Best Famous Finch Poems

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

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Written by Anne Kingsmill Finch | Create an image from this poem

A Nocturnal Reverie

In such a night, when every louder wind
Is to its distant cavern safe confined;
And only gentle Zephyr fans his wings,
And lonely Philomel, still waking, sings;
Or from some tree, famed for the owl's delight,
She, hollowing clear, directs the wand'rer right:
In such a night, when passing clouds give place,
Or thinly veil the heav'ns' mysterious face;
When in some river, overhung with green,
The waving moon and trembling leaves are seen;
When freshened grass now bears itself upright,
And makes cool banks to pleasing rest invite,
Whence springs the woodbind, and the bramble-rose,
And where the sleepy cowslip sheltered grows;
Whilst now a paler hue the foxglove takes,
Yet checkers still with red the dusky brakes
When scattered glow-worms, but in twilight fine,
Shew trivial beauties watch their hour to shine;
Whilst Salisb'ry stands the test of every light,
In perfect charms, and perfect virtue bright:
When odors, which declined repelling day,
Through temp'rate air uninterrupted stray;
When darkened groves their softest shadows wear,
And falling waters we distinctly hear;
When through the gloom more venerable shows
Some ancient fabric, awful in repose,
While sunburnt hills their swarthy looks conceal,
And swelling haycocks thicken up the vale:
When the loosed horse now, as his pasture leads,
Comes slowly grazing through th' adjoining meads,
Whose stealing pace, and lengthened shade we fear,
Till torn-up forage in his teeth we hear:
When nibbling sheep at large pursue their food,
And unmolested kine rechew the cud;
When curlews cry beneath the village walls,
And to her straggling brood the partridge calls;
Their shortlived jubilee the creatures keep,
Which but endures, whilst tyrant man does sleep;
When a sedate content the spirit feels,
And no fierce light disturbs, whilst it reveals;
But silent musings urge the mind to seek
Something, too high for syllables to speak;
Till the free soul to a composedness charmed,
Finding the elements of rage disarmed,
O'er all below a solemn quiet grown,
Joys in th' inferior world, and thinks it like her own:
In such a night let me abroad remain,
Till morning breaks, and all's confused again;
Our cares, our toils, our clamors are renewed,
Or pleasures, seldom reached, again pursued.
Written by Anne Kingsmill Finch | Create an image from this poem

HOPE

 Do you believe, in what you see
do you believe in reality
do you believe in the sun that’s bright
do you believe in the stars in the night

Do you believe in the birds that fly
do you believe in clouds and the sky
do you believe in wind that flows
do you believe in moon that glows
do you believe in light

Do you believe the spoken word
do you believe the things you’ve heard
do you believe in the final answer
do you believe in the swirling dancer


Do you believe in sound and sight
do you believe in moments bright
do you believe in taste and touch
do you believe that much

Do you believe in the soul inside
do you believe in ecstasy and delight
do you believe in glory and god
do you believe in that thought

Do you believe in the sky above
do you believe in love 

Do you believe in the heaven and the earth 
do you believe in death and birth
do you believe in life

open your eyes with hope within
open the door, let light reach in
if you believe, then you'll win
Written by G K Chesterton | Create an image from this poem

The Skeleton

 Chattering finch and water-fly 
Are not merrier than I; 
Here among the flowers I lie 
Laughing everlastingly.
No; I may not tell the best; Surely, friends, I might have guessed Death was but the good King's jest, It was hid so carefully.
Written by Anne Kingsmill Finch | Create an image from this poem

Adam Posed

Could our first father, at his toilsome plow,
Thorns in his path, and labor on his brow,
Clothed only in a rude, unpolished skin,
Could he a vain fantastic nymph have seen,
In all her airs, in all her antic graces,
Her various fashions, and more various faces;
How had it posed that skill, which late assigned
Just appellations to each several kind!
A right idea of the sight to frame;
T'have guessed from what new element she came;
T'have hit the wav'ring form, or giv'n this thing a name.
Written by Annie Finch | Create an image from this poem

