10 Best Famous Fondling Poems

Here is a collection of the top 10 all-time best famous Fondling poems. This is a select list of the best famous Fondling poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Fondling poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of fondling poems.

• All Famous Fondling Poems

 The young maricones and the horny muchachas,
The big fat widows delirious from insomnia,
The young wives thirty hours' pregnant,
And the hoarse tomcats that cross my garden at night,
Like a collar of palpitating sexual oysters
Surround my solitary home,
Enemies of my soul,
Conspirators in pajamas
Who exchange deep kisses for passwords.
Radiant summer brings out the lovers
In melancholy regiments,
Fat and thin and happy and sad couples;
Under the elegant coconut palms, near the ocean and moon,
There is a continual life of pants and panties,
A hum from the fondling of silk stockings,
And women's breasts that glisten like eyes.
The salary man, after a while,
After the week's tedium, and the novels read in bed at night,
Has decisively fucked his neighbor,
And now takes her to the miserable movies,
Where the heroes are horses or passionate princes,
And he caresses her legs covered with sweet down
With his ardent and sweaty palms that smell like cigarettes.
The night of the hunter and the night of the husband
Come together like bed sheets and bury me,
And the hours after lunch, when the students and priests are masturbating,
And the animals mount each other openly,
And the bees smell of blood, and the flies buzz cholerically,
And cousins play strange games with cousins,
And doctors glower at the husband of the young patient,
And the early morning in which the professor, without a thought,
Pays his conjugal debt and eats breakfast,
And to top it all off, the adulterers, who love each other truly
On beds big and tall as ships:
So, eternally,
This twisted and breathing forest crushes me
With gigantic flowers like mouth and teeth
And black roots like fingernails and shoes.

 Where are you, my beloved? Are you in that little 
Paradise, watering the flowers who look upon you 
As infants look upon the breast of their mothers? 


Or are you in your chamber where the shrine of 
Virtue has been placed in your honor, and upon 
Which you offer my heart and soul as sacrifice? 


Or amongst the books, seeking human knowledge, 
While you are replete with heavenly wisdom? 


Oh companion of my soul, where are you? Are you 
Praying in the temple? Or calling Nature in the 
Field, haven of your dreams? 


Are you in the huts of the poor, consoling the 
Broken-hearted with the sweetness of your soul, and 
Filling their hands with your bounty? 


You are God's spirit everywhere; 
You are stronger than the ages. 


Do you have memory of the day we met, when the halo of 
You spirit surrounded us, and the Angels of Love 
Floated about, singing the praise of the soul's deed? 


Do you recollect our sitting in the shade of the 
Branches, sheltering ourselves from Humanity, as the ribs 
Protect the divine secret of the heart from injury? 


Remember you the trails and forest we walked, with hands 
Joined, and our heads leaning against each other, as if 
We were hiding ourselves within ourselves? 


Recall you the hour I bade you farewell, 
And the Maritime kiss you placed on my lips? 
That kiss taught me that joining of lips in Love 
Reveals heavenly secrets which the tongue cannot utter! 


That kiss was introduction to a great sigh, 
Like the Almighty's breath that turned earth into man. 


That sigh led my way into the spiritual world, 
Announcing the glory of my soul; and there 
It shall perpetuate until again we meet. 


I remember when you kissed me and kissed me, 
With tears coursing your cheeks, and you said, 
"Earthly bodies must often separate for earthly purpose, 
And must live apart impelled by worldly intent. 


"But the spirit remains joined safely in the hands of 
Love, until death arrives and takes joined souls to God. 


"Go, my beloved; Love has chosen you her delegate; 
Over her, for she is Beauty who offers to her follower 
The cup of the sweetness of life. 
As for my own empty arms, your love shall remain my 
Comforting groom; you memory, my Eternal wedding." 


Where are you now, my other self? Are you awake in 
The silence of the night? Let the clean breeze convey 
To you my heart's every beat and affection. 


Are you fondling my face in your memory? That image 
Is no longer my own, for Sorrow has dropped his 
Shadow on my happy countenance of the past. 


Sobs have withered my eyes which reflected your beauty 
And dried my lips which you sweetened with kisses. 


Where are you, my beloved? Do you hear my weeping 
From beyond the ocean? Do you understand my need? 
Do you know the greatness of my patience? 


