Best Famous Fra Poems

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

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• All Famous Fra Poems

Written by Barry Tebb | A Hope For Poetry: Remembering The Sixties There was a hope for poetry in the sixties And for education and society, teachers free To do as they wanted: I could and did teach Poetry and art all day and little else - That was my way. I threw rainbows against the classroom walls, Gold and silver dragons in the corridors and Halls; the children’s eyes were full of stars; I taught the alphabet in Greek and spoke of Peace and war in Vietnam, of birth and sex and Death and immortality - the essences of lyric poetry; Richards and Ogden on ‘The Meaning of Meaning’, Schopenhauer on sadness, Nietzsche and Lawrence on Civilisation and Plato on the Theory of Forms; I read aloud ‘The Rainbow’ and the children drew The waterfall with Gudrun bathing, I showed Them Gauguin and Fra Angelico in gold and a film On painting from life, and the nude girls Bothered no-one. It was the Sixties - Art was life and life was art and in the Staff-room we talked of poetry and politics And passionately I argued with John. a clinical Psychologist, on Freud and Jung; Anne, at forty One, wanted to be sterilised and amazingly asked My advice but that was how it was then: Dianne Went off to join weekly rep at Brighton, Dave Clark had given up law to teach a ‘D’ stream in the Inner city. I was more lucky and had the brightest Children - Sheila Pritchard my genius child-poet with Her roguish eye and high bright voice, drawing skulls In Avernus and burning white chrysanthemums, teasing me With her long legs and gold salmon-flecked eyes. It was a surprise when I made it into Penguin Books; Michael Horovitz busy then as now and madly idealistic As me; getting ready for the Albert Hall jamboree, The rainbow bomb of peace and poetry.

Written by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow | Dante Tuscan, that wanderest through the realms of gloom, With thoughtful pace, and sad, majestic eyes, Stern thoughts and awful from thy soul arise, Like Farinata from his fiery tomb. Thy sacred song is like the trump of doom; Yet in thy heart what human sympathies, What soft compassion glows, as in the skies The tender stars their clouded lamps relume! Methinks I see thee stand, with pallid cheeks, By Fra Hilario in his diocese, As up the convent-walls, in golden streaks, The ascending sunbeams mark the day's decrease; And, as he asks what there the stranger seeks, Thy voice along the cloister whispers, "Peace!"

