Best Famous Entrusted Poems

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

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

• All Famous Entrusted Poems

Written by Rainer Maria Rilke | DUINO ELEGIES The First Elegy Who if I cried out would hear me among the angels' hierarchies? and even if one of them pressed me suddenly against his heart: I would be consumed I that overwhelming existence. For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror which we still are just able to endure and we are so awed because it serenely disdains to annihilate us. Every angel is terrifying. And so I hold myself back and swallow the call-note Of my dark sobbing. Ah whom can we ever turn to in our need? Not angels not humans and already the knowing animals are aware that we are not really at home in our interpreted world. Perhaps there remains for us some tree on a hillside which every day we can take into our vision; there remains for us yesterday's street and the loyalty of a habit so much at ease when it stayed with us that it moved in and never left. Oh and night: there is night when a wind full of infinite space gnaws at out faces. Whom would it not remain for-that longed-after mildly disillusioning presence which the solitary heart so painfully meets. Is it any less difficult for lovers? But they keep on using each other to hide their own fate. Don't you know yet? Fling the emptiness out of your arms Into the spaces we breathe; perhaps the birds will feel the expanded air with more passionate flying. Yes-the springtime needed you. Often a star was waiting for you to notice it. A wave rolled toward you out of the distant past or as you walked under an open window a violin yielded itself to your hearing. All this was mission. But could you accomplish it? Weren't you always Distracted by expectation as if every event announced a beloved? (Where can you find a place to keep her with all the huge strange thoughts inside you going and coming and often staying all night. ) But when you feel longing sing of women in love; for their famous passion is still not immortal. Sing of women abandoned and desolate (you envy them almost) who could love so much more purely than those who were gratified. Begin again and again the never-attainable praising; remember: the hero lives on; even his downfall was merely a pretext for achieving his final birth. But Nature spent and exhausted takes lovers back into herself as if there were not enough strength to create them a second time. Have you imagined Gaspara Stampa intensely enough so that any girl deserted by her beloved might be inspired by that fierce example of soaring objectless love and might say to herself Perhaps I can be like her ? Shouldn't this most ancient suffering finally grow more fruitful for us? Isn't it time that we lovingly freed ourselves from the beloved and quivering endured: as the arrow endures the bowstring's tension so that gathered in the snap of release it can be more than itself. For there is no place where we can remain. Voices. Voices. Listen my heart as only Saints have listened: until the gigantic call lifted them off the ground; yet they kept on impossibly kneeling and didn't notice at all: so complete was their listening. Not that you could endure God's voice-far from it. But listen to the voice of the wind and the ceaseless message that forms itself out of silence. It is murmuring toward you now from those who died young. Didn't their fate whenever you stepped into a church In Naples or Rome quietly come to address you? Or high up some eulogy entrusted you with a mission as last year on the plaque in Santa Maria Formosa. What they want of me is that I gently remove the appearance of injustice about their death-which at times slightly hinders their souls from proceeding onward. Of course it is strange to inhabit the earth no longer to give up customs one barely had time to learn not to see roses and other promising Things in terms of a human future; no longer to be what one was in infinitely anxious hands; to leave even one's own first name behind forgetting it as easily as a child abandons a broken toy. Strange to no longer desire one's desires. Strange to see meanings that clung together once floating away in every direction. And being dead is hard work and full of retrieval before one can gradually feel a trace of eternity. -Though the living are wrong to believe in the too-sharp distinctions which they themselves have created. Angels (they say) don't know whether it is the living they are moving among or the dead. The eternal torrent whirls all ages along in it through both realms forever and their voices are drowned out in its thunderous roar. In the end those who were carried off early no longer need us: they are weaned from earth's sorrows and joys as gently as children outgrow the soft breasts of their mothers. But we who do need such great mysteries we for whom grief is so often the source of our spirit's growth-: could we exist without them? Is the legend meaningless that tells how in the lament for Linus the daring first notes of song pierced through the barren numbness; and then in the startled space which a youth as lovely as a god had suddenly left forever the Void felt for the first time that harmony which now enraptures and comforts and helps us.

Written by Antonio Machado | The Wind One Brilliant Day The wind, one brilliant day, called to my soul with an odor of jasmine. "In return for the odor of my jasmine, I'd like all the odor of your roses. " "I have no roses; all the flowers in my garden are dead. " "Well then, I'll take the withered petals and the yellow leaves and the waters of the fountain. " the wind left. And I wept. And I said to myself: "What have you done with the garden that was entrusted to you?" Translated by Robert Bly

Written by Aleksandr Blok | The Stranger The restaurants on hot spring evenings Lie under a dense and savage air. Foul drafts and hoots from dunken revelers Contaminate the thoroughfare. Above the dusty lanes of suburbia Above the tedium of bungalows A pretzel sign begilds a bakery And children screech fortissimo. And every evening beyond the barriers Gentlemen of practiced wit and charm Go strolling beside the drainage ditches -- A tilted derby and a lady at the arm. The squeak of oarlocks comes over the lake water A woman's shriek assaults the ear While above, in the sky, inured to everything, The moon looks on with a mindless leer. And every evening my one companion Sits here, reflected in my glass. Like me, he has drunk of bitter mysteries. Like me, he is broken, dulled, downcast. The sleepy lackeys stand beside tables Waiting for the night to pass And tipplers with the eyes of rabbits Cry out: "In vino veritas!" And every evening (or am I imagining?) Exactly at the appointed time A girl's slim figure, silk raimented, Glides past the window's mist and grime. And slowly passing throught the revelers, Unaccompanied, always alone, Exuding mists and secret fragrances, She sits at the table that is her own. Something ancient, something legendary Surrounds her presence in the room, Her narrow hand, her silk, her bracelets, Her hat, the rings, the ostrich plume. Entranced by her presence, near and enigmatic, I gaze through the dark of her lowered veil And I behold an enchanted shoreline And enchanted distances, far and pale. I am made a guardian of the higher mysteries, Someone's sun is entrusted to my control. Tart wine has pierced the last convolution of my labyrinthine soul. And now the drooping plumes of ostriches Asway in my brain droop slowly lower And two eyes, limpid, blue, and fathomless Are blooming on a distant shore. Inside my soul a treasure is buried. The key is mine and only mine. How right you are, you drunken monster! I know: the truth is in the wine.

