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Best Famous Esprit Poems

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

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Written by Charles Baudelaire | Create an image from this poem

LInvitation au Voyage

 Mon enfant, ma soeur,
Songe à la douceur,
D'aller là-bas, vivre ensemble!
Aimer à loisir,
Aimer et mourir,
Au pays qui te ressemble!
Les soleils mouillés,
De ces ciels brouillés,
Pour mon esprit ont les charmes,
Si mystérieux,
De tes traîtres yeux,
Brillant à travers leurs larmes.
Là, tout n'est qu'ordre et beauté, Luxe, calme et volupté.
Des meubles luisants, Polis par les ans, Décoreraient notre chambre; Les plus rares fleurs Mêlant leurs odeurs Aux vagues senteurs de l'ambre, Les riches plafonds, Les miroirs profonds, La splendeur orientale, Tout y parlerait A l'âme en secret Sa douce langue natale.
Là, tout n'est qu'ordre et beauté, Luxe,calme et volupté.
Vois sur ces canaux Dormir ces vaisseaux Dont l'humeur est vagabonde; C'est pour assouvir Ton moindre désir Qu'ils viennent du bout du monde.
--Les soleils couchants Revêtent les champs Les canaux, la ville entière D'hyacinthe et d'or; Le monde s'endort Dans une chaude lumière Là, tout n'est qu'ordre et beauté, Luxe, calme et volupté.

Written by Charles Baudelaire | Create an image from this poem

Au Lecteur

 La sottise, l'erreur, le péché, la lésine,
Occupent nos esprits et travaillent nos corps,
Et nous alimentons nos aimables remords,
Comme les mendiants nourrissent leur vermine.
Nos péchés sont têtus, nos repentirs sont lâches; Nous nous faisons payer grassement nos aveux, Et nous rentrons gaiement dans le chemin bourbeux, Croyant par de vils pleurs laver toutes nos taches.
Sur l'oreiller du mal c'est Satan Trismégiste Qui berce longuement notre esprit enchanté, Et le riche métal de notre volonté Est tout vaporisé par ce savant chimiste.
C'est le Diable qui tient les fils qui nous remuent! Aux objets répugnants nous trouvons des appas; Chaque jour vers l'Enfer nous descendons d'un pas, Sans horreur, à travers des ténèbres qui puent.
Ainsi qu'un débauché pauvre qui baise et mange Le sein martyrisé d'une antique catin, Nous volons au passage un plaisir clandestin Que nous pressons bien fort comme une vieille orange.
Serré, fourmillant comme un million d'helminthes, Dans nos cerveaux ribote un peuple de démons, Et quand nous respirons, la Mort dans nos poumons Descend, fleuve invisible, avec de sourdes plaintes.
Si le viol, le poison, le poignard, l'incendie, N'ont pas encore brodé de leurs plaisants dessins Le canevas banal de nos piteux destins, C'est que notre âme, hélas! n'est pas assez hardie.
Mais parmi les chacals, les panthères, les lices, Les singes, les scorpions, les vautours, les serpents, Les monstres glapissants, hurlants, grognants, rampants, Dans la ménagerie infâme de nos vices, Il en est un plus laid, plus méchant, plus immonde! Quoiqu'il ne pousse ni grands gestes, ni grands cris, Il ferait volontiers de la terre un débris Et dans un bâillement avalerait le monde.
C'est l'Ennui!- L'oeil chargé d'un pleur involontaire, Il rêve d'échafauds en fumant son houka.
Tu le connais, lecteur, ce monstre délicat, --Hypocrite lecteur, --mon semblable, --mon frère!
Written by Charles Baudelaire | Create an image from this poem

Le Gout du Néant

 Morne esprit, autrefois amoureux de la lutte,
L'Espoir, dont l'éperon attisait ton ardeur,
Ne veut plus t'enfourcher! Couche-toi sans pudeur,
Vieux cheval dont le pied à chaque obstacle bute.
Résigne-toi, mon coeur; dors ton sommeil de brute.
Esprit vaincu, fourbu! Pour toi, vieux maraudeur, L'amour n'a plus de gout, non plus que la dispute; Adieu donc, chants du cuivre et soupirs de la flûte! Plaisirs, ne tentez plus un coeur sombre et boudeur! Le Printemps adorable a perdu son odeur! Et le Temps m'engloutit minute par minute, Comme la neige immense un corps pris de roideur; Je contemple d'en haut le globe en sa rondeur, Et je n'y cherche plus l'abri d'une cahute.
Avalanche, veux-tu m'emporter dans ta chute?
Written by Friedrich von Schiller | Create an image from this poem