Written by William Dunbar | Lament for the Makers I THAT in heill was and gladness Am trublit now with great sickness And feblit with infirmitie:-- Timor Mortis conturbat me. Our plesance here is all vain glory, This fals world is but transitory, The flesh is bruckle, the Feynd is slee:-- Timor Mortis conturbat me. The state of man does change and vary, Now sound, now sick, now blyth, now sary, Now dansand mirry, now like to die:-- Timor Mortis conturbat me. No state in Erd here standis sicker; As with the wynd wavis the wicker So wannis this world's vanitie:-- Timor Mortis conturbat me. Unto the Death gois all Estatis, Princis, Prelatis, and Potestatis, Baith rich and poor of all degree:-- Timor Mortis conturbat me. He takis the knichtis in to the field Enarmit under helm and scheild; Victor he is at all mellie:-- Timor Mortis conturbat me. That strong unmerciful tyrand Takis, on the motheris breast sowkand, The babe full of benignitie:-- Timor Mortis conturbat me. He takis the campion in the stour, The captain closit in the tour, The lady in bour full of bewtie:-- Timor Mortis conturbat me. He spairis no lord for his piscence, Na clerk for his intelligence; His awful straik may no man flee:-- Timor Mortis conturbat me. Art-magicianis and astrologgis, Rethoris, logicianis, and theologgis, Them helpis no conclusionis slee:-- Timor Mortis conturbat me. In medecine the most practicianis, Leechis, surrigianis, and physicianis, Themself from Death may not supplee:-- Timor Mortis conturbat me. I see that makaris amang the lave Playis here their padyanis, syne gois to grave; Sparit is nocht their facultie:-- Timor Mortis conturbat me. He has done petuously devour The noble Chaucer, of makaris flour, The Monk of Bury, and Gower, all three:-- Timor Mortis conturbat me. The good Sir Hew of Eglintoun, Ettrick, Heriot, and Wintoun, He has tane out of this cuntrie:-- Timor Mortis conturbat me. That scorpion fell has done infeck Maister John Clerk, and James Afflek, Fra ballat-making and tragedie:-- Timor Mortis conturbat me. Holland and Barbour he has berevit; Alas! that he not with us levit Sir Mungo Lockart of the Lee:-- Timor Mortis conturbat me. Clerk of Tranent eke he has tane, That made the anteris of Gawaine; Sir Gilbert Hay endit has he:-- Timor Mortis conturbat me. He has Blind Harry and Sandy Traill Slain with his schour of mortal hail, Quhilk Patrick Johnstoun might nought flee:-- Timor Mortis conturbat me. He has reft Merseir his endite, That did in luve so lively write, So short, so quick, of sentence hie:-- Timor Mortis conturbat me. He has tane Rowll of Aberdene, And gentill Rowll of Corstorphine; Two better fallowis did no man see:-- Timor Mortis conturbat me. In Dunfermline he has tane Broun With Maister Robert Henrysoun; Sir John the Ross enbrast has he:-- Timor Mortis conturbat me. And he has now tane, last of a, Good gentil Stobo and Quintin Shaw, Of quhom all wichtis hes pitie:-- Timor Mortis conturbat me. Good Maister Walter Kennedy In point of Death lies verily; Great ruth it were that so suld be:-- Timor Mortis conturbat me. Sen he has all my brether tane, He will naught let me live alane; Of force I man his next prey be:-- Timor Mortis conturbat me. Since for the Death remeid is none, Best is that we for Death dispone, After our death that live may we:-- Timor Mortis conturbat me.

Written by Francesco Petrarch | Sonnet XII SONNET XII. Quando fra l' altre donne ad ora ad ora. THE BEAUTY OF LAURA LEADS HIM TO THE CONTEMPLATION OF THE SUPREME GOOD. Throned on her angel brow, when Love displaysHis radiant form among all other fair,Far as eclipsed their choicest charms appear,I feel beyond its wont my passion blaze.And still I bless the day, the hour, the place,When first so high mine eyes I dared to rear;And say, "Fond heart, thy gratitude declare,That then thou had'st the privilege to gaze.'Twas she inspired the tender thought of love,Which points to heaven, and teaches to despiseThe earthly vanities that others prize:She gave the soul's light grace, which to the skiesBids thee straight onward in the right path move;Whence buoy'd by hope e'en, now I soar to worlds above." Wrangham. [Pg 12] When Love, whose proper throne is that sweet face,At times escorts her 'mid the sisters fair,As their each beauty is than hers less rare,So swells in me the fond desire apace.I bless the hour, the season and the place,So high and heavenward when my eyes could dare;And say: "My heart! in grateful memory bearThis lofty honour and surpassing grace:From her descends the tender truthful thought,Which follow'd, bliss supreme shall thee repay,Who spurn'st the vanities that win the crowd:From her that gentle graceful love is caught,To heaven which leads thee by the right-hand way,And crowns e'en here with hopes both pure and proud." Macgregor.

Written by Katharine Tynan | Of St. Francis and the Ass Our father, ere he went Out with his brother, Death, Smiling and well-content As a bridegroom goeth, Sweetly forgiveness prayed From man or beast whom he Had ever injured Or burdened needlessly. 'Verily,' then said he, 'I crave before I pass Forgiveness full and free Of my little brother, the ass. Many a time and oft, When winds and ways were hot, He hath borne me cool and soft And service grudged me not. 'And once did it betide There was, unseen of me, A gall upon his side That suffered grievously. And once his manger was Empty and bare, and brown. (Praise God for sweet, dry grass That Bethlehem folk shook down! ) 'Consider, brethren,' said he, 'Our little brother; how mild, How patient, he will be, Though men are fierce and wild. His coat is gray and fine, His eyes are kind with love; This little brother of mine Is gentle as the dove. 'Consider how such an one Beheld our Saviour born, And carried him, full-grown, Through Eastern streets one morn. For this the Cross is laid Upon him for a sign. Greatly is honourèd This little brother of mine.' And even while he spake, Down in his stable stall His little ass 'gan shake And turned its face to the wall. Down fell the heavy tear; Its gaze so mournful was, Fra Leo, standing near, Pitied the little ass. That night our father died, All night the kine did low: The ass went heavy-eyed, With patient tears and slow. The very birds on wings Made mournful cries in the air. Amen! all living things Our father's brethern were.

