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Best Famous Engines Poems

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

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Written by Andrew Marvell | Create an image from this poem

The Gallery

Clora, come view my soul, and tell
Whether I have contrived it well.
Now all its several lodgings lie Composed into one gallery; And the great arras-hangings, made Of various faces, by are laid; That, for all furniture, you'll find Only your picture in my mind.
Here thou art painted in the dress Of an inhuman murderess; Examining upon our hearts Thy fertile shop of cruel arts: Engines more keen than ever yet Adornèd tyrant's cabinet; Of which the most tormenting are Black eyes, red lips, and curlèd hair.
But, on the other side, thou'rt drawn Like to Aurora in the dawn; When in the east she slumb'ring lies, And stretches out her milky thighs; While all the morning choir does sing, And manna falls, and roses spring; And, at thy feet, the wooing doves Sit perfecting their harmless loves.
Like an enchantress here thou show'st, Vexing thy restless lover's ghost; And, by a light obscure, dost rave Over his entrails, in the cave; Divining thence, with horrid care, How long thou shalt continue fair; And (when informed) them throw'st away, To be the greedy vulture's prey.
But, against that, thou sit'st afloat Like Venus in her pearly boat.
The halcyons, calming all that's nigh, Betwixt the air and water fly: Or, if some rolling wave appears, A mass of ambergris it bears: Nor blows more wind than what may well Convoy the perfume to the smell.
These pictures and a thousand more, Of thee, my gallery do store; In all the forms thou canst invent Either to please me, or torment: For thou alone to people me, Art grown a num'rous colony; And a collection choicer far Than or Whitehall's, or Mantua's were.
But, of these pictures and the rest, That at the entrance likes me best; Where the same posture, and the look Remains, with which I first was took: A tender shepherdess, whose hair Hangs loosely playing in the air, Transplanting flowers from the green hill, To crown her head, and bosom fill.


