Get Your Premium Membership

Best Famous Endeavor Poems

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

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

See Also:
Written by Edgar Allan Poe | Create an image from this poem

The Bells

 I

Hear the sledges with the bells-
Silver bells!
What a world of merriment their melody foretells!
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,
In the icy air of night!
While the stars that oversprinkle
All the heavens, seem to twinkle
With a crystalline delight;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells-
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.

II

Hear the mellow wedding bells,
Golden bells!
What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!
Through the balmy air of night
How they ring out their delight!
From the molten-golden notes,
And an in tune,
What a liquid ditty floats
To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats
On the moon!
Oh, from out the sounding cells,
What a gush of euphony voluminously wells!
How it swells!
How it dwells
On the Future! how it tells
Of the rapture that impels
To the swinging and the ringing
Of the bells, bells, bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells,bells,
Bells, bells, bells-
To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!

III

Hear the loud alarum bells-
Brazen bells!
What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells!
In the startled ear of night
How they scream out their affright!
Too much horrified to speak,
They can only shriek, shriek,
Out of tune,
In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire,
Leaping higher, higher, higher,
With a desperate desire,
And a resolute endeavor,
Now- now to sit or never,
By the side of the pale-faced moon.
Oh, the bells, bells, bells!
What a tale their terror tells
Of Despair!
How they clang, and clash, and roar!
What a horror they outpour
On the bosom of the palpitating air!
Yet the ear it fully knows,
By the twanging,
And the clanging,
How the danger ebbs and flows:
Yet the ear distinctly tells,
In the jangling,
And the wrangling,
How the danger sinks and swells,
By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells-
Of the bells-
Of the bells, bells, bells,bells,
Bells, bells, bells-
In the clamor and the clangor of the bells!

IV

Hear the tolling of the bells-
Iron Bells!
What a world of solemn thought their monody compels!
In the silence of the night,
How we shiver with affright
At the melancholy menace of their tone!
For every sound that floats
From the rust within their throats
Is a groan.
And the people- ah, the people-
They that dwell up in the steeple,
All Alone
And who, tolling, tolling, tolling,
In that muffled monotone,
Feel a glory in so rolling
On the human heart a stone-
They are neither man nor woman-
They are neither brute nor human-
They are Ghouls:
And their king it is who tolls;
And he rolls, rolls, rolls,
Rolls
A paean from the bells!
And his merry bosom swells
With the paean of the bells!
And he dances, and he yells;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the paean of the bells-
Of the bells:
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the throbbing of the bells-
Of the bells, bells, bells-
To the sobbing of the bells;
Keeping time, time, time,
As he knells, knells, knells,
In a happy Runic rhyme,
To the rolling of the bells-
Of the bells, bells, bells:
To the tolling of the bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells-
Bells, bells, bells-
To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.


Written by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow | Create an image from this poem

The Day is Done

THE DAY is done and the darkness 
Falls from the wings of Night  
As a feather is wafted downward 
From an eagle in his flight. 

I see the lights of the village 5 
Gleam through the rain and the mist  
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me 
That my soul cannot resist: 

A feeling of sadness and longing  
That is not akin to pain 10 
And resembles sorrow only 
As the mist resembles the rain. 

Come read to me some poem  
Some simple and heartfelt lay  
That shall soothe this restless feeling 15 
And banish the thoughts of day. 

Not from the grand old masters  
Not from the bards sublime  
Whose distant footsteps echo 
Through the corridors of Time. 20 

For like strains of martial music  
Their mighty thoughts suggest 
Life's endless toil and endeavor; 
And to-night I long for rest. 

Read from some humbler poet 25 
Whose songs gushed from his heart  
As showers from the clouds of summer  
Or tears from the eyelids start; 

Who through long days of labor  
And nights devoid of ease 30 
Still heard in his soul the music 
Of wonderful melodies. 

Such songs have power to quiet 
The restless pulse of care  
And come like the benediction 35 
That follows after prayer. 

