Get Your Premium Membership

Best Famous Euripides Poems

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

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

See Also:
Written by Oscar Wilde | Create an image from this poem

A Vision

 Two crowned Kings, and One that stood alone
With no green weight of laurels round his head,
But with sad eyes as one uncomforted,
And wearied with man's never-ceasing moan
For sins no bleating victim can atone,
And sweet long lips with tears and kisses fed.
Girt was he in a garment black and red, And at his feet I marked a broken stone Which sent up lilies, dove-like, to his knees.
Now at their sight, my heart being lit with flame, I cried to Beatrice, 'Who are these?' And she made answer, knowing well each name, 'AEschylos first, the second Sophokles, And last (wide stream of tears!) Euripides.
'


Written by Archibald MacLeish | Create an image from this poem

Baccalaureate

 A year or two, and grey Euripides, 
And Horace and a Lydia or so, 
And Euclid and the brush of Angelo, 
Darwin on man, Vergilius on bees, 
The nose and Dialogues of Socrates, 
Don Quixote, Hudibras and Trinculo, 
How worlds are spawned and where the dead gods go,-- 
All shall be shard of broken memories.
And there shall linger other, magic things,-- The fog that creeps in wanly from the sea, The rotton harbor smell, the mystery Of moonlit elms, the flash of pigeon wings, The sunny Green, the old-world peace that clings About the college yard, where endlessly The dead go up and down.
These things shall be Enchantment of our heart's rememberings.
And these are more than memories of youth Which earth's four winds of pain shall blow away; These are earth's symbols of eternal truth, Symbols of dream and imagery and flame, Symbols of those same verities that play Bright through the crumbling gold of a great name.
Written by Ben Jonson | Create an image from this poem

To the Memory of My Beloved the Author, Mr. William Shakespeare

 MASTER WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE,
AND WHAT HE HATH LEFT US
by Ben Jonson


To draw no envy, SHAKSPEARE, on thy name,
Am I thus ample to thy book and fame ;
While I confess thy writings to be such,
As neither Man nor Muse can praise too much.
'Tis true, and all men's suffrage.
But these ways
Were not the paths I meant unto thy praise ;
For seeliest ignorance on these may light,
Which, when it sounds at best, but echoes right ;
Or blind affection, which doth ne'er advance
The truth, but gropes, and urgeth all by chance ;
Or crafty malice might pretend this praise,
And think to ruin where it seemed to raise.
These are, as some infamous bawd or whore
Should praise a matron ; what could hurt her more ?
But thou art proof against them, and, indeed,
Above the ill fortune of them, or the need.
I therefore will begin: Soul of the age!
The applause ! delight ! the wonder of our stage!
My SHAKSPEARE rise ! I will not lodge thee by
Chaucer, or Spenser, or bid Beaumont lie
A little further, to make thee a room :
Thou art a monument without a tomb,
And art alive still while thy book doth live
And we have wits to read, and praise to give.
That I not mix thee so my brain excuses,
I mean with great, but disproportioned Muses :
For if I thought my judgment were of years,
I should commit thee surely with thy peers,
And tell how far thou didst our Lyly outshine,
Or sporting Kyd, or Marlowe's mighty line.
And though thou hadst small Latin and less Greek,
From thence to honour thee, I would not seek
For names : but call forth thund'ring Aeschylus,
Euripides, and Sophocles to us,
Pacuvius, Accius, him of Cordova dead,
To life again, to hear thy buskin tread
And shake a stage : or when thy socks were on,
Leave thee alone for the comparison
Of all that insolent Greece or haughty Rome
Sent forth, or since did from their ashes come.
Triumph, my Britain, thou hast one to show
To whom all Scenes of Europe homage owe.
He was not of an age, but for all time !
And all the Muses still were in their prime,
When, like Apollo, he came forth to warm
Our ears, or like a Mercury to charm !
Nature herself was proud of his designs,
And joyed to wear the dressing of his lines !
Which were so richly spun, and woven so fit,
As, since, she will vouchsafe no other wit.
The merry Greek, tart Aristophanes,
Neat Terence, witty Plautus, now not please ;
But antiquated and deserted lie,
As they were not of Nature's family.
Yet must I not give Nature all ; thy art,
My gentle Shakspeare, must enjoy a part.
For though the poet's matter nature be,
His art doth give the fashion : and, that he
Who casts to write a living line, must sweat,
(Such as thine are) and strike the second heat
Upon the Muses' anvil ; turn the same,
And himself with it, that he thinks to frame ;
Or for the laurel he may gain a scorn ;
For a good poet's made, as well as born.
And such wert thou ! Look how the father's face
Lives in his issue, even so the race
Of Shakspeare's mind and manners brightly shines
In his well torned and true filed lines;
In each of which he seems to shake a lance,
As brandisht at the eyes of ignorance.
Sweet Swan of Avon ! what a sight it were
To see thee in our waters yet appear,
And make those flights upon the banks of Thames,
That so did take Eliza, and our James !
But stay, I see thee in the hemisphere
Advanced, and made a constellation there !
Shine forth, thou Star of Poets, and with rage
Or influence, chide or cheer the drooping stage,
Which, since thy flight from hence, hath mourned like night,
And despairs day, but for thy volume's light.



Source:
Jonson, Ben.
The Works of Ben Jonson, vol.
3.
London: Chatto & Windus, 1910.
287-9.