Written by Walt Whitman | Create an image from this poem

A Carol of Harvest for 1867

 1
A SONG of the good green grass! 
A song no more of the city streets; 
A song of farms—a song of the soil of fields.
A song with the smell of sun-dried hay, where the nimble pitchers handle the pitch-fork; A song tasting of new wheat, and of fresh-husk’d maize.
2 For the lands, and for these passionate days, and for myself, Now I awhile return to thee, O soil of Autumn fields, Reclining on thy breast, giving myself to thee, Answering the pulses of thy sane and equable heart, Tuning a verse for thee.
O Earth, that hast no voice, confide to me a voice! O harvest of my lands! O boundless summer growths! O lavish, brown, parturient earth! O infinite, teeming womb! A verse to seek, to see, to narrate thee.
3 Ever upon this stage, Is acted God’s calm, annual drama, Gorgeous processions, songs of birds, Sunrise, that fullest feeds and freshens most the soul, The heaving sea, the waves upon the shore, the musical, strong waves, The woods, the stalwart trees, the slender, tapering trees, The flowers, the grass, the lilliput, countless armies of the grass, The heat, the showers, the measureless pasturages, The scenery of the snows, the winds’ free orchestra, The stretching, light-hung roof of clouds—the clear cerulean, and the bulging, silvery fringes, The high dilating stars, the placid, beckoning stars, The moving flocks and herds, the plains and emerald meadows, The shows of all the varied lands, and all the growths and products.
4 Fecund America! To-day, Thou art all over set in births and joys! Thou groan’st with riches! thy wealth clothes thee as with a swathing garment! Thou laughest loud with ache of great possessions! A myriad-twining life, like interlacing vines, binds all thy vast demesne! As some huge ship, freighted to water’s edge, thou ridest into port! As rain falls from the heaven, and vapors rise from earth, so have the precious values fallen upon thee, and risen out of thee! Thou envy of the globe! thou miracle! Thou, bathed, choked, swimming in plenty! Thou lucky Mistress of the tranquil barns! Thou Prairie Dame that sittest in the middle, and lookest out upon thy world, and lookest East, and lookest West! Dispensatress, that by a word givest a thousand miles—that giv’st a million farms, and missest nothing! Thou All-Acceptress—thou Hospitable—(thou only art hospitable, as God is hospitable.
) 5 When late I sang, sad was my voice; Sad were the shows around me, with deafening noises of hatred, and smoke of conflict; In the midst of the armies, the Heroes, I stood, Or pass’d with slow step through the wounded and dying.
But now I sing not War, Nor the measur’d march of soldiers, nor the tents of camps, Nor the regiments hastily coming up, deploying in line of battle.
No more the dead and wounded; No more the sad, unnatural shows of War.
Ask’d room those flush’d immortal ranks? the first forth-stepping armies? Ask room, alas, the ghastly ranks—the armies dread that follow’d.
6 (Pass—pass, ye proud brigades! So handsome, dress’d in blue—with your tramping, sinewy legs; With your shoulders young and strong—with your knapsacks and your muskets; —How elate I stood and watch’d you, where, starting off, you march’d! Pass;—then rattle, drums, again! Scream, you steamers on the river, out of whistles loud and shrill, your salutes! For an army heaves in sight—O another gathering army! Swarming, trailing on the rear—O you dread, accruing army! O you regiments so piteous, with your mortal diarrhoea! with your fever! O my land’s maimed darlings! with the plenteous bloody bandage and the crutch! Lo! your pallid army follow’d!) 7 But on these days of brightness, On the far-stretching beauteous landscape, the roads and lanes, the high-piled farm-wagons, and the fruits and barns, Shall the dead intrude? Ah, the dead to me mar not—they fit well in Nature; They fit very well in the landscape, under the trees and grass, And along the edge of the sky, in the horizon’s far margin.
Nor do I forget you, departed; Nor in winter or summer, my lost ones; But most, in the open air, as now, when my soul is rapt and at peace—like pleasing phantoms, Your dear memories, rising, glide silently by me.
8 I saw the day, the return of the Heroes; (Yet the Heroes never surpass’d, shall never return; Them, that day, I saw not.
) I saw the interminable Corps—I saw the processions of armies, I saw them approaching, defiling by, with divisions, Streaming northward, their work done, camping awhile in clusters of mighty camps.
No holiday soldiers!—youthful, yet veterans; Worn, swart, handsome, strong, of the stock of homestead and workshop, Harden’d of many a long campaign and sweaty march, Inured on many a hard-fought, bloody field.
9 A pause—the armies wait; A million flush’d, embattled conquerors wait; The world, too, waits—then, soft as breaking night, and sure as dawn, They melt—they disappear.
Exult, indeed, O lands! victorious lands! Not there your victory, on those red, shuddering fields; But here and hence your victory.
Melt, melt away, ye armies! disperse, ye blue-clad soldiers! Resolve ye back again—give up, for good, your deadly arms; Other the arms, the fields henceforth for you, or South or North, or East or West, With saner wars—sweet wars—life-giving wars.
10 Loud, O my throat, and clear, O soul! The season of thanks, and the voice of full-yielding; The chant of joy and power for boundless fertility.
All till’d and untill’d fields expand before me; I see the true arenas of my race—or first, or last, Man’s innocent and strong arenas.
I see the Heroes at other toils; I see, well-wielded in their hands, the better weapons.
11 I see where America, Mother of All, Well-pleased, with full-spanning eye, gazes forth, dwells long, And counts the varied gathering of the products.
Busy the far, the sunlit panorama; Prairie, orchard, and yellow grain of the North, Cotton and rice of the South, and Louisianian cane; Open, unseeded fallows, rich fields of clover and timothy, Kine and horses feeding, and droves of sheep and swine, And many a stately river flowing, and many a jocund brook, And healthy uplands with their herby-perfumed breezes, And the good green grass—that delicate miracle, the ever-recurring grass.
12 Toil on, Heroes! harvest the products! Not alone on those warlike fields, the Mother of All, With dilated form and lambent eyes, watch’d you.
Toil on, Heroes! toil well! Handle the weapons well! The Mother of All—yet here, as ever, she watches you.
Well-pleased, America, thou beholdest, Over the fields of the West, those crawling monsters, The human-divine inventions, the labor-saving implements: Beholdest, moving in every direction, imbued as with life, the revolving hay-rakes, The steam-power reaping-machines, and the horse-power machines, The engines, thrashers of grain, and cleaners of grain, well separating the straw—the nimble work of the patent pitch-fork; Beholdest the newer saw-mill, the southern cotton-gin, and the rice-cleanser.
Beneath thy look, O Maternal, With these, and else, and with their own strong hands, the Heroes harvest.
All gather, and all harvest; (Yet but for thee, O Powerful! not a scythe might swing, as now, in security; Not a maize-stalk dangle, as now, its silken tassels in peace.
) 13 Under Thee only they harvest—even but a wisp of hay, under thy great face, only; Harvest the wheat of Ohio, Illinois, Wisconsin—every barbed spear, under thee; Harvest the maize of Missouri, Kentucky, Tennessee—each ear in its light-green sheath, Gather the hay to its myriad mows, in the odorous, tranquil barns, Oats to their bins—the white potato, the buckwheat of Michigan, to theirs; Gather the cotton in Mississippi or Alabama—dig and hoard the golden, the sweet potato of Georgia and the Carolinas, Clip the wool of California or Pennsylvania, Cut the flax in the Middle States, or hemp, or tobacco in the Borders, Pick the pea and the bean, or pull apples from the trees, or bunches of grapes from the vines, Or aught that ripens in all These States, or North or South, Under the beaming sun, and under Thee.
Written by Allen Ginsberg | Create an image from this poem