Written by Francesco Petrarch | Sestina VII SESTINA VII. Non ha tanti animali il mar fra l' onde. HE DESPAIRS OF ESCAPE FROM THE TORMENTS BY WHICH HE IS SURROUNDED. Nor Ocean holds such swarms amid his waves,Not overhead, where circles the pale moon,Were stars so numerous ever seen by night,Nor dwell so many birds among the woods,[Pg 208]Nor plants so many clothe the field or hill,As holds my tost heart busy thoughts each eve. Each day I hope that this my latest eveShall part from my quick clay the sad salt waves,And leave me in last sleep on some cold hill;So many torments man beneath the moonNe'er bore as I have borne; this know the woodsThrough which I wander lonely day and night. For never have I had a tranquil night,But ceaseless sighs instead from morn till eve,Since love first made me tenant of the woods:The sea, ere I can rest, shall lose his waves,The sun his light shall borrow from the moon,And April flowers be blasted o'er each hill. Thus, to myself a prey, from hill to hill,Pensive by day I roam, and weep at night,No one state mine, but changeful as the moon;And when I see approaching the brown eve,Sighs from my bosom, from my eyes fall waves,The herbs to moisten and to move the woods. Hostile the cities, friendly are the woodsTo thoughts like mine, which, on this lofty hill,Mingle their murmur with the moaning waves,Through the sweet silence of the spangled night,So that the livelong day I wait the eve,When the sun sets and rises the fair moon. Would, like Endymion, 'neath the enamour'd moon,That slumbering I were laid in leafy woods,And that ere vesper she who makes my eve,With Love and Luna on that favour'd hill,Alone, would come, and stay but one sweet night,While stood the sun nor sought his western waves. Upon the hard waves, 'neath the beaming moon,Song, that art born of night amid the woods,Thou shalt a rich hill see to-morrow eve! Macgregor. Count the ocean's finny droves;Count the twinkling host of stars.Round the night's pale orb that moves;Count the groves' wing'd choristers;[Pg 209]Count each verdant blade that grows;Counted then will be my woes. When shall these eyes cease to weep;When shall this world-wearied frame,Cover'd by the cold sod, sleep?—Sure, beneath yon planet's beam,None like me have made such moan;This to every bower is known. Sad my nights; from morn till eve,Tenanting the woods, I sigh:But, ere I shall cease to grieve,Ocean's vast bed shall be dry,Suns their light from moons shall gain.And spring wither on each plain. Pensive, weeping, night and day,From this shore to that I fly,Changeful as the lunar ray;And, when evening veils the sky,Then my tears might swell the floods,Then my sighs might bow the woods! Towns I hate, the shades I love;For relief to yon green height,Where the rill resounds, I roveAt the grateful calm of night;There I wait the day's decline,For the welcome moon to shine. Oh, that in some lone retreat,Like Endymion I were lain;And that she, who rules my fate,There one night to stay would deign;Never from his billowy bedMore might Phœbus lift his head! Song, that on the wood-hung streamIn the silent hour wert born,Witness'd but by Cynthia's beam.Soon as breaks to-morrow's morn,Thou shalt seek a glorious plain,There with Laura to remain! Dacre.