Elegy For My Father

 HLF, August 8, 1918—August 22, 1997

“Bequeath us to no earthly shore until
Is answered in the vortex of our grave
The seal’s wide spindrift gaze towards paradise.
” —Hart Crane, “Voyages” “If a lion could talk, we couldn’t understand it” —Ludwig Wittgenstein Under the ocean that stretches out wordlessly past the long edge of the last human shore, there are deep windows the waves haven't opened, where night is reflected through decades of glass.
There is the nursery, there is the nanny, there are my father’s unreachable eyes turned towards the window.
Is the child uneasy? His is the death that is circling the stars.
In the deep room where candles burn soundlessly and peace pours at last through the cells of our bodies, three of us are watching, one of us is staring with the wide gaze of a wild, wave-fed seal.
Incense and sage speak in smoke loud as waves, and crickets sing sand towards the edge of the hourglass.
We wait outside time, while night collects courage around us.
The vigil is wordless.
And you watch the longest, move the farthest, besieged by your breath, pulling into your body.
You stare towards your death, head arched on the pillow, your left fingers curled.
Your mouth sucking gently, unmoved by these hours and their vigil of salt spray, you show us how far you are going, and how long the long minutes are, while spiralling night watches over the room and takes you, until you watch us in turn.
Lions speak their own language.
You are still breathing.
Here is release.
Here is your pillow, cool like a handkerchief pressed in a pocket.
Here is your white tousled long growing hair.
Here is a kiss on your temple to hold you safe through your solitude’s long steady war; here, you can go.
We will stay with you, keeping the silence we all came here for.
Night, take his left hand, turning the pages.
Spin with the windows and doors that he mended.
Spin with his answers, patient, impatient.
Spin with his dry independence, his arms warmed by the needs of his family, his hands flying under the wide, carved gold ring, and the pages flying so his thought could fly.
His breath slows, lending its edges out to the night.
Here is his open mouth.
Silence is here like one more new question that he will not answer.
A leaf is his temple.
The dark is the prayer.
He has given his body; his hand lies above the sheets in a symbol of wholeness, a curve of thumb and forefinger, ringed with wide gold, and the instant that empties his breath is a flame faced with a sudden cathedral's new stone.
Written by Anne Kingsmill Finch | Create an image from this poem

Jealousy

 VAIN Love, why do'st thou boast of Wings, 
That cannot help thee to retire! 
When such quick Flames Suspicion brings, 
As do the Heart about thee fire.
Still Swift to come, but when to go Thou shou'd'st be more–Alas! how Slow.
Lord of the World must surely be But thy bare Title at the most; Since Jealousy is Lord of Thee, And makes such Havock on thy Coast, As do's thy pleasant Land deface, Yet binds thee faster to the Place.
Written by Anne Kingsmill Finch | Create an image from this poem

The Change

 POOR River, now thou'rt almost dry, 
What Nymph, or Swain, will near thee lie? 
Since brought, alas! to sad Decay, 
What Flocks, or Herds, will near thee stay? 
The Swans, that sought thee in thy Pride, 
Now on new Streams forgetful ride: 
And Fish, that in thy Bosom lay, 
Chuse in more prosp'rous Floods to play.
All leave thee, now thy Ebb appears, To waste thy sad Remains in Tears; Nor will thy mournful Murmurs heed.
Fly, wretched Stream, with all thy speed, Amongst those solid Rocks thy Griefs bestow; For Friends, like those alas! thou ne'er did'st know.
And thou, poor Sun! that sat'st on high; But late, the Splendour of the Sky; What Flow'r, tho' by thy Influence born, Now Clouds prevail, will tow'rds thee turn? Now Darkness sits upon thy Brow, What Persian Votary will bow? What River will her Smiles reflect, Now that no Beams thou can'st direct? By watry Vapours overcast, Who thinks upon thy Glories past? If present Light, nor Heat we get, Unheeded thou may'st rise, and set.
Not all the past can one Adorer keep, Fall, wretched Sun, to the more faithful Deep.
Nor do thou, lofty Structure! boast, Since undermin'd by Time and Frost: Since thou canst no Reception give, In untrod Meadows thou may'st live.
None from his ready Road will turn, With thee thy wretched Change to mourn.
Not the soft Nights, or chearful Days Thou hast bestow'd, can give thee Praise.
No lusty Tree that near thee grows, (Tho' it beneath thy Shelter rose) Will to thy Age a Staff become.
Fall, wretched Building! to thy Tomb.
Thou, and thy painted Roofs, in Ruin mixt, Fall to the Earth, for That alone is fixt.
The same, poor Man, the same must be Thy Fate, now Fortune frowns on thee.
Her Favour ev'ry one pursues, And losing Her, thou all must lose.
No Love, sown in thy prosp'rous Days, Can Fruit in this cold Season raise: No Benefit, by thee conferr'd, Can in this time of Storms be heard.
All from thy troubl'd Waters run; Thy stooping Fabrick all Men shun.
All do thy clouded Looks decline, As if thou ne'er did'st on them shine.
O wretched Man! to other World's repair; For Faith and Gratitude are only there.
Written by Anne Kingsmill Finch | Create an image from this poem

