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Best Famous Foreseeing Poems

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

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Written by Thomas Hardy | Create an image from this poem

The Going

 Why did you give no hint that night
That quickly after the morrow's dawn,
And calmly, as if indifferent quite,
You would close your term here, up and be gone
 Where I could not follow
 With wing of swallow
To gain one glimpse of you ever anon!

 Never to bid good-bye
 Or lip me the softest call,
Or utter a wish for a word, while I
Saw morning harden upon the wall,
 Unmoved, unknowing
 That your great going
Had place that moment, and altered all.

Why do you make me leave the house
And think for a breath it is you I see
At the end of the alley of bending boughs
Where so often at dusk you used to be;
 Till in darkening dankness
 The yawning blankness
Of the perspective sickens me!

 You were she who abode
 By those red-veined rocks far West,
You were the swan-necked one who rode
Along the beetling Beeny Crest,
 And, reining nigh me,
 Would muse and eye me,
While Life unrolled us its very best.

Why, then, latterly did we not speak,
Did we not think of those days long dead,
And ere your vanishing strive to seek
That time's renewal? We might have said,
 "In this bright spring weather
 We'll visit together
Those places that once we visited."

 Well, well! All's past amend,
 Unchangeable. It must go.
I seem but a dead man held on end
To sink down soon. . . . O you could not know
 That such swift fleeing
 No soul foreseeing--
Not even I--would undo me so!


Written by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow | Create an image from this poem

The Sound of the Sea

 The sea awoke at midnight from its sleep,
And round the pebbly beaches far and wide
I heard the first wave of the rising tide
Rush onward with uninterrupted sweep;
A voice out of the silence of the deep,
A sound mysteriously multiplied
As of a cataract from the mountain's side,
Or roar of winds upon a wooded steep.
So comes to us at times, from the unknown
And inaccessible solitudes of being,
The rushing of the sea-tides of the soul;
And inspirations, that we deem our own,
Are some divine of foreshadowing and foreseeing
Of things beyond our reason or control.
Written by Rudyard Kipling | Create an image from this poem

Romulus and Remus

 Oh, little did the Wolf-Child care--
 When first he planned his home, 
What City should arise and bear
 The weight and state of Rome.

A shiftless, westward-wandering tramp,
 Checked by the Tiber flood, 
He reared a wall around his camp
 Of uninspired mud.

But when his brother leaped the Wall
 And mocked its height and make,
He guessed the future of it all
 And slew him for its sake.

Swift was the blow--swift as the thought
 Which showed him in that hour
How unbelief may bring to naught
 The early steps of Power.

Foreseeing Time's imperilled hopes
 Of Glory, Grace, and Love--
All singers, Caesars, artists, Popes--
 Would fail if Remus throve,

He sent his brother to the Gods,
 And, when the fit was o'er,
Went on collecting turves and clods
 To build the Wall once more!
Written by Conrad Aiken | Create an image from this poem

The House Of Dust: Part 03: 08: Coffins: Interlude

 Wind blows. Snow falls. The great clock in its tower
Ticks with reverberant coil and tolls the hour:
At the deep sudden stroke the pigeons fly . . .
The fine snow flutes the cracks between the flagstones.
We close our coats, and hurry, and search the sky.

We are like music, each voice of it pursuing
A golden separate dream, remote, persistent,
Climbing to fire, receding to hoarse despair.
What do you whisper, brother? What do you tell me? . . .
We pass each other, are lost, and do not care.

One mounts up to beauty, serenely singing,
Forgetful of the steps that cry behind him;
One drifts slowly down from a waking dream.
One, foreseeing, lingers forever unmoving . . .
Upward and downward, past him there, we stream.

One has death in his eyes: and walks more slowly.
Death, among jonquils, told him a freezing secret.
A cloud blows over his eyes, he ponders earth.
He sees in the world a forest of sunlit jonquils:
A slow black poison huddles beneath that mirth.

Death, from street to alley, from door to window,
Cries out his news,—of unplumbed worlds approaching,
Of a cloud of darkness soon to destroy the tower.
But why comes death,—he asks,—in a world so perfect?
Or why the minute's grey in the golden hour?

Music, a sudden glissando, sinister, troubled,
A drift of wind-torn petals, before him passes
Down jangled streets, and dies.
The bodies of old and young, of maimed and lovely,
Are slowly borne to earth, with a dirge of cries.

Down cobbled streets they come; down huddled stairways;
Through silent halls; through carven golden doorways;
From freezing rooms as bare as rock.
The curtains are closed across deserted windows.
Earth streams out of the shovel; the pebbles knock.

Mary, whose hands rejoiced to move in sunlight;
Silent Elaine; grave Anne, who sang so clearly;
Fugitive Helen, who loved and walked alone;
Miriam too soon dead, darkly remembered;
Childless Ruth, who sorrowed, but could not atone;

Jean, whose laughter flashed over depths of terror,
And Eloise, who desired to love but dared not;
Doris, who turned alone to the dark and cried,—
They are blown away like windflung chords of music,
They drift away; the sudden music has died.

And one, with death in his eyes, comes walking slowly
And sees the shadow of death in many faces,
And thinks the world is strange.
He desires immortal music and spring forever,
And beauty that knows no change.

Book: Reflection on the Important Things