Who Runs America?

Oil brown smog over Denver 
Oil red dung colored smoke 
level to level across the horizon 

blue tainted sky above 
Oil car smog gasoline 
hazing red Denver's day 

December bare trees 

sticking up from housetop streets 

Plane lands rumbling, planes rise over 

radar wheels, black smoke 

drifts from tailfins 

Oil millions of cars speeding the cracked plains 
Oil from Texas, Bahrein, Venezuela Mexico 
Oil that turns General Motors 

revs up Ford 
lights up General Electric, oil that crackles 

thru International Business Machine computers, 

charges dynamos for ITT 
sparks Western 
Electric 

runs thru Amer Telephone & Telegraph wires 

Oil that flows thru Exxon New Jersey hoses, 
rings in Mobil gas tank cranks, rumbles 

Chrysler engines 

shoots thru Texaco pipelines 

blackens ocean from broken Gulf tankers 
spills onto Santa Barbara beaches from 

Standard of California derricks offshore.
Written by Tony Hoagland | Create an image from this poem

Why the Young Men Are So Ugly

 They have little tractors in their blood
and all day the tractors climb up and down
inside their arms and legs, their
collarbones and heads.
That is why they yell and scream and slam the barbells down into their clanking slots, making the metal ring like sledgehammers on iron, like dungeon prisoners rattling their chains.
That is why they shriek their tires at the stopsign, why they turn the base up on the stereo until it shakes the traffic light, until it dryhumps the eardrum of the crossing guard.
Testosterone is a drug, and they say No, No, No until they are overwhelmed and punch their buddy in the face for joy, or make a joke about gravy and bottomless holes to a middle-aged waitress who is gently setting down the plate in front of them.
If they are grotesque, if what they say and do is often nothing more than a kind of psychopathic fart, it is only because of the tractors, the tractors in their blood, revving their engines, chewing up the turf inside their arteries and veins It is the testosterone tractor constantly climbing the mudhill of the world and dragging the young man behind it by a chain around his leg.
In the stink and the noise, in the clouds of filthy exhaust is where they live.
It is the tractors that make them what they are.
While they make being a man look like a disease.
Written by Marilyn Hacker | Create an image from this poem

