10 Best Famous End Of Days Poems

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

• All Famous End Of Days Poems

 Honour to you who sit
Near to the well of wit,
And drink your fill of it!

Glory and worship be
To you, sweet Maids, thrice three,
Who still inspire me;

And teach me how to sing
Unto the lyric string,
My measures ravishing!

Then, while I sing your praise,
My priest-hood crown with bays
Green to the end of days!

 Ambition 
I am the maid of the lustrous eyes 
Of great fruition, 
Whom the sons of men that are over-wise 
Have called Ambition. 

And the world's success is the only goal 
I have within me; 
The meanest man with the smallest soul 
May woo and win me. 

For the lust of power and the pride of place 
To all I proffer. 
Wilt thou take thy part in the crowded race 
For what I offer? 

The choice is thine, and the world is wide -- 
Thy path is lonely. 
I may not lead and I may not guide -- 
I urge thee only. 

I am just a whip and a spur that smites 
To fierce endeavour. 
In the restless days and the sleepless nights 
I urge thee ever. 

Thou shalt wake from sleep with a startled cry, 
In fright unleaping 
At a rival's step as it passes by 
Whilst thou art sleeping. 

Honour and truth shall be overthrown 
In fierce desire; 
Thou shalt use thy friend as a stepping-stone 
To mount thee higher. 

When the curtain falls on the sordid strife 
That seemed so splendid, 
Thou shalt look with pain on the wasted life 
That thou hast ended. 

Thou hast sold thy life for a guerdon small 
In fitful flashes; 
There has been reward -- but the end of all 
Is dust and ashes. 

For the night has come and it brings to naught 
Thy projects cherished, 
And thine epitaph shall in brass be wrought -- 
"He lived, and perished." 





Art 
I wait for thee at the outer gate, 
My love, mine only; 
Wherefore tarriest thou so late 
While I am lonely? 

Thou shalt seek my side with a footstep swift; 
In thee implanted 
Is the love of Art and the greatest gift 
That God has granted. 

And the world's concerns with its rights and wrongs 
Shall seem but small things -- 
Poet or painter, or singer of songs, 
Thine art is all things. 

For the wine of life is a woman's love 
To keep beside thee; 
But the love of Art is a thing above -- 
A star to guide thee. 

As the years go by with the love of Art 
All undiminished, 
Thou shalt end thy days with a quiet geart -- 
Thy work is finished. 

So the painter fashions a picture strong 
That fadeth never, 
And the singer singeth a wondrous song 
That lives for ever.

 Her Mother's Epitaph

Here lies
A worthy matron of unspotted life,
A loving mother and obedient wife,
A friendly neighbor, pitiful to poor,
Whom oft she fed, and clothed with her store;
To servants wisely aweful, but yet kind,
And as they did, so they reward did find:
A true instructor of her family,
The which she ordered with dexterity,
The public meetings ever did frequent,
And in her closest constant hours she spent;
Religious in all her words and ways,
Preparing still for death, till end of days:
Of all her children, children lived to see,
Then dying, left a blessed memory. 


Her Father's Epitaph

Within this tomb a patriot lies
That was both pious, just and wise,
To truth a shield, to right a wall,
To sectaries a whip and maul,
A magazine of history,
A prizer of good company
In manners pleasant and severe
The good him loved, the bad did fear,
And when his time with years was spent
In some rejoiced, more did lament.
1653, age 77

 Through Rohan over fen and field where the long grass grows,
The West Wind comes walking, and about the walls it goes.
'What news from the West, O wandering wind, do you bring to me tonight?
Have you seen Boromir the Tall by moon or by starlight?'
'I saw him ride over seven streams, over waters wide and grey.
I saw him walk in empty lands, until he passed away
Into the shadows of the North. I saw him then no more.
The North Wind may have heard the horn of the son of Denethor.'
'O Boromir! From the high walls westward I looked afar,
But you came not from the empty lands where no men are.'

