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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 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

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.
Written by Mary Darby Robinson | Create an image from this poem

Rinaldo to Laura Maria

 THOU! whose sublime poetic art 
Can pierce the pulses of the heart, 
Can force the treasur'd tear to flow 
In prodigality of woe; 
Or lure each jocund bliss to birth 
Amid the sportive bow'rs of mirth: 
LAURA DIVINE! I call thee now 
To yonder promontory's brow 
That props the skies; while at its feet 
With fruitless ire the billows beat, 
There let my fainting sense behold 
Those sapphire orbs their heaven unfold, 
While from thy lips vermilion bow 
Sweet melody her shafts shall throw­ 
Yet do not, do not yield delight, 
Nor with dear visions bless my sight.
Grant me despair, thou mightiest Muse! O'er the vast scene thy spells diffuse, And with a mad terrific strain Conjure up demons from the main: Storms upon storms indignant heap, Bid Ocean howl, and Nature weep; 'Till the Creator blush to see How horrible His World can be; While I will glory to blaspheme, And make the joys of hell my theme.
Hah! check this frenzy, spare my soul, O'er my parch'd cheek soft sorrows roll, Subdue this vain impassion'd rage, An atom's energies assuage; Nor let a mortal wretch presume To invocate so dire a doom.
What tho' the EAGLE sits forlorn And swoln and sad awaits the morn, When he may wave his golden wing, From Night's detested gloom to spring, And with the Sun's advancement fly, In full meridian blaze to die: Yet shall the chirping FINCH decay, Upon the hedgerow's wither'd spray, Ere the first beam of light is found, And drop unnotic'd to the ground.
So I alas! shall never see The dawn of hope awake for me, Still as I turn, new storms appear, And darker lours this mental sphere.
Ah, who shall one short comfort give, Or teach my struggling thought to live; What hand my bleeding bosom bind, What MOSELEY medicate my mind? What Star disperse the thick'ning shade, That bids my restless Being fade? Yet I have seen the Lord of Day Dart from his car the burning ray, And rush a hero to the fight, Across the pendant plains of light: I've seen the bashful Moon aspire To bind her brow with mimic fire, And o'er the calm translucent air Diffusive shake her silver hair.
I've paus'd enraptur'd at the tone That from the Evening Copse is thrown By the wild Poet of the glade, Who rests his wing beneath the shade, And I have prov'd th' unequal bliss That burns upon the crimson kiss, When true adoring souls unite To perish in the proud delight.
These now are lost to me­I stand Alone in ev'ry peopled land, No pleasure now my cold heart cheers, The future points a vale of tears­ Love rends my name from his bright page, And yields it to approaching age­ Then lead me, LAURA! to the bow'r Where sadly droops each with'ring flow'r, Where pois'nous shrubs disease exhale, And fev'rish vapours load the gale; There sink me to the sordid grief That meanly supplicates relief; There tell me I am most despis'd, E'en by thyself, whom most I priz'd, So shall I gladly welcome fate, And perish in thy perfect hate: So shall I better bear th' eternal pain, Never to see thy Form, or hear thy Voice again.
Written by Claude McKay | Create an image from this poem


 My spirit wails for water, water now! 
My tongue is aching dry, my throat is hot 
For water, fresh rain shaken from a bough, 
Or dawn dews heavy in some leafy spot.
My hungry body's burning for a swim In sunlit water where the air is cool, As in Trout Valley where upon a limb The golden finch sings sweetly to the pool.
Oh water, water, when the night is done, When day steals gray-white through the windowpane, Clear silver water when I wake, alone, All impotent of parts, of fevered brain; Pure water from a forest fountain first, To wash me, cleanse me, and to quench my thirst!