Then read from the treasured volume 
The poem of thy choice  
And lend to the rhyme of the poet 
The beauty of thy voice. 40 

And the night shall be filled with music  
And the cares that infest the day  
Shall fold their tents like the Arabs  
And as silently steal away.
Written by Emma Lazarus | Create an image from this poem

Success

 Oft have I brooded on defeat and pain, 
The pathos of the stupid, stumbling throng. 
These I ignore to-day and only long 
To pour my soul forth in one trumpet strain, 
One clear, grief-shattering, triumphant song, 
For all the victories of man's high endeavor, 
Palm-bearing, laurel deeds that live forever, 
The splendor clothing him whose will is strong. 
Hast thou beheld the deep, glad eyes of one 
Who has persisted and achieved? Rejoice! 
On naught diviner shines the all-seeing sun. 
Salute him with free heart and choral voice, 
'Midst flippant, feeble crowds of spectres wan, 
The bold, significant, successful man.
Written by Emily Dickinson | Create an image from this poem

A Prison gets to be a friend --

 A Prison gets to be a friend --
Between its Ponderous face
And Ours -- a Kinsmanship express --
And in its narrow Eyes --

We come to look with gratitude
For the appointed Beam
It deal us -- stated as our food --
And hungered for -- the same --

We learn to know the Planks --
That answer to Our feet --
So miserable a sound -- at first --
Nor ever now -- so sweet --

As plashing in the Pools --
When Memory was a Boy --
But a Demurer Circuit --
A Geometric Joy --

The Posture of the Key
That interrupt the Day
To Our Endeavor -- Not so real
The Check of Liberty --

As this Phantasm Steel --
Whose features -- Day and Night --
Are present to us -- as Our Own --
And as escapeless -- quite --

The narrow Round -- the Stint --
The slow exchange of Hope --
For something passiver -- Content
Too steep for lookinp up --

The Liberty we knew
Avoided -- like a Dream --
Too wide for any Night but Heaven --
If That -- indeed -- redeem --
Written by Lewis Carroll | Create an image from this poem

Fit the Fifth ( Hunting of the Snark )

 The Beaver's Lesson 

They sought it with thimbles, they sought it with care; 
They pursued it with forks and hope; 
They threatened its life with a railway-share; 
They charmed it with smiles and soap. 

Then the Butcher contrived an ingenious plan 
For making a separate sally; 
And fixed on a spot unfrequented by man, 
A dismal and desolate valley. 


But the very same plan to the Beaver occurred: 
It had chosen the very same place: 
Yet neither betrayed, by a sign or a word, 
The disgust that appeared in his face. 

Each thought he was thinking of nothing but "Snark" 
And the glorious work of the day; 
And each tried to pretend that he did not remark 
That the other was going that way. 

But the valley grew narrow and narrower still, 
And the evening got darker and colder, 
Till (merely from nervousness, not from goodwill) 
They marched along shoulder to shoulder. 

Then a scream, shrill and high, rent the shuddering sky, 
And they knew that some danger was near: 
The Beaver turned pale to the tip of its tail, 
And even the Butcher felt *****. 

He thought of his childhood, left far far behind-- 
That blissful and innocent state-- 
The sound so exactly recalled to his mind 
A pencil that squeaks on a slate! 


"'Tis the voice of the Jubjub!" he suddenly cried. 
(This man, that they used to call "Dunce.") 
"As the Bellman would tell you," he added with pride, 
"I have uttered that sentiment once. 

"'Tis the note of the Jubjub! Keep count, I entreat; 
You will find I have told it you twice. 
'Tis the song of the Jubjub! The proof is complete, 
If only I've stated it thrice." 

The Beaver had counted with scrupulous care, 
Attending to every word: 
But it fairly lost heart, and outgrabe in despair, 
When the third repetition occurred. 

It felt that, in spite of all possible pains, 
It had somehow contrived to lose count, 
And the only thing now was to rack its poor brains 
By reckoning up the amount. 

"Two added to one--if that could but be done," 
It said, "with one's fingers and thumbs!" 
Recollecting with tears how, in earlier years, 
It had taken no pains with its sums. 

"The thing can be done," said the Butcher, "I think. 
The thing must be done, I am sure. 
The thing shall be done! Bring me paper and ink, 
The best there is time to procure." 

