Best Famous Enthralled Poems

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

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• All Famous Enthralled Poems

Written by Anne Bronte | A Prisoner in a Dungeon Deep A prisoner in a dungeon deep Sat musing silently; His head was rested on his hand, His elbow on his knee. Turned he his thoughts to future times Or are they backward cast? For freedom is he pining now Or mourning for the past? No, he has lived so long enthralled Alone in dungeon gloom That he has lost regret and hope, Has ceased to mourn his doom. He pines not for the light of day Nor sighs for freedom now; Such weary thoughts have ceased at length To rack his burning brow. Lost in a maze of wandering thoughts He sits unmoving there; That posture and that look proclaim The stupor of despair. Yet not for ever did that mood Of sullen calm prevail; There was a something in his eye That told another tale. It did not speak of reason gone, It was not madness quite; It was a fitful flickering fire, A strange uncertain light. And sooth to say, these latter years Strange fancies now and then Had filled his cell with scenes of life And forms of living men. A mind that cannot cease to think Why needs he cherish there? Torpor may bring relief to pain And madness to despair. Such wildering scenes, such flitting shapes As feverish dreams display: What if those fancies still increase And reason quite decay? But hark, what sounds have struck his ear; Voices of men they seem; And two have entered now his cell; Can this too be a dream? 'Orlando, hear our joyful news: Revenge and liberty! Your foes are dead, and we are come At last to set you free.' So spoke the elder of the two, And in the captive's eyes He looked for gleaming ecstasy But only found surprise. 'My foes are dead! It must be then That all mankind are gone. For they were all my deadly foes And friends I had not one.'

Written by William Butler Yeats | Ego Dominus Tuus Hic. On the grey sand beside the shallow stream Under your old wind-beaten tower, where still A lamp burns on beside the open book That Michael Robartes left, you walk in the moon, And, though you have passed the best of life, still trace, Enthralled by the unconquerable delusion, Magical shapes. Ille. By the help of an image I call to my own opposite, summon all That I have handled least, least looked upon. Hic. And I would find myself and not an image. Ille. That is our modern hope, and by its light We have lit upon the gentle, sensitive mind And lost the old nonchalance of the hand; Whether we have chosen chisel, pen or brush, We are but critics, or but half create, Timid, entangled, empty and abashed, Lacking the countenance of our friends. Hic. And yet The chief imagination of Christendom, Dante Alighieri, so utterly found himself That he has made that hollow face of his More plain to the mind's eye than any face But that of Christ. Ille. And did he find himself Or was the hunger that had made it hollow A hunger for the apple on the bough Most out of reach? and is that spectral image The man that Lapo and that Guido knew? I think he fashioned from his opposite An image that might have been a stony face Staring upon a Bedouin's horse-hair roof From doored and windowed cliff, or half upturned Among the coarse grass and the camel-dung. He set his chisel to the hardest stone. Being mocked by Guido for his lecherous life, Derided and deriding, driven out To climb that stair and eat that bitter bread, He found the unpersuadable justice, he found The most exalted lady loved by a man. Hic. Yet surely there are men who have made their art Out of no tragic war, lovers of life, Impulsive men that look for happiness And sing when t"hey have found it. Ille. No, not sing, For those that love the world serve it in action, Grow rich, popular and full of influence, And should they paint or write, still it is action: The struggle of the fly in marmalade. The rhetorician would deceive his neighbours, The sentimentalist himself; while art Is but a vision of reality. What portion in the world can the artist have Who has awakened from the common dream But dissipation and despair? Hic. And yet No one denies to Keats love of the world; Remember his deliberate happiness. Ille. His art is happy, but who knows his mind? I see a schoolboy when I think of him, With face and nose pressed to a sweet-shop window, For certainly he sank into his grave His senses and his heart unsatisfied, And made - being poor, ailing and ignorant, Shut out from all the luxury of the world, The coarse-bred son of a livery-stable keeper -- Luxuriant song. Hic. Why should you leave the lamp Burning alone beside an open book, And trace these characters upon the sands? A style is found by sedentary toil And by the imitation of great masters. Ille. Because I seek an image, not a book. Those men that in their writings are most wise, Own nothing but their blind, stupefied hearts. I call to the mysterious one who yet Shall walk the wet sands by the edge of the stream And look most like me, being indeed my double, And prove of all imaginable things The most unlike, being my anti-self, And, standing by these characters, disclose All that I seek; and whisper it as though He were afraid the birds, who cry aloud Their momentary cries before it is dawn, Would carry it away to blasphemous men.