The Poor Mans Lamb

 NOW spent the alter'd King, in am'rous Cares, 
The Hours of sacred Hymns and solemn Pray'rs: 
In vain the Alter waits his slow returns, 
Where unattended Incense faintly burns: 
In vain the whisp'ring Priests their Fears express, 
And of the Change a thousand Causes guess.
Heedless of all their Censures He retires, And in his Palace feeds his secret Fires; Impatient, till from Rabbah Tydings tell, That near those Walls the poor Uriah fell, Led to the Onset by a Chosen Few, Who at the treacherous Signal, soon withdrew; Nor to his Rescue e'er return'd again, Till by fierce Ammon's Sword they saw the Victim slain.
'Tis pass'd, 'tis done! the holy Marriage-Knot, Too strong to be unty'd, at last is cut.
And now to Bathsheba the King declares, That with his Heart, the Kingdom too is hers; That Israel's Throne, and longing Monarch's Arms Are to be fill'd but with her widow'd Charms.
Nor must the Days of formal Tears exceed, To cross the Living, and abuse the Dead.
This she denies; and signs of Grief are worn; But mourns no more than may her Face adorn, Give to those Eyes, which Love and Empire fir'd, A melting Softness more to be desir'd; Till the fixt Time, tho' hard to be endur'd, Was pass'd, and a sad Consort's Name procur'd: When, with the Pomp that suits a Prince's Thought, By Passion sway'd, and glorious Woman taught, A Queen she's made, than Michal seated higher, Whilst light unusual Airs prophane the hallow'd Lyre.
Where art thou Nathan? where's that Spirit now, Giv'n to brave Vice, tho' on a Prince's Brow? In what low Cave, or on what Desert Coast, Now Virtue wants it, is thy Presence lost? But lo! he comes, the Rev'rend Bard appears, Defil'd with Dust his awful silver Hairs, And his rough Garment, wet with falling Tears.
The King this mark'd, and conscious wou'd have fled, The healing Balm which for his Wounds was shed: Till the more wary Priest the Serpents Art, Join'd to the Dove-like Temper of his Heart, And thus retards the Prince just ready now to part.
Hear me, the Cause betwixt two Neighbors hear, Thou, who for Justice dost the Sceptre bear: Help the Opprest, nor let me weep alone For him, that calls for Succour from the Throne.
Good Princes for Protection are Ador'd, And Greater by the Shield, than by the Sword.
This clears the Doubt, and now no more he fears The Cause his Own, and therefore stays and hears: When thus the Prophet: – –In a flow'ry Plain A King-like Man does in full Plenty reign; Casts round his Eyes, in vain, to reach the Bound, Which Jordan's Flood sets to his fertile Ground: Countless his Flocks, whilst Lebanon contains A Herd as large, kept by his numerous Swains, That fill with morning Bellowings the cool Air, And to the Cedar's shade at scorching Noon repair.
Near to this Wood a lowly Cottage stands, Built by the humble Owner's painful Hands; Fenc'd by a Stubble-roof, from Rain and Heat, Secur'd without, within all Plain and Neat.
A Field of small Extent surrounds the Place, In which One single Ewe did sport and graze: This his whole Stock, till in full time there came, To bless his utmost Hopes, a snowy Lamb; Which, lest the Season yet too Cold might prove, And Northern Blasts annoy it from the Grove, Or tow'ring Fowl on the weak Prey might sieze, (For with his Store his Fears must too increase) He brings it Home, and lays it by his Side, At once his Wealth, his Pleasure and his Pride; Still bars the Door, by Labour call'd away, And, when returning at the Close of Day, With One small Mess himself, and that sustains, And half his Dish it shares, and half his slender Gains.
When to the great Man's table now there comes A Lord as great, follow'd by hungry Grooms: For these must be provided sundry Meats, The best for Some, for Others coarser Cates.
One Servant, diligent above the rest To help his Master to contrive the Feast, Extols the Lamb was nourished with such Care, So fed, so lodg'd, it must be Princely Fare; And having this, my Lord his own may spare.
In haste he sends, led by no Law, but Will, Not to entreat, or purchase, but to Kill.
The Messenger's arriv'd: the harmless Spoil, Unus'd to fly, runs Bleating to the Toil: Whilst for the Innocent the Owner fear'd, And, sure wou'd move, cou'd Poverty be heard.