Written by William Dunbar | On the Nativity of Christ RORATE coeli desuper! Hevins, distil your balmy schouris! For now is risen the bricht day-ster, Fro the rose Mary, flour of flouris: The cleir Sone, quhom no cloud devouris, Surmounting Phebus in the Est, Is cumin of his hevinly touris: Et nobis Puer natus est. Archangellis, angellis, and dompnationis, Tronis, potestatis, and marteiris seir, And all ye hevinly operationis, Ster, planeit, firmament, and spheir, Fire, erd, air, and water cleir, To Him gife loving, most and lest, That come in to so meik maneir; Et nobis Puer natus est. Synnaris be glad, and penance do, And thank your Maker hairtfully; For he that ye micht nocht come to To you is cumin full humbly Your soulis with his blood to buy And loose you of the fiendis arrest-- And only of his own mercy; Pro nobis Puer natus est. All clergy do to him inclyne, And bow unto that bairn benyng, And do your observance divyne To him that is of kingis King: Encense his altar, read and sing In holy kirk, with mind degest, Him honouring attour all thing Qui nobis Puer natus est. Celestial foulis in the air, Sing with your nottis upon hicht, In firthis and in forrestis fair Be myrthful now at all your mycht; For passit is your dully nicht, Aurora has the cloudis perst, The Sone is risen with glaidsum licht, Et nobis Puer natus est. Now spring up flouris fra the rute, Revert you upward naturaly, In honour of the blissit frute That raiss up fro the rose Mary; Lay out your levis lustily, Fro deid take life now at the lest In wirschip of that Prince worthy Qui nobis Puer natus est. Sing, hevin imperial, most of hicht! Regions of air mak armony! All fish in flud and fowl of flicht Be mirthful and mak melody! All Gloria in excelsis cry! Heaven, erd, se, man, bird, and best,-- He that is crownit abone the sky Pro nobis Puer natus est!

Written by Ben Jonson | Piccolo Valzer Viennese A Vienna ci sono dieci ragazze, una spalla dove piange la morte e un bosco di colombe disseccate. C'e' un frammento del mattino nel museo della brina. C'è un salone con mille vetrate. Ahi! Ahi! Ahi! Ahi! Prendi questo valzer con la bocca chiusa. Questo valzer, questo valzer, questo valzer, di sì, di morte e di cognac che si bagna la coda nel mare. Io ti amo, io ti amo, io ti amo con la poltrona e con il libro morto, nel malinconico corridoio, nell'oscura soffitta del giglio, nel nostro letto della luna, nella danza che sogna la tartaruga. Ahi! Ahi! Ahi! Ahi! Prendi questo valzer dalla spezzata cintura. A Vienna ci sono quattro specchi, vi giocano la tua bocca e gli echi. C'è una morte per pianoforte che tinge d'azzurro i giovanotti. Ci sono mendichi sui terrazzi. E fresche ghirlande di pianto. Ahi! Ahi! Ahi! Ahi! Prendi questo valzer che spira fra le mie braccia. Perchè io ti amo, ti amo, amore mio, nella soffitta dove giocano i bambini, sognando vecchie luci d'Ungheria nel mormorio di una sera mite, vedendo agnelli e gigli di neve nell'oscuro silenzio delle tue tempie. Ahi! Ahi! Ahi! Ahi! Prendi questo valzer del "Ti amo per sempre". A Vienna ballerò con te con un costume che abbia la testa di fiume. Guarda queste mie rive di giacinti! Lascerò la mia bocca tra le tue gambe, la mia anima in foto e fiordalisi, e nelle onde oscure del tuo passo io voglio, amore mio, amore mio, lasciare, violino e sepolcro, i nastri del valzer. English Translation Little Viennese Waltz In Vienna there are ten little girls a shoulder for death to cry on and a forest of dried pigeons. There is a fragment of tomorrow in the museum of winter frost. There is a thousand-windowed dance hall. Ay, ay, ay, ay! Take this close-mouthed waltz. Little waltz, little waltz, little waltz, of itself, of death, and of brandy that dips its tail in the sea. I love you, I love you, I love you, with the armchair and the book of death down the melancholy hallway, in the iris's dark garret, in our bed that was once the moon's bed, and in that dance the turtle dreamed of. Ay, ay, ay, ay! Take this broken-waisted waltz In Vienna there are four mirrors in which your mouth and the echoes play. There is a death for piano that paints the little boys blue. There are beggars on the roof. There are fresh garlands of tears. Aye, ay, ay, ay! Take this waltz that dies in my arms. Because I love you, I love you, my love, in the attic where children play, dreaming ancient lights of Hungary through the noise, the balmy afternoon, seeing sheep and irises of snow through the dark silence of your forehead. Ay, ay, ay ay! Take this "I will always love you" waltz. In Vienna I will dance with you in a costume with a river's head. See how the hyacinths line my banks! I will leave my mouth between your legs, my soul in photographs and lilies, and in the dark wake of your footsteps, my love, my love, I will have to leave violin and grave, the waltzing ribbons.