Is there any spirit in the air capable of conveying 
To you the breath of this dying youth? Is there any 
Secret communication between angels that will carry to 
You my complaint? 


Where are you, my beautiful star? The obscurity of life 
Has cast me upon its bosom; sorrow has conquered me. 


Sail your smile into the air; it will reach and enliven me! 
Breathe your fragrance into the air; it will sustain me! 


Where are you, me beloved? 
Oh, how great is Love! 
And how little am I!

 MY lov’d, my honour’d, much respected friend!
 No mercenary bard his homage pays;
With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end,
 My dearest meed, a friend’s esteem and praise:
 To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays,
The lowly train in life’s sequester’d scene,
 The native feelings strong, the guileless ways,
What Aiken in a cottage would have been;
Ah! tho’ his worth unknown, far happier there I ween!


November chill blaws loud wi’ angry sugh;
 The short’ning winter-day is near a close;
The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh;
 The black’ning trains o’ craws to their repose:
 The toil-worn Cotter frae his labour goes,—
This night his weekly moil is at an end,
 Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes,
Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend,
And weary, o’er the moor, his course does hameward bend.


At length his lonely cot appears in view,
 Beneath the shelter of an aged tree;
Th’ expectant wee-things, toddlin, stacher through
 To meet their dead, wi’ flichterin noise and glee.
 His wee bit ingle, blinkin bonilie,
His clean hearth-stane, his thrifty wifie’s smile,
 The lisping infant, prattling on his knee,
Does a’ his weary kiaugh and care beguile,
And makes him quite forget his labour and his toil.


Belyve, the elder bairns come drapping in,
 At service out, amang the farmers roun’;
Some ca’ the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin
 A cannie errand to a neibor town:
 Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman-grown,
In youthfu’ bloom-love sparkling in her e’e—
 Comes hame, perhaps to shew a braw new gown,
Or deposite her sair-won penny-fee,
To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be.


With joy unfeign’d, brothers and sisters meet,
 And each for other’s weelfare kindly speirs:
The social hours, swift-wing’d, unnotic’d fleet:
 Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears.
 The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years;
Anticipation forward points the view;
 The mother, wi’ her needle and her shears,
Gars auld claes look amaist as weel’s the new;
The father mixes a’ wi’ admonition due.


Their master’s and their mistress’ command,
 The younkers a’ are warned to obey;
And mind their labours wi’ an eydent hand,
 And ne’er, tho’ out o’ sight, to jauk or play;
 “And O! be sure to fear the Lord alway,
And mind your duty, duly, morn and night;
 Lest in temptation’s path ye gang astray,
Implore His counsel and assisting might:
They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright.”


But hark! a rap comes gently to the door;
 Jenny, wha kens the meaning o’ the same,
Tells how a neibor lad came o’er the moor,
 To do some errands, and convoy her hame.
 The wily mother sees the conscious flame
Sparkle in Jenny’s e’e, and flush her cheek;
 With heart-struck anxious care, enquires his name,
While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak;
Weel-pleased the mother hears, it’s nae wild, worthless rake.


Wi’ kindly welcome, Jenny brings him ben;
 A strappin youth, he takes the mother’s eye;
Blythe Jenny sees the visit’s no ill ta’en;
 The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye.
 The youngster’s artless heart o’erflows wi’ joy,
But blate an’ laithfu’, scarce can weel behave;
 The mother, wi’ a woman’s wiles, can spy
What makes the youth sae bashfu’ and sae grave,
Weel-pleas’d to think her bairn’s respected like the lave.


O happy love! where love like this is found:
 O heart-felt raptures! bliss beyond compare!
I’ve paced much this weary, mortal round,
 And sage experience bids me this declare,—
 “If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare—
One cordial in this melancholy vale,
 ’Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair
In other’sarms, breathe out the tender tale,
Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the evening gale.”


Is there, in human form, that bears a heart,
 A wretch! a villain! lost to love and truth!
That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art,
 Betray sweet Jenny’s unsuspecting youth?
 Curse on his perjur’d arts! dissembling smooth!
Are honour, virtue, conscience, all exil’d?
 Is there no pity, no relenting ruth,
Points to the parents fondling o’er their child?
Then paints the ruin’d maid, and their distraction wild?