Oh spare (he cries) the Product of my Cares, My Stock's Encrease, the Blessing on my Pray'rs; My growing Hope, and Treasure of my Life! More was he speaking, when the murd'ring Knife Shew'd him, his Suit, tho' just, must be deny'd, And the white Fleece in its own Scarlet dy'd; Whilst the poor helpless Wretch stands weeping by, And lifts his Hands for Justice to the Sky.
Which he shall find, th' incensed King replies, When for the proud Offence th' Oppressor dies.
O Nathan! by the Holy Name I swear, Our Land such Wrongs unpunished shall not bear If, with the Fault, th' Offender thou declare.
To whom the Prophet, closing with the Time, Thou art the Man replies, and thine th' ill-natur'd Crime.
Nor think, against thy Place, or State, I err; A Pow'r above thee does this Charge prefer; Urg'd by whose Spirit, hither am I brought T' expostulate his Goodness and thy Fault; To lead thee back to those forgotten Years, In Labour spent, and lowly Rustick Cares, When in the Wilderness thy Flocks but few, Thou didst the Shepherd's simple Art pursue Thro' crusting Frosts, and penetrating Dew: Till wondring Jesse saw six Brothers past, And Thou Elected, Thou the Least and Last; A Sceptre to thy Rural Hand convey'd, And in thy Bosom Royal Beauties laid; A lovely Princess made thy Prize that Day, When on the shaken Ground the Giant lay Stupid in Death, beyond the Reach of Cries That bore thy shouted Fame to list'ning Skies, And drove the flying Foe as fast away, As Winds, of old, Locusts to Egypt's Sea.
Thy Heart with Love, thy Temples with Renown, Th' All-giving Hand of Heav'n did largely crown, Whilst yet thy Cheek was spread with youthful Down.
What more cou'd craving Man of God implore? Or what for favour'd Man cou'd God do more? Yet cou'd not These, nor Israel's Throne, suffice Intemp'rate Wishes, drawn thro' wand'ring Eyes.
One Beauty (not thy own) and seen by chance, Melts down the Work of Grace with an alluring Glance; Chafes the Spirit, fed by sacred Art, And blots the Title AFTER GOD'S OWN HEART; Black Murder breeds to level at his Head, Who boasts so fair a Part'ner of his Bed, Nor longer must possess those envy'd Charms, The single Treasure of his House, and Arms: Giving, by this thy Fall, cause to Blaspheme To all the Heathen the Almighty Name.
For which the Sword shall still thy Race pursue, And, in revolted Israel's scornful View, Thy captiv'd Wives shall be in Triumph led Unto a bold Usurper's shameful Bed; Who from thy Bowels sprung shall seize thy Throne, And scourge thee by a Sin beyond thy own.
Thou hast thy Fault in secret Darkness done; But this the World shall see before the Noonday's Sun.
Enough! the King, enough! the Saint replies, And pours his swift Repentance from his Eyes; Falls on the Ground, and tears the Nuptial Vest, By which his Crime's Completion was exprest: Then with a Sigh blasting to Carnal Love, Drawn deep as Hell, and piercing Heaven, above Let Me (he cries) let Me attend his Rod, For I have sinn'd, for I have lost my God.
Hold! (says the Prophet ) of that Speech beware, God ne'er was lost, unless by Man's Despair.
The Wound that is thus willingly reveal'd, Th' Almighty is as willing should be heal'd.
Thus wash'd in Tears, thy Soul as fair does show As the first Fleece, which on the Lamb does grow, Or on the Mountain's top the lately fallen Snow.
Yet to the World that Justice may appear Acting her Part impartial, and severe, The Offspring of thy Sin shall soon resign That Life, for which thou must not once repine; But with submissive Grief his Fate deplore, And bless the Hand, that does inflict no more.
Shall I then pay but Part, and owe the Whole? My Body's Fruit, for my offending Soul? Shall I no more endure (the King demands) And 'scape thus lightly his offended Hands? Oh! let him All resume, my Crown, my Fame; Reduce me to the Nothing, whence I came; Call back his Favours, faster than he gave; And, if but Pardon'd, strip me to my Grave: Since (tho' he seems to Lose ) He surely Wins, Who gives but earthly Comforts for his Sins.
Written by Anne Kingsmill Finch | Create an image from this poem