The Beaver brought paper,portfolio, pens, 
And ink in unfailing supplies: 
While strange creepy creatures came out of their dens, 
And watched them with wondering eyes. 

So engrossed was the Butcher, he heeded them not, 
As he wrote with a pen in each hand, 
And explained all the while in a popular style 
Which the Beaver could well understand. 

"Taking Three as the subject to reason about-- 
A convenient number to state-- 
We add Seven, and Ten, and then multiply out 
By One Thousand diminished by Eight. 


"The result we proceed to divide, as you see, 
By Nine Hundred and Ninety Two: 
Then subtract Seventeen, and the answer must be 
Exactly and perfectly true. 

"The method employed I would gladly explain, 
While I have it so clear in my head, 
If I had but the time and you had but the brain-- 
But much yet remains to be said. 

"In one moment I've seen what has hitherto been 
Enveloped in absolute mystery, 
And without extra charge I will give you at large 
A Lesson in Natural History." 

In his genial way he proceeded to say 
(Forgetting all laws of propriety, 
And that giving instruction, without introduction, 
Would have caused quite a thrill in Society), 

"As to temper the Jubjub's a desperate bird, 
Since it lives in perpetual passion: 
Its taste in costume is entirely absurd-- 
It is ages ahead of the fashion: 

"But it knows any friend it has met once before: 
It never will look at a bride: 
And in charity-meetings it stands at the door, 
And collects--though it does not subscribe. 

" Its flavor when cooked is more exquisite far 
Than mutton, or oysters, or eggs: 
(Some think it keeps best in an ivory jar, 
And some, in mahogany kegs) 

"You boil it in sawdust: you salt it in glue: 
You condense it with locusts and tape: 
Still keeping one principal object in view-- 
To preserve its symmetrical shape." 

The Butcher would gladly have talked till next day, 
But he felt that the lesson must end, 
And he wept with delight in attempting to say 
He considered the Beaver his friend. 

While the Beaver confessed, with affectionate looks 
More eloquent even than tears, 
It had learned in ten minutes far more than all books 
Would have taught it in seventy years. 

They returned hand-in-hand, and the Bellman, unmanned 
(For a moment) with noble emotion, 
Said "This amply repays all the wearisome days 
We have spent on the billowy ocean!" 

Such friends, as the Beaver and Butcher became, 
Have seldom if ever been known; 
In winter or summer, 'twas always the same-- 
You could never meet either alone. 

And when quarrels arose--as one frequently finds 
Quarrels will, spite of every endeavor-- 
The song of the Jubjub recurred to their minds, 
And cemented their friendship for ever!


Written by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow | Create an image from this poem

Seaweed

WHEN descends on the Atlantic 
The gigantic 
Storm-wind of the equinox  
Landward in his wrath he scourges 
The toiling surges 5 
Laden with seaweed from the rocks: 

From Bermuda's reefs; from edges 
Of sunken ledges  
In some far-off bright Azore; 
From Bahama and the dashing 10 
Silver-flashing 
Surges of San Salvador; 

From the tumbling surf that buries 
The Orkneyan skerries  
Answering the hoarse Hebrides; 15 
And from wrecks of ships and drifting 
Spars uplifting 
On the desolate rainy seas;¡ª 

Ever drifting drifting drifting 
On the shifting 20 
Currents of the restless main; 
Till in sheltered coves and reaches 
Of sandy beaches  
All have found repose again. 