The Celebrated Woman - An Epistle By A Married Man

 Can I, my friend, with thee condole?--
Can I conceive the woes that try men,
When late repentance racks the soul
Ensnared into the toils of hymen?
Can I take part in such distress?--
Poor martyr,--most devoutly, "Yes!"
Thou weep'st because thy spouse has flown
To arms preferred before thine own;--
A faithless wife,--I grant the curse,--
And yet, my friend, it might be worse!
Just hear another's tale of sorrow,
And, in comparing, comfort borrow!

What! dost thou think thyself undone,
Because thy rights are shared with one!
O, happy man--be more resigned,
My wife belongs to all mankind!
My wife--she's found abroad--at home;
But cross the Alps and she's at Rome;
Sail to the Baltic--there you'll find her;
Lounge on the Boulevards--kind and kinder:
In short, you've only just to drop
Where'er they sell the last new tale,
And, bound and lettered in the shop,
You'll find my lady up for sale!

She must her fair proportions render
To all whose praise can glory lend her;--
Within the coach, on board the boat,
Let every pedant "take a note;"
Endure, for public approbation,
Each critic's "close investigation,"
And brave--nay, court it as a flattery--
Each spectacled Philistine's battery.
Just as it suits some scurvy carcase In which she hails an Aristarchus, Ready to fly with kindred souls, O'er blooming flowers or burning coals, To fame or shame, to shrine or gallows, Let him but lead--sublimely callous! A Leipsic man--(confound the wretch!) Has made her topographic sketch, A kind of map, as of a town, Each point minutely dotted down; Scarce to myself I dare to hint What this d----d fellow wants to print! Thy wife--howe'er she slight the vows-- Respects, at least, the name of spouse; But mine to regions far too high For that terrestrial name is carried; My wife's "The famous Ninon!"--I "The gentleman that Ninon married!" It galls you that you scarce are able To stake a florin at the table-- Confront the pit, or join the walk, But straight all tongues begin to talk! O that such luck could me befall, Just to be talked about at all! Behold me dwindling in my nook, Edged at her left,--and not a look! A sort of rushlight of a life, Put out by that great orb--my wife! Scarce is the morning gray--before Postman and porter crowd the door; No premier has so dear a levee-- She finds the mail-bag half its trade; My God--the parcels are so heavy! And not a parcel carriage-paid! But then--the truth must be confessed-- They're all so charmingly addressed: Whate'er they cost, they well requite her-- "To Madame Blank, the famous writer!" Poor thing, she sleeps so soft! and yet 'Twere worth my life to spare her slumber; "Madame--from Jena--the Gazette-- The Berlin Journal--the last number!" Sudden she wakes; those eyes of blue (Sweet eyes!) fall straight--on the Review! I by her side--all undetected, While those cursed columns are inspected; Loud squall the children overhead, Still she reads on, till all is read: At last she lays that darling by, And asks--"What makes the baby cry?" Already now the toilet's care Claims from her couch the restless fair; The toilet's care!--the glass has won Just half a glance, and all is done! A snappish--pettish word or so Warns the poor maid 'tis time to go:-- Not at her toilet wait the Graces Uncombed Erynnys takes their places; So great a mind expands its scope Far from the mean details of--soap! Now roll the coach-wheels to the muster-- Now round my muse her votaries cluster; Spruce Abbe Millefleurs--Baron Herman-- The English Lord, who don't know German,-- But all uncommonly well read From matchless A to deathless Z! Sneaks in the corner, shy and small, A thing which men the husband call! While every fop with flattery fires her, Swears with what passion he admires her.
-- "'Passion!' 'admire!' and still you're dumb?" Lord bless your soul, the worst's to come:-- I'm forced to bow, as I'm a sinner,-- And hope--the rogue will stay to dinner! But oh, at dinner!--there's the sting; I see my cellar on the wing! You know if Burgundy is dear?-- Mine once emerged three times a year;-- And now to wash these learned throttles, In dozens disappear the bottles; They well must drink who well do eat (I've sunk a capital on meat).