The Executor

 A Greedy Heir long waited to fulfill, 
As his Executor, a Kinsman's Will; 
And to himself his Age repeated o'er, 
To his Infirmities still adding more; 
And nicely kept th' Account of the expected Store: 
When Death, at last, to either gave Release, 
Making One's Pains, the Other's Longings cease: 
Who to the Grave must decently convey, 
Ere he Possession takes the kindred Clay, 
Which in a Coach was plac'd, wherein he rides, 
And so no Hearse, or following Train provides; 
Rejecting Russel, who wou'd make the Charge 
Of one dull tedious Day, so vastly Large.
When, at his Death, the humble Man declar'd, He wished thus privately to be Interr'd.
And now, the Luggage moves in solemn State, And what it wants in Number, gains in Weight.
The happy Heir can scarce contain his Joy, Whilst sundry Musings do his Thoughts employ, How he shalt act, now Every thing's his Own, Where his Revenge, or Favour shall be shown; Then recollecting, draws a counterfeited Groan.
The Avenues, and Gardens shall be chang'd, Already he the Furniture has ranged.
To ransack secret Draw'rs his Phancy flies, Nor can th' appearing Wealth his Mind suffice.
Thus he an Age runs o'er betwixt the Porch Of his Friend's House, and the adjacent Church: Whilst the slow Driver, who no reck'ning kept Of what was left, indulging Nature, slept; Till on a Bank, so high, the Wheel was borne That in a Moment All must overturn: Whilst the rich Heir now finds the giving Dead Less weighty in his Gold, than in his Lead; Which falling just on his contriving Breast, Expell'd the Soul, leaving the corpse to rest In the same Grave, intended for his Friend.
Then why shou'd We our Days in Wishes spend, Which, e'er we see fulfill'd, are often at an End?
Written by Anne Kingsmill Finch | Create an image from this poem

An Apology for my fearfull temper

 Tis true of courage I'm no mistress
No Boadicia nor Thalestriss
Nor shall I e'er be famed hereafter
For such a Soul as Cato's Daughter
Nor active valour nor enduring 
Nor leading troops nor forts securing
Like Teckley's wife or Pucell valiant
Will e'er be reckonded for my talent
Who all things fear whilst day is shining
And my own shadow light declining 
And from the Spleen's prolifick fountain
Can of a mole hill make a mountain
And if a Coach that was invented
Since Bess on Palfrey rode contented
Threatens to tumble topsy turvy 
With screeches loud and faces scurvey
I break discourse whilst some are laughing
Some fall to chear me some to chaffing
As secretly the driver curses
And whips my fault upon the horses 
These and ten thousand are the errours
Arising from tumultuous terrours
Yet can't I understand the merit
In Female's of a daring spirit
Since to them never was imparted 
In manly strengh tho' manly hearted
Nor need that sex be self defending
Who charm the most when most depending
And by sweet plaints and soft distresses
First gain asistance then adresses 
As our fourth Edward (beauty suing)
From but releiving fell to wooing
Who by Heroick speech or ranting
Had ne'er been melted to galanting
Nor had th'Egyptian Queen defying 
Drawn off that fleet she led by flying
Whilst Cesar and his ships crew hollow'd
To see how Tony row'd and follow'd
Oh Action triumph of the Ladies
And plea for her who most afraid is 
Then let my conduct work no wonder
When fame who cleaves the air asunder
And every thing in time discovers
Nor council keeps for Kings or Lovers
Yet stoops when tired with States and battles 
To Gossips chats and idler tattles
When she I say has given no knowledge
Of what has happen'd at Wye College
Think it not strange to save my Person
I gave the family diversion 
'Twas at an hour when most were sleeping
Some chimnies clean some wanted sweeping
Mine thro' good fires maintain'd this winter
(Of which no FINCH was e'er a stinter)
Pour'd down such flakes not Etna bigger 
Throws up as did my fancy figure
Nor does a Cannon ram'd with Powder
To others seem to Bellow louder
All that I thought or spoke or acted
Can't in a letter be compacted 
Nor how I threatn'd those with burning
Who thoughtless on their beds were turning
As Shakespear says they serv'd old Prium
When that the Greeks were got too nigh'em
And such th'effect in spite of weather 
Our Hecuba's all rose together
I at their head half cloath'd and shaking
Was instantly the house forsaking
And told them 'twas no time for talking
But who'd be safe had best be walking 
This hasty councel and conclusion
Seem'd harsh to those who had no shoes on
And saw no flames and heard no clatter
But as I had rehears'd the matter
And wildly talk't of fire and water 
For sooner then 'thas took to tell it
Right applications did repell it
And now my fear our mirth creating
Affords still subject for repeating
Whilst some deplore th'unusual folly 
Some (kinder) call it melancholy
Tho' certainly the spirits sinking
Comes not from want of wit or thinking
Since Rochester all dangers hated
And left to those were harder pated.
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