From the mouths of the sea the South Wind flies, from the sandhills and the stones;
The wailing of the gulls it hears, and at the gate it moans.
'What news from the South, O sighing wind, do you bring to me at eve?
Where now is Boromir the fair? He tarries and I grieve!'
'Ask me not of where he doth dwell--so many bones there lie
On the white shores and the dark shores under the stormy sky;
So many have passed down Anduin to find the flowing Sea.
Ask of the North Wind news of them the North Wind sends to me!'
'O Boromir! Beyond the gate the seaward road runs south,
But you came not with the wailing gulls from the grey sea's mouth.'

From the Gate of Kings the North Wind rides, and past the roaring falls;
And clear and cold about the tower its loud horn calls.
'What news from the North, O mighty wind, do you bring to me today?
What news of Boromir the Bold? For he is long away.'
'Beneath Amon Hen I heard his cry. There many foes he fought.
His cloven sheild, his broken sword, they to the water brought.
His head so proud, his face so fair, his limbs they laid to rest;
And Rauros, golden Rauros-falls, bore him upon its breast.'
'O Boromir! The Tower of Guard shall ever northward gaze
To Rauros, golden Rauros-falls, until the end of days.'

 Far, far from here,
The Adriatic breaks in a warm bay
Among the green Illyrian hills; and there
The sunshine in the happy glens is fair,
And by the sea, and in the brakes.
The grass is cool, the sea-side air
Buoyant and fresh, the mountain flowers
More virginal and sweet than ours. 

And there, they say, two bright and aged snakes,
Who once were Cadmus and Harmonia,
Bask in the glens or on the warm sea-shore,
In breathless quiet, after all their ills;
Nor do they see their country, nor the place
Where the Sphinx lived among the frowning hills,
Nor the unhappy palace of their race,
Nor Thebes, nor the Ismenus, any more. 

There those two live, far in the Illyrian brakes!
They had stay'd long enough to see,
In Thebes, the billow of calamity
Over their own dear children roll'd, 
Curse upon curse, pang upon pang, 
For years, they sitting helpless in their home, 
A grey old man and woman; yet of old 
The Gods had to their marriage come, 
And at the banquet all the Muses sang. 

Therefore they did not end their days 
In sight of blood, but were rapt, far away, 
To where the west-wind plays,
And murmurs of the Adriatic come 
To those untrodden mountain-lawns; and there 
Placed safely in changed forms, the pair 
Wholly forgot their first sad life, and home, 
And all that Theban woe, and stray 
For ever through the glens, placid and dumb.

 To clasp you now and feel your head close-pressed,
Scented and warm against my beating breast;

To whisper soft and quivering your name,
And drink the passion burning in your frame;

To lie at full length, taut, with cheek to cheek,
And tease your mouth with kisses till you speak

Love words, mad words, dream words, sweet senseless words,
Melodious like notes of mating birds;

To hear you ask if I shall love always,
And myself answer: Till the end of days;

To feel your easeful sigh of happiness
When on your trembling lips I murmur: Yes;

It is so sweet. We know it is not true.
What matters it? The night must shed her dew.

We know it is not true, but it is sweet -- 
The poem with this music is complete.

 When in from Delos came the gold 
That held the dream of Pericles, 
When first Athenian ears were told 
The tumult of Euripides, 
When men met Aristophanes,
Who fledged them with immortal quills— 
Here, where the time knew none of these, 
There were some islands and some hills. 

When Rome went ravening to see 
The sons of mothers end their days,
When Flaccus bade Leuconoë 
To banish her chaldean ways, 
When first the pearled, alembic phrase 
Of Maro into music ran— 
Here there was neither blame nor praise
For Rome, or for the Mantuan. 

When Avon, like a faery floor, 
Lay freighted, for the eyes of One, 
With galleons laden long before 
By moonlit wharves in Avalon—
Here, where the white lights have begun 
To seethe a way for something fair, 
No prophet knew, from what was done, 
That there was triumph in the air.

 I gave an eye to save from night
 A babe born blind;
And now with eager semi-sight
 Vast joy I find
To think a child can share with me
 Earth ecstasy!

Delight of dawn with dewy gleam
 On damask rose;
Crimson and gold as pennons stream
 Where sunset flows;
And sight most nigh to paradise,
 Star-studded skies.

Ah! How in old of age I feel,
 E'er end my days,
Could I star-splendoured sky reveal
 To childish gaze,
Not one eye would I give, but two,--
 Well, wouldn't you?