Written by Ben Jonson | Create an image from this poem

To The Memory Of My Beloved The Author Mr William Shakespeare And What He Hath Left Us

 To draw no envy, Shakespeare, on thy name
Am I thus ample to thy book and fame;
While I confess thy writings to be such
As neither Man nor Muse can praise too much.
'Tis true, and all men's suffrage.
But these ways Were not the paths I meant unto thy praise; For silliest ignorance on these may light, Which when it sounds at best but echoes right; Or blind affection, which doth ne'er advance The truth, but gropes, and urges all by chance; Or crafty malice might pretend this praise, And think to ruin where it seemed to raise.
These are as some infamous bawd or whore Should praise a matron.
What could hurt her more? But thou art proof against them, and indeed Above th' ill fortune of them, or the need.
I therefore will begin: Soul of the Age! The applause, delight, the wonder of our stage! My Shakespeare, rise; I will not lodge thee by Chaucer, or Spenser, or bid Beaumont lie A little further, to make thee a room: Thou art a monument without a tomb, And art alive still, while thy book doth live, And we have wits to read, and praise to give.
That I not mix thee so, my brain excuses, I mean with great but disproportioned Muses, For if I thought my judgement were of years, I should commit thee surely with thy peers, And tell how far thou didst our Lyly outshine, Or sporting Kyd, or Marlowe's mighty line.
And though thou hadst small Latin and less Greek, From thence to honour thee I would not seek For names; but call forth thundering Aeschylus, Euripides, and Sophocles to us, Pacuvius, Accius, him of Cordova dead, To live again, to hear thy buskin tread, And shake a stage; or, when thy socks were on, Leave thee alone for the comparison Of all that insolent Greece or haughty Rome Sent forth, or since did from their ashes come.
Triumph, my Britain, thou hast one to show To whom all scenes of Europe homage owe.
He was not of an age, but for all time! And all the Muses still were in their prime When, like Apollo, he came forth to warm Our ears, or, like a Mercury, to charm! Nature herself was proud of his designs, And joyed to wear the dressing of his lines! Which were so richly spun, and woven so fit, As, since, she will vouchsafe no other wit.
The merry Greek, tart Aristophanes, Neat Terence, witty Plautus, now not please; But antiquated and deserted lie, As they were not of Nature's family.
Yet must I not give Nature all; thy art, My gentle Shakespeare, must enjoy a part.
For though the poet's matter nature be, His art doth give the fashion; and that he Who casts to write a living line must sweat (Such as thine are) and strike the second heat Upon the Muses' anvil; turn the same, And himself with it, that he thinks to frame, Or for the laurel he may gain a scorn; For a good poet's made as well as born.
And such wert thou.
Look how the father's face Lives in his issue, even so the race Of Shakespeare's mind and manners brightly shines In his well turned and true-filed lines: In each of which he seems to shake a lance, As brandished at the eyes of ignorance.
Sweet swan of Avon! what a sight it were To see thee in our waters yet appear, And make those flights upon the banks of Thames, That did so take Eliza and our James! But stay, I see thee in the hemisphere Advanced, and made a constellation there: Shine forth, thou Star of Poets, and with rage, Or influence, chide or cheer the drooping stage, Which, since thy flight from hence, hath mourned like night, And despairs day, but for thy volume's light.
Written by Henry Van Dyke | Create an image from this poem

Robert Browning

 How blind the toil that burrows like the mole, 
In winding graveyard pathways underground,
For Browning's lineage! What if men have found
Poor footmen or rich merchants on the roll
Of his forbears? Did they beget his soul? 
Nay, for he came of ancestry renowned 
Through all the world, -- the poets laurel-crowned
With wreaths from which the autumn takes no toll.
The blazons on his coat-of-arms are these: The flaming sign of Shelley's heart on fire, The golden globe of Shakespeare's human stage, The staff and scrip of Chaucer's pilgrimage, The rose of Dante's deep, divine desire, The tragic mask of wise Euripides.


Written by Edgar Lee Masters | Create an image from this poem

Hamlet Micure

 In a lingering fever many visions come to you:
I was in the little house again
With its great yard of clover
Running down to the board-fence,
Shadowed by the oak tree,
Where we children had our swing.
Yet the little house was a manor hall Set in a lawn, and by the lawn was the sea.
I was in the room where little Paul Strangled from diphtheria, But yet it was not this room -- It was a sunny verandah enclosed With mullioned windows, And in a chair sat a man in a dark cloak, With a face like Euripides.
He had come to visit me, or I had gone to visit him -- I could not tell.
We could hear the beat of the sea, the clover nodded Under a summer wind, and little Paul came With clover blossoms to the window and smiled.
Then I said: "What is 'divine despair,' Alfred?" "Have you read 'Tears, Idle Tears'?" he asked.
"Yes, but you do not there express divine despair.
" "My poor friend," he answered, "that was why the despair Was divine.
"
Written by Edwin Arlington Robinson | Create an image from this poem

The White Lights

 When in from Delos came the gold 
That held the dream of Pericles, 
When first Athenian ears were told 
The tumult of Euripides, 
When men met Aristophanes,
Who fledged them with immortal quills— 
Here, where the time knew none of these, 
There were some islands and some hills.
When Rome went ravening to see The sons of mothers end their days, When Flaccus bade Leuconoë To banish her chaldean ways, When first the pearled, alembic phrase Of Maro into music ran— Here there was neither blame nor praise For Rome, or for the Mantuan.
When Avon, like a faery floor, Lay freighted, for the eyes of One, With galleons laden long before By moonlit wharves in Avalon— Here, where the white lights have begun To seethe a way for something fair, No prophet knew, from what was done, That there was triumph in the air.