But now the supper crowns their simple board,
 The halesome parritch, chief of Scotia’s food;
The sowp their only hawkie does afford,
 That, ’yont the hallan snugly chows her cood:
 The dame brings forth, in complimental mood,
To grace the lad, her weel-hain’d kebbuck, fell;
 And aft he’s prest, and aft he ca’s it guid:
The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell
How t’was a towmond auld, sin’ lint was i’ the bell.


The cheerfu’ supper done, wi’ serious face,
 They, round the ingle, form a circle wide;
The sire turns o’er, with patriarchal grace,
 The big ha’bible, ance his father’s pride:
 His bonnet rev’rently is laid aside,
His lyart haffets wearing thin and bare;
 Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide,
He wales a portion with judicious care;
And “Let us worship God!” he says with solemn air.


They chant their artless notes in simple guise,
 They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim;
Perhaps Dundee’s wild-warbling measures rise;
 Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the name;
 Or noble Elgin beets the heaven-ward flame;
The sweetest far of Scotia’s holy lays:
 Compar’d with these, Italian trills are tame;
The tickl’d ears no heart-felt raptures raise;
Nae unison hae they with our Creator’s praise.


The priest-like father reads the sacred page,
 How Abram was the friend of God on high;
Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage
 With Amalek’s ungracious progeny;
 Or how the royal bard did groaning lie
Beneath the stroke of Heaven’s avenging ire;
 Or Job’s pathetic plaint, and wailing cry;
Or rapt Isaiah’s wild, seraphic fire;
Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre.


Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme,
 How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed;
How He, who bore in Heaven the second name,
 Had not on earth whereon to lay His head:
 How His first followers and servants sped;
The precepts sage they wrote to many a land:
 How he, who lone in Patmos banished,
Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand,
And heard great Bab’lon’s doom pronounc’d by Heaven’s command.


Then, kneeling down to Heaven’s Eternal King,
 The saint, the father, and the husband prays:
Hope “springs exulting on triumphant wing,” 1
 That thus they all shall meet in future days,
 There, ever bask in uncreated rays,
No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear,
 Together hymning their Creator’s praise,
In such society, yet still more dear;
While circling Time moves round in an eternal sphere


Compar’d with this, how poor Religion’s pride,
 In all the pomp of method, and of art;
When men display to congregations wide
 Devotion’s ev’ry grace, except the heart!
 The Power, incens’d, the pageant will desert,
The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole;
 But haply, in some cottage far apart,
May hear, well-pleas’d, the language of the soul;
And in His Book of Life the inmates poor enroll.


Then homeward all take off their sev’ral way;
 The youngling cottagers retire to rest:
The parent-pair their secret homage pay,
 And proffer up to Heaven the warm request,
 That he who stills the raven’s clam’rous nest,
And decks the lily fair in flow’ry pride,
 Would, in the way His wisdom sees the best,
For them and for their little ones provide;
But chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine preside.


From scenes like these, old Scotia’s grandeur springs,
 That makes her lov’d at home, rever’d abroad:
Princes and lords are but the breath of kings,
 “An honest man’s the noblest work of God;”
 And certes, in fair virtue’s heavenly road,
The cottage leaves the palace far behind;
 What is a lordling’s pomp? a cumbrous load,
Disguising oft the wretch of human kind,
Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refin’d!


O Scotia! my dear, my native soil!
 For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent,
Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil
 Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content!
 And O! may Heaven their simple lives prevent
From luxury’s contagion, weak and vile!
 Then howe’er crowns and coronets be rent,
A virtuous populace may rise the while,
And stand a wall of fire around their much-lov’d isle.


O Thou! who pour’d the patriotic tide,
 That stream’d thro’ Wallace’s undaunted heart,
Who dar’d to nobly stem tyrannic pride,
 Or nobly die, the second glorious part:
 (The patriot’s God peculiarly thou art,
His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward!)
 O never, never Scotia’s realm desert;
But still the patriot, and the patriot-bard
In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard!


 Note 1. Pope’s “Windsor Forest.”—R. B. [back]

 So much rain, so much life like the swollen sky
of this black August. My sister, the sun,
broods in her yellow room and won't come out.

Everything goes to hell; the mountains fume
like a kettle, rivers overrun; still,
she will not rise and turn off the rain.