Written by Paul Eluard | At the Window I have not always had this certainty, this pessimism which reassures the best among us. There was a time when my friends laughed at me. I was not the master of my words. A certain indifference, I have not always known well what I wanted to say, but most often it was because I had nothing to say. The necessity of speaking and the desire not to be heard. My life hanging only by a thread. There was a time when I seemed to understand nothing. My chains floated on the water. All my desires are born of my dreams. And I have proven my love with words. To what fantastic creatures have I entrusted myself, in what dolorous and ravishing world has my imagination enclosed me? I am sure of having been loved in the most mysterious of domains, my own. The language of my love does not belong to human language, my human body does not touch the flesh of my love. My amorous imagination has always been constant and high enough so that nothing could attempt to convince me of error.

Written by Francesco Petrarch | CANZONE VI CANZONE VI. Spirto gentil che quelle membra reggi. TO RIENZI, BESEECHING HIM TO RESTORE TO ROME HER ANCIENT LIBERTY. Spirit heroic! who with fire divine Kindlest those limbs, awhile which pilgrim hold On earth a Chieftain, gracious, wise, and bold; Since, rightly, now the rod of state is thine Rome and her wandering children to confine, And yet reclaim her to the old good way: To thee I speak, for elsewhere not a ray Of virtue can I find, extinct below, Nor one who feels of evil deeds the shame. Why Italy still waits, and what her aim I know not, callous to her proper woe, Indolent, aged, slow, Still will she sleep? Is none to rouse her found? Oh! that my wakening hands were through her tresses wound. So grievous is the spell, the trance so deep, Loud though we call, my hope is faint that e'er She yet will waken from her heavy sleep: But not, methinks, without some better end Was this our Rome entrusted to thy care, Who surest may revive and best defend. Fearlessly then upon that reverend head, 'Mid her dishevell'd locks, thy fingers spread, And lift at length the sluggard from the dust; I, day and night, who her prostration mourn, For this, in thee, have fix'd my certain trust, [Pg 55]That, if her sons yet turn. And their eyes ever to true honour raise. The glory is reserved for thy illustrious days! Her ancient walls, which still with fear and love The world admires, whene'er it calls to mind The days of Eld, and turns to look behind; Her hoar and cavern'd monuments above The dust of men, whose fame, until the world In dissolution sink, can never fail; Her all, that in one ruin now lies hurl'd, Hopes to have heal'd by thee its every ail. O faithful Brutus! noble Scipios dead! To you what triumph, where ye now are blest, If of our worthy choice the fame have spread: And how his laurell'd crest, Will old Fabricius rear, with joy elate, That his own Rome again shall beauteous be and great! And, if for things of earth its care Heaven show, The souls who dwell above in joy and peace, And their mere mortal frames have left below, Implore thee this long civil strife may cease, Which kills all confidence, nips every good, Which bars the way to many a roof, where men Once holy, hospitable lived, the den Of fearless rapine now and frequent blood, Whose doors to virtue only are denied. While beneath plunder'd Saints, in outraged fanes Plots Faction, and Revenge the altar stains; And, contrast sad and wide, The very bells which sweetly wont to fling Summons to prayer and praise now Battle's tocsin ring! Pale weeping women, and a friendless crowd Of tender years, infirm and desolate Age, Which hates itself and its superfluous days, With each blest order to religion vow'd, Whom works of love through lives of want engage, To thee for help their hands and voices raise; While our poor panic-stricken land displays The thousand wounds which now so mar her frame, That e'en from foes compassion they command; Or more if Christendom thy care may claim. Lo! God's own house on fire, while not a hand [Pg 56]Moves to subdue the flame: —Heal thou these wounds, this feverish tumult end, And on the holy work Heaven's blessing shall descend! Often against our marble Column high Wolf, Lion, Bear, proud Eagle, and base Snake Even to their own injury insult shower; Lifts against thee and theirs her mournful cry, The noble Dame who calls thee here to break Away the evil weeds which will not flower. A thousand years and more! and gallant men There fix'd her seat in beauty and in power; The breed of patriot hearts has fail'd since then! And, in their stead, upstart and haughty now, A race, which ne'er to her in reverence bends, Her husband, father thou! Like care from thee and counsel she attends, As o'er his other works the Sire of all extends. 'Tis seldom e'en that with our fairest scheme Some adverse fortune will not mix, and mar With instant ill ambition's noblest dreams; But thou, once ta'en thy path, so walk that I May pardon her past faults, great as they are, If now at least she give herself the lie. For never, in all memory, as to thee, To mortal man so sure and straight the way Of everlasting honour open lay, For thine the power and will, if right I see, To lift our empire to its old proud state. Let this thy glory be! They succour'd her when young, and strong, and great, He, in her weak old age, warded the stroke of Fate. Forth on thy way! my Song, and, where the bold Tarpeian lifts his brow, shouldst thou behold, Of others' weal more thoughtful than his own, The chief, by general Italy revered, Tell him from me, to whom he is but known As one to Virtue and by Fame endear'd, Till stamp'd upon his heart the sad truth be, That, day by day to thee, With suppliant attitude and streaming eyes, For justice and relief our seven-hill'd city cries. Macgregor.