Written by Victor Hugo | Beloved Name ("Le parfum d'un lis.") {Bk. V. xiii.} The lily's perfume pure, fame's crown of light, The latest murmur of departing day, Fond friendship's plaint, that melts at piteous sight, The mystic farewell of each hour at flight, The kiss which beauty grants with coy delay,— The sevenfold scarf that parting storms bestow As trophy to the proud, triumphant sun; The thrilling accent of a voice we know, The love-enthralled maiden's secret vow, An infant's dream, ere life's first sands be run,— The chant of distant choirs, the morning's sigh, Which erst inspired the fabled Memnon's frame,— The melodies that, hummed, so trembling die,— The sweetest gems that 'mid thought's treasures lie, Have naught of sweetness that can match HER NAME! Low be its utterance, like a prayer divine, Yet in each warbled song be heard the sound; Be it the light in darksome fanes to shine, The sacred word which at some hidden shrine, The selfsame voice forever makes resound! O friends! ere yet, in living strains of flame, My muse, bewildered in her circlings wide, With names the vaunting lips of pride proclaim, Shall dare to blend the one, the purer name, Which love a treasure in my breast doth hide,— Must the wild lay my faithful harp can sing, Be like the hymns which mortals, kneeling, hear; To solemn harmonies attuned the string, As, music show'ring from his viewless wing, On heavenly airs some angel hovered near. CAROLINE BOWLES (MRS. SOUTHEY)

Written by James Whitcomb Riley | The Old Guitar Neglected now is the old guitar And moldering into decay; Fretted with many a rift and scar That the dull dust hides away, While the spider spins a silver star In its silent lips to-day. The keys hold only nerveless strings-- The sinews of brave old airs Are pulseless now; and the scarf that clings So closely here declares A sad regret in its ravelings And the faded hue it wears. But the old guitar, with a lenient grace, Has cherished a smile for me; And its features hint of a fairer face That comes with a memory Of a flower-and-perfume-haunted place And a moonlit balcony. Music sweeter than words confess, Or the minstrel's powers invent, Thrilled here once at the light caress Of the fairy hands that lent This excuse for the kiss I press On the dear old instrument. The rose of pearl with the jeweled stem Still blooms; and the tiny sets In the circle all are here; the gem In the keys, and the silver frets; But the dainty fingers that danced o'er them-- Alas for the heart's regrets!-- Alas for the loosened strings to-day, And the wounds of rift and scar On a worn old heart, with its roundelay Enthralled with a stronger bar That Fate weaves on, through a dull decay Like that of the old guitar!

Written by Emma Lazarus | Venus of the Louvre Down the long hall she glistens like a star, The foam-born mother of Love, transfixed to stone, Yet none the less immortal, breathing on. Time's brutal hand hath maimed but could not mar. When first the enthralled enchantress from afar Dazzled mine eyes, I saw not her alone, Serenely poised on her world-worshipped throne, As when she guided once her dove-drawn car,-- But at her feet a pale, death-stricken Jew, Her life adorer, sobbed farewell to love. Here Heine wept! Here still he weeps anew, Nor ever shall his shadow lift or move, While mourns one ardent heart, one poet-brain, For vanished Hellas and Hebraic plain.

Written by Emma Lazarus | St Michaels Chapel When the vexed hubbub of our world of gain Roars round about me as I walk the street, The myriad noise of Traffic, and the beat Of Toil's incessant hammer, the fierce strain Of struggle hand to hand and brain to brain, Ofttimes a sudden dream my sense will cheat, The gaudy shops, the sky-piled roofs retreat, And all at once I stand enthralled again Within a marble minster over-seas. I watch the solemn gold-stained gloom that creeps To kiss an alabaster tomb, where sleeps A lady 'twixt two knights' stone effigies, And every day in dusky glory steeps Their sculptured slumber of five centuries.