She is in her room, fondling old things,
my poems, turning her album. Even if thunder falls
like a crash of plates from the sky,

she does not come out.
Don't you know I love you but am hopeless
at fixing the rain ? But I am learning slowly

to love the dark days, the steaming hills,
the air with gossiping mosquitoes,
and to sip the medicine of bitterness,

so that when you emerge, my sister,
parting the beads of the rain,
with your forehead of flowers and eyes of forgiveness,

all with not be as it was, but it will be true
(you see they will not let me love
as I want), because, my sister, then

I would have learnt to love black days like bright ones,
The black rain, the white hills, when once
I loved only my happiness and you.

 Mumsie and Dad are raven dark
 And I am lily blonde.
''Tis strange,' I once heard nurse remark,
 'You do not correspond.'
And yet they claim me as their own,
 Born of their flesh and bone.

To doubt their parenthood I dread,
 But now to girlhood grown,
The thought is haunting in my head
 That I am not their own:
If so, my radiant bloom of youth
 Would wither in the truth.

'Twould give me anguish deep to know
 A fondling babe was I;
And that a maid in wedless woe
 Left me to live or die:
I'd rather Mother lied and lied
 To save my pride.

I love them both and they love me;
 I am their all, they say.
Yet though the sweetest home have we,
 To know I'm theirs I pray.
If not, please dear ones, never tell . . .
 The truth would be of hell.

 Yet, my pretty sportive friend,
Little is't to such an end
That I praise thy rareness!
Other dogs may be thy peers
Haply in these drooping ears,
And this glossy fairness.

But of thee it shall be said,
This dog watched beside a bed
Day and night unweary— 
Watched within a curtained room,
Where no sunbeam brake the gloom
Round the sick and dreary.

Roses, gathered for a vase,
In that chamber died apace,
Beam and breeze resigning.
This dog only, waited on,
Knowing that when light is gone
Love remains for shining.

Other dogs in thymy dew
Tracked the hares, and followed through
Sunny moor or meadow.
This dog only, crept and crept
Next a languid cheek that slept,
Sharing in the shadow.

Other dogs of loyal cheer
Bounded at the whistle clear,
Up the woodside hieing.
This dog only, watched in reach
Of a faintly uttered speech,
Or a louder sighing.

And if one or two quick tears
Dropped upon his glossy ears,
Or a sigh came double— 
Up he sprang in eager haste,
Fawning, fondling, breathing fast,
In a tender trouble.

And this dog was satisfied
If a pale thin hand would glide
Down his dewlaps sloping— 
Which he pushed his nose within,
After—platforming his chin
On the palm left open.

 SHE wanders in the April woods, 
That glisten with the fallen shower; 
She leans her face against the buds, 
She stops, she stoops, she plucks a flower. 
She feels the ferment of the hour: 
She broodeth when the ringdove broods; 
The sun and flying clouds have power 
Upon her cheek and changing moods. 
She cannot think she is alone, 
As o’er her senses warmly steal 
Floods of unrest she fears to own, 
And almost dreads to feel. 

Among the summer woodlands wide 
Anew she roams, no more alone; 
The joy she fear’d is at her side,
Spring’s blushing secret now is known. 
The primrose and its mates have flown, 
The thrush’s ringing note hath died; 
But glancing eye and glowing tone 
Fall on her from her god, her guide.
She knows not, asks not, what the goal, 
She only feels she moves towards bliss, 
And yields her pure unquestioning soul 
To touch and fondling kiss. 

And still she haunts those woodland ways, 
Though all fond fancy finds there now 
To mind of spring or summer days, 
Are sodden trunk and songless bough. 
The past sits widow’d on her brow, 
Homeward she wends with wintry gaze,
To walls that house a hollow vow, 
To hearth where love hath ceas’d to blaze: 
Watches the clammy twilight wane, 
With grief too fix’d for woe or tear; 
And, with her forehead ’gainst the pane,
Envies the dying year.

 Out of the hills of Habersham,
Down the valleys of Hall,
I hurry amain to reach the plain,
Run the rapid and leap the fall,
Split at the rock and together again,
Accept my bed, or narrow or wide,
And flee from folly on every side
With a lover's pain to attain the plain
Far from the hills of Habersham,
Far from the valleys of Hall.

All down the hills of Habersham,
All through the valleys of Hall,
The rushes cried `Abide, abide,'
The willful waterweeds held me thrall,
The laving laurel turned my tide,
The ferns and the fondling grass said `Stay,'
The dewberry dipped for to work delay,
And the little reeds sighed `Abide, abide,
Here in the hills of Habersham,
Here in the valleys of Hall.'