Written by Francesco Petrarch | Sonnet CLXIII SONNET CLXIII. L' aura serena che fra verdi fronde. THE GENTLE BREEZE (L' AURA) RECALLS TO HIM THE TIME WHEN HE FIRST SAW HER. The gentle gale, that plays my face around,Murmuring sweet mischief through the verdant grove,To fond remembrance brings the time, when LoveFirst gave his deep, although delightful wound;Gave me to view that beauteous face, ne'er foundVeil'd, as disdain or jealousy might move;To view her locks that shone bright gold above,Then loose, but now with pearls and jewels bound:Those locks she sweetly scatter'd to the wind,And then coil'd up again so gracefully,That but to think on it still thrills the sense.These Time has in more sober braids confined;And bound my heart with such a powerful tie,That death alone can disengage it thence. Nott. The balmy airs that from yon leafy sprayMy fever'd brow with playful murmurs greet,Recall to my fond heart the fatal dayWhen Love his first wound dealt, so deep yet sweet,And gave me the fair face—in scorn awaySince turn'd, or hid by jealousy—to meet;The locks, which pearls and gems now oft array,Whose shining tints with finest gold compete,So sweetly on the wind were then display'd,Or gather'd in with such a graceful art,Their very thought with passion thrills my mind.Time since has twined them in more sober braid,And with a snare so powerful bound my heart,Death from its fetters only can unbind. Macgregor.

Written by Rudyard Kipling | The Fall of Jock Gillespie This fell when dinner-time was done -- 'Twixt the first an' the second rub -- That oor mon Jock cam' hame again To his rooms ahist the Club. An' syne he laughed, an' syne he sang, An' syne we thocht him fou, An' syne he trumped his partner's trick, An' garred his partner rue. Then up and spake an elder mon, That held the Spade its Ace -- God save the lad! Whence comes the licht "That wimples on his face?" An' Jock he sniggered, an' Jock he smiled, An' ower the card-brim wunk: -- "I'm a' too fresh fra' the stirrup-peg, "May be that I am drunk." "There's whusky brewed in Galashils "An' L. L. L. forbye; "But never liquor lit the lowe "That keeks fra' oot your eye. "There's a third o' hair on your dress-coat breast, "Aboon the heart a wee?" "Oh! that is fra' the lang-haired Skye "That slobbers ower me." "Oh! lang-haired Skyes are lovin' beasts, "An' terrier dogs are fair, "But never yet was terrier born, "Wi' ell-lang gowden hair! "There's a smirch o' pouther on your breast, "Below the left lappel?" "Oh! that is fra' my auld cigar, "Whenas the stump-end fell." "Mon Jock, ye smoke the Trichi coarse, "For ye are short o' cash, "An' best Havanas Couldna leave "Sae white an' pure an ash. "This nicht ye stopped a story braid, "An' stopped it wi' a curse. "Last nicht ye told that tale yoursel' -- "An' capped it wi' a worse! "Oh! we're no fou! Oh! we're no fou! "But plainly we can ken "Ye're fallin', fallin' fra the band "O' cantie single men!" An' it fell when sirris-shaws were sere, An' the nichts were lang and mirk, In braw new breeks, wi' a gowden ring, Or Jocke gaed to the Kirk!