Written by Victor Hugo | Serenade ("Quand tu chantes.") When the voice of thy lute at the eve Charmeth the ear, In the hour of enchantment believe What I murmur near. That the tune can the Age of Gold With its magic restore. Play on, play on, my fair one, Play on for evermore. When thy laugh like the song of the dawn Riseth so gay That the shadows of Night are withdrawn And melt away, I remember my years of care And misgiving no more. Laugh on, laugh on, my fair one, Laugh on for evermore. When thy sleep like the moonlight above Lulling the sea, Doth enwind thee in visions of love, Perchance, of me! I can watch so in dream that enthralled me, Never before! Sleep on, sleep on, my fair one! Sleep on for evermore. HENRY F. CHORLEY.

Written by Edgar Lee Masters | Flossie Cabanis From Bindle's opera house in the village To Broadway is a great step. But I tried to take it, my ambition fired When sixteen years of age, Seeing "East Lynne" played here in the village By Ralph Barrett, the coming Romantic actor, who enthralled my soul. True, I trailed back home, a broken failure, When Ralph disappeared in New York, Leaving me alone in the city -- But life broke him also. In all this place of silence There are no kindred spirits. How I wish Duse could stand amid the pathos Of these quiet fields And read these words.

Written by Francesco Petrarch | Ballata III BALLATA III. Quel foco, ch' io pensai che fosse spento. HE THOUGHT HIMSELF FREE, BUT FINDS THAT HE IS MORE THAN EVER ENTHRALLED BY LOVE. That fire for ever which I thought at rest,Quench'd in the chill blood of my ripen'd years,Awakes new flames and torment in my breast.Its sparks were never all, from what I see,Extinct, but merely slumbering, smoulder'd o'er;Haply this second error worse may be,For, by the tears, which I, in torrents, pour,Grief, through these eyes, distill'd from my heart's core,Which holds within itself the spark and bait,Remains not as it was, but grows more great.What fire, save mine, had not been quench'd and kill'dBeneath the flood these sad eyes ceaseless shed?Struggling 'mid opposites—so Love has will'd—Now here, now there, my vain life must be led,For in so many ways his snares are spread,When most I hope him from my heart expell'dThen most of her fair face its slave I'm held. Macgregor.