So when storms of wild emotion 25 
Strike the ocean 
Of the poet's soul erelong 
From each cave and rocky fastness  
In its vastness  
Floats some fragment of a song: 30 

From the far-off isles enchanted  
Heaven has planted 
With the golden fruit of Truth; 
From the flashing surf whose vision 
Gleams Elysian 35 
In the tropic clime of Youth; 

From the strong Will and the Endeavor 
That forever 
Wrestle with the tides of Fate; 
From the wreck of Hopes far-scattered 40 
Tempest-shattered  
Floating waste and desolate;¡ª 

Ever drifting drifting drifting 
On the shifting 
Currents of the restless heart; 45 
Till at length in books recorded  
They like hoarded 
Household words no more depart.
Written by Ogden Nash | Create an image from this poem

Tin Wedding Whistle

 Though you know it anyhow 
Listen to me, darling, now, 
Proving what I need not prove 
How I know I love you, love. 
Near and far, near and far, 
I am happy where you are; 
Likewise I have never larnt 
How to be it where you aren't. 
Far and wide, far and wide, 
I can walk with you beside; 
Furthermore, I tell you what, 
I sit and sulk where you are not. 
Visitors remark my frown 
Where you're upstairs and I am down, 
Yes, and I'm afraid I pout 
When I'm indoors and you are out; 
But how contentedly I view 
Any room containing you. 
In fact I care not where you be, 
Just as long as it's with me. 
In all your absences I glimpse 
Fire and flood and trolls and imps. 
Is your train a minute slothful? 
I goad the stationmaster wrothful. 
When with friends to bridge you drive 
I never know if you're alive, 
And when you linger late in shops 
I long to telephone the cops. 
Yet how worth the waiting for, 
To see you coming through the door. 
Somehow, I can be complacent 
Never but with you adjacent. 
Near and far, near and far, 
I am happy where you are; 
Likewise I have never larnt 
How to be it where you aren't. 
Then grudge me not my fond endeavor, 
To hold you in my sight forever; 
Let none, not even you, disparage 
Such a valid reason for a marriage.
Written by Amy Lowell | Create an image from this poem

Summer

 Some men there are who find in nature all
Their inspiration, hers the sympathy
Which spurs them on to any great endeavor,
To them the fields and woods are closest friends,
And they hold dear communion with the hills;
The voice of waters soothes them with its fall,
And the great winds bring healing in their sound.
To them a city is a prison house
Where pent up human forces labour and strive,
Where beauty dwells not, driven forth by man;
But where in winter they must live until
Summer gives back the spaces of the hills.
To me it is not so. I love the earth
And all the gifts of her so lavish hand:
Sunshine and flowers, rivers and rushing winds,
Thick branches swaying in a winter storm,
And moonlight playing in a boat's wide wake;
But more than these, and much, ah, how much more,
I love the very human heart of man.
Above me spreads the hot, blue mid-day sky,
Far down the hillside lies the sleeping lake
Lazily reflecting back the sun,
And scarcely ruffled by the little breeze
Which wanders idly through the nodding ferns.
The blue crest of the distant mountain, tops
The green crest of the hill on which I sit;
And it is summer, glorious, deep-toned summer,
The very crown of nature's changing year
When all her surging life is at its full.
To me alone it is a time of pause,
A void and silent space between two worlds,
When inspiration lags, and feeling sleeps,
Gathering strength for efforts yet to come.
For life alone is creator of life,
And closest contact with the human world
Is like a lantern shining in the night
To light me to a knowledge of myself.
I love the vivid life of winter months
In constant intercourse with human minds,
When every new experience is gain
And on all sides we feel the great world's heart;
The pulse and throb of life which makes us men!
Written by Robert William Service | Create an image from this poem

The Sewing-Girl

 The humble garret where I dwell
Is in that Quarter called the Latin;
It isn't spacious -- truth to tell,
There's hardly room to swing a cat in.
But what of that! It's there I fight
For food and fame, my Muse inviting,
And all the day and half the night
You'll find me writing, writing, writing.

Now, it was in the month of May
As, wrestling with a rhyme rheumatic,
I chanced to look across the way,
And lo! within a neighbor attic,
A hand drew back the window shade,
And there, a picture glad and glowing,
I saw a sweet and slender maid,
And she was sewing, sewing, sewing.

So poor the room, so small, so scant,
Yet somehow oh, so bright and airy.
There was a pink geranium plant,
Likewise a very pert canary.
And in the maiden's heart it seemed
Some fount of gladness must be springing,
For as alone I sadly dreamed
I heard her singing, singing, singing.