Morning News

 Spring wafts up the smell of bus exhaust, of bread
and fried potatoes, tips green on the branches,
repeats old news: arrogance, ignorance, war.
A cinder-block wall shared by two houses is new rubble.
On one side was a kitchen sink and a cupboard, on the other was a bed, a bookshelf, three framed photographs.
Glass is shattered across the photographs; two half-circles of hardened pocket bread sit on the cupboard.
There provisionally was shelter, a plastic truck under the branches of a fig tree.
A knife flashed in the kitchen, merely dicing garlic.
Engines of war move inexorably toward certain houses while citizens sit safe in other houses reading the newspaper, whose photographs make sanitized excuses for the war.
There are innumerable kinds of bread brought up from bakeries, baked in the kitchen: the date, the latitude, tell which one was dropped by a child beneath the bloodied branches.
The uncontrolled and multifurcate branches of possibility infiltrate houses' walls, windowframes, ceilings.
Where there was a tower, a town: ash and burnt wires, a graph on a distant computer screen.
Elsewhere, a kitchen table's setting gapes, where children bred to branch into new lives were culled for war.
Who wore this starched smocked cotton dress? Who wore this jersey blazoned for the local branch of the district soccer team? Who left this black bread and this flat gold bread in their abandoned houses? Whose father begged for mercy in the kitchen? Whose memory will frame the photograph and use the memory for what it was never meant for by this girl, that old man, who was caught on a ball field, near a window: war, exhorted through the grief a photograph revives.
(Or was the team a covert branch of a banned group; were maps drawn in the kitchen, a bomb thrust in a hollowed loaf of bread?) What did the old men pray for in their houses of prayer, the teachers teach in schoolhouses between blackouts and blasts, when each word was flensed by new censure, books exchanged for bread, both hostage to the happenstance of war? Sometimes the only schoolroom is a kitchen.
Outside the window, black strokes on a graph of broken glass, birds line up on bare branches.
"This letter curves, this one spreads its branches like friends holding hands outside their houses.
" Was the lesson stopped by gunfire? Was there panic, silence? Does a torn photograph still gather children in the teacher's kitchen? Are they there meticulously learning war- time lessons with the signs for house, book, bread?


Written by Rudyard Kipling | Create an image from this poem

The Long Trail

 There's a whisper down the field where the year has shot her yield,
 And the ricks stand grey to the sun,
Singing: "Over then, come over, for the bee has quit the dover,
 "And your English summer's done.
" You have heard the beat of the off-shore wind, And the thresh of the deep-sea rain; You have heard the song -- how long? how long? Pull out on the trail again! Ha' done with the Tents of Shem, dear lass, We've seen the seasons through, And it's time to turn the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, Pull out, pull out, on the Long Trail-the trail that is always new! It's North you may run to the rime-ringed sun Or South to the blind Hom's hate; Or East all the way into Mississippi Bay, Or West to the Golden Gate -- Where the blindest bluffs hold good, dear lass, And the wildest tales are true, And the men bulk big on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, And life runs large on the Long Trail -- the trail that is always new.
The days are sick and cold, and the skies are grey and old And the twice-breathed airs blow damp; And I'd sell my tired soul for the bucking beam-sea roll Of a black Bilbao tramp, With her load-line over her hatch, dear lass, And a drunken Dago crew, And her nose held down on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail From Cadiz south on the Long Trail-the trail that is always new.
There be triple ways to take, of the eagle or the snake, Or the way of a man with a maid; But the sweetest way to me is a ship's upon the sea In the heel of the North-East Trade.
Can you hear the crash on her brows, dear lass.
And the drum of the racing screw, As she ships it green on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, As she lifts and 'scends on the Long Trail -- the trail that is always new? See the shaking funnels roar, with the Peter at the fore, And the fenders grind and heave, And the derricks clack and grate, as the tackle hooks the crate, And the fall-rope whines through the sheave; It's "Gang-plank up and in," dear lass, It's "Hawsers warp her through!" And it's "All clear aft" on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, We're backing down on the Long Trail -- the trail that is always new.
O the mutter overside, when the port-fog holds us tied, And the sirens hoot their dread, When foot by foot we creep o'er the hueless, viewless deep To the sob of the questing lead! It's down by the Lower Hope, dear lass, With the Grinfleet Sands in view, Till the Mouse swings green on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, And the Gull Light lifts on the Long Trail -- the trail that is always new.
O the blazing tropic night, when the wake's a welt of light That holds the hot sky tame, And the steady fore-foot snores through the planet-powdered floors Where the scared whale flukes in flame! Her plates are flaked by the sun, dear lass And her ropes are taut with the dew, For we're booming down on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, We're sagging south on the Long Trail -- the trail that is always new.
Then home, get her home, where the drunken rollers comb, And the shouting seas drive by, And the engines stamp and ring, and the wet bows reel and swing, And the Southern Cross rides high! Yes, the old lost stars wheel back, dear lass, That blaze in the velvet blue.
They're all old friends on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, They're God's own guides on the Long Trail -- the trail that is always new.
Fly forward, O my heart, from the Foreland to the Start We're steaming all too slow, And it's twenty thousand mile to our little lazy isle Where the trumpet-orchids blow! You have heard the call of the off-shore wind And the voice of the deep-sea rain; You have heard the song-how long? how long? Pull out on the trail again! The Lord knows what we may find, dear lass, And The Deuce knows we may do But we're back once more on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, We're down, hull-down, on the Long Trail -- the trail that is always new!
Written by Robert Burns | Create an image from this poem