Her immortality, I fear, a Death-blow will prove to my Madeira; It has given, alas! a mortal shock To that old friend--my Steinberg hock! If Faust had really any hand In printing, I can understand The fate which legends more than hint;-- The devil take all hands that print! And what my thanks for all?--a pout-- Sour looks--deep sighs; but what about? About! O, that I well divine-- That such a pearl should fall to swine-- That such a literary ruby Should grace the finger of a booby! Spring comes;--behold, sweet mead and lea Nature's green splendor tapestries o'er; Fresh blooms the flower, and buds the tree; Larks sing--the woodland wakes once more.
The woodland wakes--but not for her! From Nature's self the charm has flown; No more the Spring of earth can stir The fond remembrance of our own! The sweetest bird upon the bough Has not one note of music now; And, oh! how dull the grove's soft shade, Where once--(as lovers then)--we strayed! The nightingales have got no learning-- Dull creatures--how can they inspire her? The lilies are so undiscerning, They never say--"how they admire her!" In all this jubilee of being, Some subject for a point she's seeing-- Some epigram--(to be impartial, Well turned)--there may be worse in Martial! But, hark! the goddess stoops to reason:-- "The country now is quite in season, I'll go!"--"What! to our country seat?" "No!--Travelling will be such a treat; Pyrmont's extremely full, I hear; But Carlsbad's quite the rage this year!" Oh yes, she loves the rural Graces; Nature is gay--in watering-places! Those pleasant spas--our reigning passion-- Where learned Dons meet folks of fashion; Where--each with each illustrious soul Familiar as in Charon's boat, All sorts of fame sit cheek-by-jowl, Pearls in that string--the table d'hote! Where dames whom man has injured--fly, To heal their wounds or to efface, them; While others, with the waters, try A course of flirting,--just to brace them! Well, there (O man, how light thy woes Compared with mine--thou need'st must see!) My wife, undaunted, greatly goes-- And leaves the orphans (seven!!!) to me! O, wherefore art thou flown so soon, Thou first fair year--Love's honeymoon! All, dream too exquisite for life! Home's goddess--in the name of wife! Reared by each grace--yet but to be Man's household Anadyomene! With mind from which the sunbeams fall, Rejoice while pervading all; Frank in the temper pleased to please-- Soft in the feeling waked with ease.
So broke, as native of the skies, The heart-enthraller on my eyes; So saw I, like a morn of May, The playmate given to glad my way; With eyes that more than lips bespoke, Eyes whence--sweet words--"I love thee!" broke! So--Ah, what transports then were mine! I led the bride before the shrine! And saw the future years revealed, Glassed on my hope--one blooming field! More wide, and widening more, were given The angel-gates disclosing heaven; Round us the lovely, mirthful troop Of children came--yet still to me The loveliest--merriest of the group The happy mother seemed to be! Mine, by the bonds that bind us more Than all the oaths the priest before; Mine, by the concord of content, When heart with heart is music-blent; When, as sweet sounds in unison, Two lives harmonious melt in one! When--sudden (O the villain!)--came Upon the scene a mind profound!-- A bel esprit, who whispered "Fame," And shook my card-house to the ground.
What have I now instead of all The Eden lost of hearth and hall? What comforts for the heaven bereft? What of the younger angel's left? A sort of intellectual mule, Man's stubborn mind in woman's shape, Too hard to love, too frail to rule-- A sage engrafted on an ape! To what she calls the realm of mind, She leaves that throne, her sex, to crawl, The cestus and the charm resigned-- A public gaping-show to all! She blots from beauty's golden book A name 'mid nature's choicest few, To gain the glory of a nook In Doctor Dunderhead's Review.
Written by Wilfred Owen | Create an image from this poem


