inner ones (the ones who wrote the books) & silence the stifled screams of his protagonists. To Europe like a wandering Jew-- WASP that he was-- but with the Jew's outsider's hunger. . . face pressed up to the glass of sex refusing every passion but the passion to write the words grew more & more complex & convoluted until they utterly imprisoned him in their fairytale brambles. Language for me is meant to be a transparency, clear water gleaming under a covered bridge. . . I love his spiritual sister because she snatched clarity from her murky history. Tormented New Yorkers both, but she journeyed to the heart of light-- did he? She took her friends on one last voyage, through the isles of Greece on a yacht chartered with her royalties-- a rich girl proud to be making her own money. The light of the Middle Sea was what she sought. All denizens of this demonic city caught between pitch and black long for the light. But she found it in a few of her books. . . while Henry James discovered what he had probably started with: that beast, that jungle, that solipsistic scream. He did not join her on that final cruise. (He was on his own final cruise). Did he want to? I would wager yes. I look back with love and sorrow at them both-- dear teachers-- but she shines like Miss Liberty to Emma Lazarus' hordes, while he gazes within, always, at his own impenetrable jungle.

Written by Barry Tebb | A Call To Arms It was like chucking-out time In a rough Victorian pub Cherubic Dylan was first to go Lachrymose but with a show Of strength, yelling "Buggerall, Buggerall, this is my boat-house In Laugherne, these are my books, My prizes, I ride every wave-crest, My loves are legion. What’s this You’re saying about fashion? Others follow where I lead, Schoolchildren copy my verse, No anthology omits me Put me down! Put me down! George Barker was too far gone To take them on And moaned about a list In a crystal cave of making beneath The basement of the Regent Street Polytechnic. Edith Sitwell was rigid in a carved High-backed chair, regally aloof, Her ringed fingers gripping the arms, Her eyes flashing diamonds of contempt. "A la lampe! A la lampe!" A serious fight broke out in the saloon bar When they tried to turf Redgrove out: His image of the poet as violent man Broke loose and in his turtle-necked Seaman’s jersey he shouted, "Man the barricades!" A tirade of nature-paths and voters For a poetry of love mixed it with The chuckers-out; Kennedy, Morley And Hulse suffered a sharp repulse. Heath-Stubbs was making death stabs With his blindman’s stick at the ankles Of detractors from his position under The high table of chivalry, intoning A prayer to raise the spirit Of Sidney Keyes. Geoffrey Hill had Merlin and Arthur Beside him and was whirling an axe To great effect, headless New Gen poets Running amok. Andrew Crozier was leading a counter-attack With Caddy and Hinton neck and neck And Silkin was quietly garrotting While he kept on smiling. Price Turner was so happy at the slaughter He hanged himself in a corner And Hughes brought the Great White Boar To wallow in all the gore While I rode centaur Charles Tomlinson had sent for.

Written by Dame Edith Sitwell | When Cold December WHEN cold December Froze to grisamber The jangling bells on the sweet rose-trees-- Then fading slow And furred is the snow As the almond's sweet husk-- And smelling like musk. The snow amygdaline Under the eglantine Where the bristling stars shine Like a gilt porcupine-- The snow confesses The little Princesses On their small chioppines Dance under the orpines. See the casuistries Of their slant fluttering eyes-- Gilt as the zodiac (Dancing Herodiac). Only the snow slides Like gilded myrrh-- From the rose-branches--hides Rose-roots that stir.

Written by Edith Wharton | Chartres I Immense, august, like some Titanic bloom, The mighty choir unfolds its lithic core, Petalled with panes of azure, gules and or, Splendidly lambent in the Gothic gloom, And stamened with keen flamelets that illume The pale high-alter. On the prayer-worn floor, By worshippers innumerous thronged of yore, A few brown crones, familiars of the tomb, The stranded driftwood of Faith's ebbing sea-- For these alone the finials fret the skies, The topmost bosses shake their blossoms free, While from the triple portals, with grave eyes, Tranquil, and fixed upon eternity, The cloud of witnesses still testifies. II The crimson panes like blood-drops stigmatise The western floor. The aisles are mute and cold. A rigid fetich in her robe of gold, The Virgin of the Pillar, with blank eyes, Enthroned beneath her votive canopies, Gathers a meagre remnant to her fold. The rest is solitude; the church, grown old, Stands stark and grey beneath the burning skies. Well-nigh again its mighty framework grows To be a part of nature's self, withdrawn From hot humanity's impatient woes; The floor is ridged like some rude mountain lawn, And in the east one giant window shows The roseate coldness of an Alp at dawn.

Written by Dame Edith Sitwell | Bells Of Gray Crystal Bells of gray crystal Break on each bough-- The swans' breath will mist all The cold airs now. Like tall pagodas Two people go, Trail their long codas Of talk through the snow. Lonely are these And lonely and I .... The clouds, gray Chinese geese Sleek through the sky.