138. Address to the Toothache

 MY curse upon your venom’d stang,
That shoots my tortur’d gums alang,
An’ thro’ my lug gies mony a twang,
 Wi’ gnawing vengeance,
Tearing my nerves wi’ bitter pang,
 Like racking engines!


When fevers burn, or argues freezes,
Rheumatics gnaw, or colics squeezes,
Our neibor’s sympathy can ease us,
 Wi’ pitying moan;
But thee—thou hell o’ a’ diseases—
 They mock our groan.
Adown my beard the slavers trickle I throw the wee stools o’er the mickle, While round the fire the giglets keckle, To see me loup, While, raving mad, I wish a heckle Were in their doup! In a’ the numerous human dools, Ill hairsts, daft bargains, cutty stools, Or worthy frien’s rak’d i’ the mools,— Sad sight to see! The tricks o’ knaves, or fash o’fools, Thou bear’st the gree! Where’er that place be priests ca’ hell, Where a’ the tones o’ misery yell, An’ ranked plagues their numbers tell, In dreadfu’ raw, Thou, TOOTHACHE, surely bear’st the bell, Amang them a’! O thou grim, mischief-making chiel, That gars the notes o’ discord squeel, Till daft mankind aft dance a reel In gore, a shoe-thick, Gie a’ the faes o’ SCOTLAND’S weal A townmond’s toothache!
Written by John Betjeman | Create an image from this poem

An Edwardian Sunday Broomhill Sheffield

 High dormers are rising
So sharp and surprising,
And ponticum edges
The driveways of gravel;
Stone houses from ledges
Look down on ravines.
The vision can travel From gable to gable, Italianate mansion And turretted stable, A sylvan expansion So varied and jolly Where laurel and holly Commingle their greens.
Serene on a Sunday The sun glitters hotly O'er mills that on Monday With engines will hum.
By tramway excursion To Dore and to Totley In search of diversion The millworkers come; But in our arboreta The sounds are discreeter Of shoes upon stone - The worshippers wending To welcoming chapel, Companioned or lone; And over a pew there See loveliness lean, As Eve shows her apple Through rich bombazine; What love is born new there In blushing eighteen! Your prospects will please her, The iron-king's daughter, Up here on Broomhill; Strange Hallamshire, County Of dearth and of bounty, Of brown tumbling water And furnace and mill.
Your own Ebenezer Looks down from his height On back street and alley And chemical valley Laid out in the light; On ugly and pretty Where industry thrives In this hill-shadowed city Of razors and knives.
Written by Walt Whitman | Create an image from this poem