 He sat in a wheeled chair, waiting for dark,
And shivered in his ghastly suit of grey,
Legless, sewn short at elbow.
Through the park Voices of boys rang saddening like a hymn, Voices of play and pleasure after day, Till gathering sleep had mothered them from him.
About this time Town used to swing so gay When glow-lamps budded in the light-blue trees And girls glanced lovelier as the air grew dim, -- In the old times, before he threw away his knees.
Now he will never feel again how slim Girls' waists are, or how warm their subtle hands, All of them touch him like some ***** disease.
There was an artist silly for his face, For it was younger than his youth, last year.
Now he is old; his back will never brace; He's lost his colour very far from here, Poured it down shell-holes till the veins ran dry, And half his lifetime lapsed in the hot race, And leap of purple spurted from his thigh.
One time he liked a bloodsmear down his leg, After the matches carried shoulder-high.
It was after football, when he'd drunk a peg, He thought he'd better join.
He wonders why .
Someone had said he'd look a god in kilts.
That's why; and maybe, too, to please his Meg, Aye, that was it, to please the giddy jilts, He asked to join.
He didn't have to beg; Smiling they wrote his lie; aged nineteen years.
Germans he scarcely thought of; and no fears Of Fear came yet.
He thought of jewelled hilts For daggers in plaid socks; of smart salutes; And care of arms; and leave; and pay arrears; Esprit de corps; and hints for young recruits.
And soon, he was drafted out with drums and cheers.
Some cheered him home, but not as crowds cheer Goal.
Only a solemn man who brought him fruits Thanked him; and then inquired about his soul.
Now, he will spend a few sick years in Institutes, And do what things the rules consider wise, And take whatever pity they may dole.
To-night he noticed how the women's eyes Passed from him to the strong men that were whole.
How cold and late it is! Why don't they come And put him into bed? Why don't they come?

Written by Victor Hugo | Create an image from this poem


 ("Souvent quand mon esprit riche.") 
 {VII., May 18, 1828.} 

 When my mind, on the ocean of poesy hurled, 
 Floats on in repose round this wonderful world, 
 Oft the sacred fire from heaven— 
 Mysterious sun, that gives light to the soul— 
 Strikes mine with its ray, and above the pole 
 Its upward course is driven, 
 Like a wandering cloud, then, my eager thought 
 Capriciously flies, to no guidance brought, 
 With every quarter's wind; 
 It regards from those radiant vaults on high, 
 Earth's cities below, and again doth fly, 
 And leaves but its shadow behind. 
 In the glistening gold of the morning bright, 
 It shines, detaching some lance of light, 
 Or, as warrior's armor rings; 
 It forages forests that ferment around, 
 Or bathed in the sun-red gleams is found, 
 Where the west its radiance flings. 
 Or, on mountain peak, that rears its head 
 Where snow-clad Alps around are spread, 
 By furious gale 'tis thrown. 
 From the yawning abyss see the cloud scud away, 
 And the glacier appears, with its multiform ray, 
 The giant mountain's crown! 
 Like Parnassian pinnacle yet to be scaled, 
 In its form from afar, by the aspirant hailed; 
 On its side the rainbow plays, 
 And at eve, when the shadow sinks sleeping below, 
 The last slanting ray on its crest of snow 
 Makes its cap like a crater to blaze. 
 In the darkness, its front seems some pale orb of light, 
 The chamois with fear flashes on in its flight, 
 The eagle afar is driven; 
 The deluge but roars in despair to its feet, 
 And scarce dare the eye its aspect to meet, 
 So near doth it rise to heaven. 
 Alone on these altitudes, feeling no fear, 
 Forgetful of earth, my spirit draws near; 
 On the starry vault to gaze, 
 And nearer, to gaze on those glories of night, 
 On th' horizon high heaving, like arches of light, 
 Till again the sun shall blaze. 
 For then will the glacier with glory be graced, 
 On its prisms will light streaked with darkness be placed, 
 The morn its echoes greet; 
 Like a torrent it falls on the ocean of life, 
 Like Chaos unformed, with the sea-stormy strife, 
 When waters on waters meet. 
 As the spirit of poesy touches my thought, 
 It is thus my ideas in a circle are brought, 
 From earth, with the waters of pain. 
 As under a sunbeam a cloud ascends, 
 These fly to the heavens—their course never ends, 
 But descend to the ocean again. 
 Author of "Critical Essays." 


Written by Victor Hugo | Create an image from this poem


 ("Un jour, le morne esprit.") 
 {Bk. VI. vii., Jersey, September, 1855.} 

 One day, the sombre soul, the Prophet most sublime 
 At Patmos who aye dreamed, 
 And tremblingly perused, without the vast of Time, 
 Words that with hell-fire gleamed, 
 Said to his eagle: "Bird, spread wings for loftiest flight— 
 Needs must I see His Face!" 
 The eagle soared. At length, far beyond day and night, 
 Lo! the all-sacred Place! 
 And John beheld the Way whereof no angel knows 
 The name, nor there hath trod; 
 And, lo! the Place fulfilled with shadow that aye glows 
 Because of very God.