God love her! how it cheered me then
To see her there so brave and pretty;
So she with needle, I with pen,
We slaved and sang above the city.
And as across my streams of ink
I watched her from a poet's distance,
She stitched and sang . . . I scarcely think
She was aware of my existence.

And then one day she sang no more.
That put me out, there's no denying.
I looked -- she labored as before,
But, bless me! she was crying, crying.
Her poor canary chirped in vain;
Her pink geranium drooped in sorrow;
"Of course," said I, "she'll sing again.
Maybe," I sighed, "she will to-morrow."

Poor child; 'twas finished with her song:
Day after day her tears were flowing;
And as I wondered what was wrong
She pined and peaked above her sewing.
And then one day the blind she drew,
Ah! though I sought with vain endeavor
To pierce the darkness, well I knew
My sewing-girl had gone for ever.

And as I sit alone to-night
My eyes unto her room are turning . . .
I'd give the sum of all I write
Once more to see her candle burning,
Once more to glimpse her happy face,
And while my rhymes of cheer I'm ringing,
Across the sunny sweep of space
To hear her singing, singing, singing.
Written by Edwin Arlington Robinson | Create an image from this poem

An Island

 Take it away, and swallow it yourself. 
Ha! Look you, there’s a rat. 
Last night there were a dozen on that shelf, 
And two of them were living in my hat. 
Look! Now he goes, but he’ll come back—
Ha? But he will, I say … 
Il reviendra-z-à Pâques, 
Ou à la Trinité …
Be very sure that he’ll return again; 
For said the Lord: Imprimis, we have rats,
And having rats, we have rain.— 
So on the seventh day 
He rested, and made Pain. 
—Man, if you love the Lord, and if the Lord 
Love liars, I will have you at your word
And swallow it. Voilà. Bah! 

Where do I say it is 
That I have lain so long? 
Where do I count myself among the dead, 
As once above the living and the strong?
And what is this that comes and goes, 
Fades and swells and overflows, 
Like music underneath and overhead? 
What is it in me now that rings and roars 
Like fever-laden wine?
What ruinous tavern-shine 
Is this that lights me far from worlds and wars 
And women that were mine? 
Where do I say it is 
That Time has made my bed?
What lowering outland hostelry is this 
For one the stars have disinherited? 

An island, I have said: 
A peak, where fiery dreams and far desires 
Are rained on, like old fires:
A vermin region by the stars abhorred, 
Where falls the flaming word 
By which I consecrate with unsuccess 
An acreage of God’s forgetfulness, 
Left here above the foam and long ago
Made right for my duress; 
Where soon the sea, 
My foaming and long-clamoring enemy, 
Will have within the cryptic, old embrace 
Of her triumphant arms—a memory.
Why then, the place? 
What forage of the sky or of the shore 
Will make it any more, 
To me, than my award of what was left 
Of number, time, and space?

And what is on me now that I should heed 
The durance or the silence or the scorn? 
I was the gardener who had the seed 
Which holds within its heart the food and fire 
That gives to man a glimpse of his desire;
And I have tilled, indeed, 
Much land, where men may say that I have planted 
Unsparingly my corn— 
For a world harvest-haunted 
And for a world unborn.

Meanwhile, am I to view, as at a play, 
Through smoke the funeral flames of yesterday 
And think them far away? 
Am I to doubt and yet be given to know 
That where my demon guides me, there I go?
An island? Be it so. 
For islands, after all is said and done, 
Tell but a wilder game that was begun, 
When Fate, the mistress of iniquities, 
The mad Queen-spinner of all discrepancies,
Beguiled the dyers of the dawn that day, 
And even in such a curst and sodden way 
Made my three colors one. 
—So be it, and the way be as of old: 
So be the weary truth again retold
Of great kings overthrown 
Because they would be kings, and lastly kings alone. 
Fling to each dog his bone. 