Years of the Modern

 YEARS of the modern! years of the unperform’d! 
Your horizon rises—I see it parting away for more august dramas; 
I see not America only—I see not only Liberty’s nation, but other nations
 preparing; 
I see tremendous entrances and exits—I see new combinations—I see the solidarity
 of
 races; 
I see that force advancing with irresistible power on the world’s stage;
(Have the old forces, the old wars, played their parts? are the acts suitable to them
 closed?) 
I see Freedom, completely arm’d, and victorious, and very haughty, with Law on one
 side,
 and Peace on the other, 
A stupendous Trio, all issuing forth against the idea of caste; 
—What historic denouements are these we so rapidly approach? 
I see men marching and countermarching by swift millions;
I see the frontiers and boundaries of the old aristocracies broken; 
I see the landmarks of European kings removed; 
I see this day the People beginning their landmarks, (all others give way;) 
—Never were such sharp questions ask’d as this day; 
Never was average man, his soul, more energetic, more like a God;
Lo! how he urges and urges, leaving the masses no rest; 
His daring foot is on land and sea everywhere—he colonizes the Pacific, the
 archipelagoes;

With the steam-ship, the electric telegraph, the newspaper, the wholesale engines of war, 
With these, and the world-spreading factories, he interlinks all geography, all lands; 
—What whispers are these, O lands, running ahead of you, passing under the seas?
Are all nations communing? is there going to be but one heart to the globe? 
Is humanity forming, en-masse?—for lo! tyrants tremble, crowns grow dim; 
The earth, restive, confronts a new era, perhaps a general divine war; 
No one knows what will happen next—such portents fill the days and nights; 
Years prophetical! the space ahead as I walk, as I vainly try to pierce it, is full of
 phantoms;
Unborn deeds, things soon to be, project their shapes around me; 
This incredible rush and heat—this strange extatic fever of dreams, O years! 
Your dreams, O year, how they penetrate through me! (I know not whether I sleep or wake!) 
The perform’d America and Europe grow dim, retiring in shadow behind me, 
The unperform’d, more gigantic than ever, advance, advance upon me.
Written by G K Chesterton | Create an image from this poem

The Old Song

 A livid sky on London
And like the iron steeds that rear
A shock of engines halted
And I knew the end was near:
And something said that far away, over the hills and far away
There came a crawling thunder and the end of all things here.
For London Bridge is broken down, broken down, broken down, As digging lets the daylight on the suken streets of yore, The lightning looked on London town, the broken bridge of London town.
The ending of a broken road where men shall go no more.
I saw the kings of London town, The kings that buy and sell, That built it up with penny loaves And penny lies as well: And where the streets were paved with gold the shrivelled paper shone for gold, The scorching light of promises that pave the streets of hell.
For penny loaves will melt away, melt away, melt away, Mock the men that haggled in the grain they did not grow; With hungry faces in the gate, a hundred thousand in the gate, A thunder-flash on London and the finding of the foe.
I heard the hundred pin-makers Slow down their racking din, Till in the stillness men could hear The dropping of the pin: And somewhere men without the wall, beneath the wood, without the wall, Had found the place where London ends and England can begin.
For pins and needles bend and break, bend and break, bend and break, Faster than the breaking spears or the bending of the bow, Of pagents pale in thunder-light, 'twixt thunderload and thunderlight, The Hundreds marching on the hills in the wars of long ago.
I saw great Cobbett riding, The horseman of the shires; And his face was red with judgement And a light of Luddite fires: And south to Sussex and the sea the lights leapt up for liberty, The trumpet of the yeomanry, the hammer of the squires; For bars of iron rust away, rust away, rust away, Rend before the hammer and the horseman riding in, Crying that all men at the last, and at the worst and at the last, Have found the place where England ends and England can begin.
His horse-hoofs go before you Far beyond your bursting tyres; And time is bridged behind him And our sons are with our sires.
A trailing meteor on the Downs he rides above the rotting towns, The Horseman of Apocalypse, the Rider of the Shires.
For London Bridge is broken down, broken down, broken down; Blow the horn of Huntington from Scotland to the sea -- .
.
.
Only flash of thunder-light, a flying dream of thunder-light, Had shown under the shattered sky a people that were free.

Book: Reflection on the Important Things