Written by Algernon Charles Swinburne | The Last Oracle eipate toi basilei, xamai pese daidalos aula. ouketi PHoibos exei kaluban, ou mantida daphnen, ou pagan laleousan . apesbeto kai lalon udor. Years have risen and fallen in darkness or in twilight, Ages waxed and waned that knew not thee nor thine, While the world sought light by night and sought not thy light, Since the sad last pilgrim left thy dark mid shrine. Dark the shrine and dumb the fount of song thence welling, Save for words more sad than tears of blood, that said: Tell the king, on earth has fallen the glorious dwelling, And the watersprings that spake are quenched and dead. Not a cell is left the God, no roof, no cover In his hand the prophet laurel flowers no more. And the great king's high sad heart, thy true last lover, Felt thine answer pierce and cleave it to the core. And he bowed down his hopeless head In the drift of the wild world's tide, And dying, Thou hast conquered, he said, Galilean; he said it, and died. And the world that was thine and was ours When the Graces took hands with the Hours Grew cold as a winter wave In the wind from a wide-mouthed grave, As a gulf wide open to swallow The light that the world held dear. O father of all of us, Paian, Apollo, Destroyer and healer, hear! Age on age thy mouth was mute, thy face was hidden, And the lips and eyes that loved thee blind and dumb; Song forsook their tongues that held thy name forbidden, Light their eyes that saw the strange God's kingdom come. Fire for light and hell for heaven and psalms for pæans Filled the clearest eyes and lips most sweet of song, When for chant of Greeks the wail of Galileans Made the whole world moan with hymns of wrath and wrong. Yea, not yet we see thee, father, as they saw thee, They that worshipped when the world was theirs and thine, They whose words had power by thine own power to draw thee Down from heaven till earth seemed more than heaven divine. For the shades are about us that hover When darkness is half withdrawn And the skirts of the dead night cover The face of the live new dawn. For the past is not utterly past Though the word on its lips be the last, And the time be gone by with its creed When men were as beasts that bleed, As sheep or as swine that wallow, In the shambles of faith and of fear. O father of all of us, Paian, Apollo, Destroyer and healer, hear! Yet it may be, lord and father, could we know it, We that love thee for our darkness shall have light More than ever prophet hailed of old or poet Standing crowned and robed and sovereign in thy sight. To the likeness of one God their dreams enthralled thee, Who wast greater than all Gods that waned and grew; Son of God the shining son of Time they called thee, Who wast older, O our father, than they knew. For no thought of man made Gods to love or honour Ere the song within the silent soul began, Nor might earth in dream or deed take heaven upon her Till the word was clothed with speech by lips of man. And the word and the life wast thou, The spirit of man and the breath; And before thee the Gods that bow Take life at thine hands and death. For these are as ghosts that wane, That are gone in an age or twain; Harsh, merciful, passionate, pure, They perish, but thou shalt endure; Be their flight with the swan or the swallow, They pass as the flight of a year. O father of all of us, Paian, Apollo, Destroyer and healer, hear! Thou the word, the light, the life, the breath, the glory, Strong to help and heal, to lighten and to slay, Thine is all the song of man, the world's whole story; Not of morning and of evening is thy day. Old and younger Gods are buried or begotten From uprising to downsetting of thy sun, Risen from eastward, fallen to westward and forgotten, And their springs are many, but their end is one. Divers births of godheads find one death appointed, As the soul whence each was born makes room for each; God by God goes out, discrowned and disanointed, But the soul stands fast that gave them shape and speech. Is the sun yet cast out of heaven? Is the song yet cast out of man? Life that had song for its leaven To quicken the blood that ran Through the veins of the songless years More bitter and cold than tears, Heaven that had thee for its one Light, life, word, witness, O sun, Are they soundless and sightless and hollow, Without eye, without speech, without ear? O father of all of us, Paian, Apollo, Destroyer and healer, hear! Time arose and smote thee silent at his warning, Change and darkness fell on men that fell from thee; Dark thou satest, veiled with light, behind the morning, Till the soul of man should lift up eyes and see. Till the blind mute soul get speech again and eyesight, Man may worship not the light of life within; In his sight the stars whose fires grow dark in thy sight Shine as sunbeams on the night of death and sin. Time again is risen with mightier word of warning, Change hath blown again a blast of louder breath; Clothed with clouds and stars and dreams that melt in morning, Lo, the Gods that ruled by grace of sin and death! They are conquered, they break, they are stricken, Whose might made the whole world pale; They are dust that shall rise not or quicken Though the world for their death's sake wail. As a hound on a wild beast's trace, So time has their godhead in chase; As wolves when the hunt makes head, They are scattered, they fly, they are fled; They are fled beyond hail, beyond hollo, And the cry of the chase, and the cheer. O father of all of us, Paian, Apollo, Destroyer and healer, hear! Day by day thy shadow shines in heaven beholden, Even the sun, the shining shadow of thy face: King, the ways of heaven before thy feet grow golden; God, the soul of earth is kindled with thy grace. In thy lips the speech of man whence Gods were fashioned, In thy soul the thought that makes them and unmakes; By thy light and heat incarnate and impassioned, Soul to soul of man gives light for light and takes. As they knew thy name of old time could we know it, Healer called of sickness, slayer invoked of wrong, Light of eyes that saw thy light, God, king, priest, poet, Song should bring thee back to heal us with thy song. For thy kingdom is past not away, Nor thy power from the place thereof hurled; Out of heaven they shall cast not the day, They shall cast not out song from the world. By the song and the light they give We know thy works that they live; With the gift thou hast given us of speech We praise, we adore, we beseech, We arise at thy bidding and follow, We cry to thee, answer, appear, O father of all of us, Paian, Apollo, Destroyer and healer, hear!