Flags that are vanished, flags that are soiled and furled, 
Say what will be the word when I am gone:
What learned little acrid archive men 
Will burrow to find me out and burrow again,— 
But all for naught, unless 
To find there was another Island.… Yes, 
There are too many islands in this world,
There are too many rats, and there is too much rain. 
So three things are made plain 
Between the sea and sky: 
Three separate parts of one thing, which is Pain … 
Bah, what a way to die!—
To leave my Queen still spinning there on high, 
Still wondering, I dare say, 
To see me in this way … 
Madame à sa tour monte 
Si haut qu’elle peut monter—
Like one of our Commissioners… ai! ai!
Prometheus and the women have to cry, 
But no, not I … 
Faugh, what a way to die! 

But who are these that come and go
Before me, shaking laurel as they pass? 
Laurel, to make me know 
For certain what they mean: 
That now my Fate, my Queen, 
Having found that she, by way of right reward,
Will after madness go remembering, 
And laurel be as grass,— 
Remembers the one thing 
That she has left to bring. 
The floor about me now is like a sward
Grown royally. Now it is like a sea 
That heaves with laurel heavily, 
Surrendering an outworn enmity 
For what has come to be. 

But not for you, returning with your curled
And haggish lips. And why are you alone? 
Why do you stay when all the rest are gone? 
Why do you bring those treacherous eyes that reek 
With venom and hate the while you seek 
To make me understand?—
Laurel from every land, 
Laurel, but not the world?

Fury, or perjured Fate, or whatsoever, 
Tell me the bloodshot word that is your name 
And I will pledge remembrance of the same
That shall be crossed out never; 
Whereby posterity 
May know, being told, that you have come to me, 
You and your tongueless train without a sound, 
With covetous hands and eyes and laurel all around,
Foreshowing your endeavor 
To mirror me the demon of my days, 
To make me doubt him, loathe him, face to face. 
Bowed with unwilling glory from the quest 
That was ordained and manifest,
You shake it off and wish me joy of it? 
Laurel from every place,
Laurel, but not the rest?
Such are the words in you that I divine, 
Such are the words of men.
So be it, and what then? 
Poor, tottering counterfeit, 
Are you a thing to tell me what is mine? 

Grant we the demon sees 
An inch beyond the line,
What comes of mine and thine? 
A thousand here and there may shriek and freeze, 
Or they may starve in fine. 
The Old Physician has a crimson cure 
For such as these,
And ages after ages will endure 
The minims of it that are victories. 
The wreath may go from brow to brow, 
The state may flourish, flame, and cease; 
But through the fury and the flood somehow
The demons are acquainted and at ease, 
And somewhat hard to please. 
Mine, I believe, is laughing at me now 
In his primordial way, 
Quite as he laughed of old at Hannibal,
Or rather at Alexander, let us say. 
Therefore, be what you may, 
Time has no further need 
Of you, or of your breed. 
My demon, irretrievably astray,
Has ruined the last chorus of a play 
That will, so he avers, be played again some day; 
And you, poor glowering ghost, 
Have staggered under laurel here to boast 
Above me, dying, while you lean
In triumph awkward and unclean, 
About some words of his that you have read? 
Thing, do I not know them all? 
He tells me how the storied leaves that fall 
Are tramped on, being dead?
They are sometimes: with a storm foul enough 
They are seized alive and they are blown far off 
To mould on islands.—What else have you read? 
He tells me that great kings look very small 
When they are put to bed;
And this being said, 
He tells me that the battles I have won 
Are not my own, 
But his—howbeit fame will yet atone 
For all defect, and sheave the mystery:
The follies and the slaughters I have done 
Are mine alone, 
And so far History. 
So be the tale again retold 
And leaf by clinging leaf unrolled
Where I have written in the dawn, 
With ink that fades anon, 
Like Cæsar’s, and the way be as of old. 

Ho, is it you? I thought you were a ghost. 
Is it time for you to poison me again?
Well, here’s our friend the rain,— 
Mironton, mironton, mirontaine...
Man, I could murder you almost, 
You with your pills and toast. 
Take it away and eat it, and shoot rats.
Ha! there he comes. Your rat will never fail, 
My punctual assassin, to prevail— 
While he has power to crawl, 
Or teeth to gnaw withal— 
Where kings are caged. Why has a king no cats?
You say that I’ll achieve it if I try? 
Swallow it?—No, not I … 
God, what a way to die!

Book: Reflection on the Important Things