High o'er the hills of Habersham,
Veiling the valleys of Hall,
The hickory told me manifold
Fair tales of shade, the poplar tall
Wrought me her shadowy self to hold,
The chestnut, the oak, the walnut, the pine,
Overleaning, with flickering meaning and sign,
Said, `Pass not, so cold, these manifold
Deep shades of the hills of Habersham,
These glades in the valleys of Hall.'

And oft in the hills of Habersham,
And oft in the valleys of Hall,
The white quartz shone, and the smooth brook-stone
Did bar me of passage with friendly brawl,
And many a luminous jewel lone
-- Crystals clear or a-cloud with mist,
Ruby, garnet and amethyst --
Made lures with the lights of streaming stone
In the clefts of the hills of Habersham,
In the beds of the valleys of Hall.

But oh, not the hills of Habersham,
And oh, not the valleys of Hall
Avail: I am fain for to water the plain.
Downward the voices of Duty call --
Downward, to toil and be mixed with the main,
The dry fields burn, and the mills are to turn,
And a myriad flowers mortally yearn,
And the lordly main from beyond the plain
Calls o'er the hills of Habersham,
Calls through the valleys of Hall.

 IT’S a lonely road through bogland to the lake at Carrowmore,
And a sleeper there lies dreaming where the water laps the shore;
Though the moth-wings of the twilight in their purples are unfurled,
Yet his sleep is filled with music by the masters of the world.


There’s a hand is white as silver that is fondling with his hair:
There are glimmering feet of sunshine that are dancing by him there:
And half-open lips of faery that were dyed a faery red
In their revels where the Hazel Tree its holy clusters shed.


“Come away,” the red lips whisper, “all the world is weary now;
’Tis the twilight of the ages and it’s time to quit the plough.
Oh, the very sunlight’s weary ere it lightens up the dew,
And its gold is changed and faded before it falls to you.


“Though your colleen’s heart be tender, a tenderer heart is near.
What’s the starlight in her glances when the stars are shining clear?
Who would kiss the fading shadow when the flower-face glows above?
’Tis the beauty of all Beauty that is calling for your love.”


Oh, the great gates of the mountain have opened once again,
And the sound of song and dancing falls upon the ears of men,
And the Land of Youth lies gleaming, flushed with rainbow light and mirth,
And the old enchantment lingers in the honey-heart of earth.

Out of the hills of Habersham,
Down the valleys of Hall,
I hurry amain to reach the plain,
Run the rapid and leap the fall,
Split at the rock and together again,
Accept my bed, or narrow or wide,
And flee from folly on every side
With a lover’s pain to attain the plain
Far from the hills of Habersham,
Far from the valleys of Hall.

All down the hills of Habersham,
All through the valleys of Hall,
The rushes cried Abide, abide,
The willful waterweeds held me thrall,
30The laving laurel turned my tide,
The ferns and the fondling grass said Stay,
The dewberry dipped for to work delay,
And the little reeds sighed Abide, abide,
Here in the hills of Habersham,
Here in the valleys of Hall.

High o’er the hills of Habersham,
Veiling the valleys of Hall,
The hickory told me manifold
Fair tales of shade, the poplar tall
Wrought me her shadowy self to hold,
The chestnut, the oak, the walnut, the pine,
Overleaning, with flickering meaning and sign,
Said, Pass not, so cold, these manifold
Deep shades of the hills of Habersham,
These glades in the valleys of Hall.
And oft in the hills of Habersham,
And oft in the valleys of Hall,

The white quartz shone, and the smooth brook-stone
Did bar me of passage with friendly brawl,
And many a luminous jewel lone
—Crystals clear or acloud with mist,
Ruby, garnet and amethyst—
Made lures with the lights of streaming stone
In the clefts of the hills of Habersham,
In the beds of the valleys of Hall.

31But oh, not the hills of Habersham,
And oh, not the valleys of Hall
Avail: I am fain for to water the plain.
Downward the voices of Duty call—
Downward, to toil and be mixed with the main,
The dry fields burn, and the mills are to turn,
And a myriad flowers mortally yearn,
And the lordly main from beyond the plain
Calls o’er the hills of Habersham,
Calls through the valleys of Hall.