Best Famous Freshet Poems

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

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• All Famous Freshet Poems

Written by Edna St. Vincent Millay | Exiled Searching my heart for its true sorrow, This is the thing I find to be: That I am weary of words and people, Sick of the city, wanting the sea; Wanting the sticky, salty sweetness Of the strong wind and shattered spray; Wanting the loud sound and the soft sound Of the big surf that breaks all day. Always before about my dooryard, Marking the reach of the winter sea, Rooted in sand and dragging drift-wood, Straggled the purple wild sweet-pea; Always I climbed the wave at morning, Shook the sand from my shoes at night, That now am caught beneath great buildings, Stricken with noise, confused with light. If I could hear the green piles groaning Under the windy wooden piers, See once again the bobbing barrels, And the black sticks that fence the weirs, If I could see the weedy mussels Crusting the wrecked and rotting hulls, Hear once again the hungry crying Overhead, of the wheeling gulls, Feel once again the shanty straining Under the turning of the tide, Fear once again the rising freshet, Dread the bell in the fog outside,— I should be happy,—that was happy All day long on the coast of Maine! I have a need to hold and handle Shells and anchors and ships again! I should be happy, that am happy Never at all since I came here. I am too long away from water. I have a need of water near.

Written by Henrik Ibsen | A Brother In Need NOW, rallying once if ne'er again, With flag at half-mast flown, A people in dire need and strain Mans Tyra's bastion. Betrayed in danger's hour, betrayed Before the stress of strife! Was this the meaning that it had-- That clasp of hands at Axelstad Which gave the North new life? The words that seemed as if they rushed From deepest heart-springs out Were phrases, then! -- the freshet gushed, And now is fall'n the drought. The tree, that promised rich in bloom Mid festal sun and shower, Stands wind-stript in the louring gloom, A cross to mark young Norway's tomb, The first dark testing-hour. They were but Judas kisses, lies In fatal wreaths enwound, The cheers of Norway's sons, and cries Towards the beach of Sound. What passed that time we watched them meet, 'Twixt Norse and Danish lord? Oh! nothing! only to repeat King Gustav's play at Stockholm's seat With the Twelfth Charles' sword. "A people doomed, whose knell is rung, Betrayed by every friend!" -- Is the book closed and the song sung? Is this our Denmark's end? Who set the craven colophon, While Germans seized the hold, And o'er the last Dane lying prone Old Denmark's tattered flag was thrown With doubly crimsoned fold? But thou, my brother Norsemen, set Beyond the war-storm's power Because thou knewest to forget Fair words in danger's hour: Flee from thy homes of ancient fame-- Go chase a new sunrise-- Pursue oblivion, and for shame Disguise thee in a stranger's name To hide from thine own eyes! Each wind that sighs from Danish waves Through Norway's woods of pine, Of thy pale lips an answer craves: Where wast thou, brother mine? I fought for both a deadly fight; In vain to spy thy prow O'er belt and fiord I strained my sight: My fatherland with graves grew white: My brother, where wast thou? It was a dream! Arise, awake To do a nation's deed! Each to his post, swift counsel take; A brother is in need! A nobler song may yet be sung-- Danes, Danes, keep Tyra's hold-- And o'er a Northern era, young And rich in hope, be proudly flung The red flag's tattered fold.

Written by Amy Clampitt | Easter Morning a stone at dawn cold water in the basin these walls' rough plaster imageless after the hammering of so much insistence on the need for naming after the travesties that passed as faces, grace: the unction of sheer nonexistence upwelling in this hyacinthine freshet of the unnamed the faceless

Written by Andrew Barton Paterson | The Story of Mongrel Grey This is the story the stockman told On the cattle-camp, when the stars were bright; The moon rose up like a globe of gold And flooded the plain with her mellow light. We watched the cattle till dawn of day And he told me the story of Mongrel Grey. He was a knock-about station hack, Spurred and walloped, and banged and beat; Ridden all day with a sore on his back, Left all night with nothing to eat. That was a matter of everyday Normal occurrence with Mongrel Grey. We might have sold him, but someone heard He was bred out back on a flooded run, Where he learnt to swim like a waterbird; Midnight or midday were all as one -- In the flooded ground he would find his way; Nothing could puzzle old Mongrel Grey. 'Tis a trick, no doubt, that some horses learn; When the floods are out they will splash along In girth-deep water, and twist and turn From hidden channel and billabong, Never mistaking the road to go; for a man may guess -- but the horses know. I was camping out with my youngest son -- Bit of a nipper, just learnt to speak -- In an empty hut on the lower run, Shooting and fishing in Conroy's Creek. The youngster toddled about all day And there with our horses was Mongrel Grey. All of a sudden a flood came down, At first a freshet of mountain rain, Roaring and eddying, rank and brown, Over the flats and across the plain. Rising and rising -- at fall of night Nothing but water appeared in sight! 'Tis a nasty place when the floods are out, Even in daylight; for all around Channels and billabongs twist about, Stretching for miles in the flooded ground. And to move seemed a hopeless thing to try In the dark with the storm-water racing by. I had to risk it. I heard a roar As the wind swept down and the driving rain; And the water rose till it reached the floor Of our highest room; and 'twas very plain -- The way the torrent was sweeping down -- We must make for the highlands at once, or drown. Off to the stable I splashed, and found The horses shaking with cold and fright; I led them down to the lower ground, But never a yard would they swim that night! They reared and snorted and turned away, And none would face it but Mongrel Grey. I bound the child on the horse's back, And we started off, with a prayer to heaven, Through the rain and the wind and the pitchy black For I knew that the instinct God has given To prompt His creatures by night and day Would guide the footsteps of Mongrel Grey. He struck deep water at once and swam -- I swam beside him and held his mane -- Till we touched the bank of the broken dam In shallow water; then off again, Swimming in darkness across the flood, Rank with the smell of the drifting mud. He turned and twisted across and back, Choosing the places to wade or swim, Picking the safest and shortest track -- The blackest darkness was clear to him. Did he strike the crossing by sight or smell? The Lord that held him alone could tell! He dodged the timber whene'er he could, But timber brought us to grief at last; I was partly stunned by a log of wood That struck my head as it drifted past; Then lost my grip of the brave old grey, And in half a second he swept away. I reached a tree, where I had to stay, And did a perish for two days' hard; And lived on water -- but Mongrel Grey, He walked right into the homestead yard At dawn next morning, and grazed around, With the child strapped on to him safe and sound. We keep him now for the wife to ride, Nothing too good for him now, of course; Never a whip on his fat old hide, For she owes the child to that brave grey horse. And not Old Tyson himself could pay The purchase money of Mongrel Grey.

Written by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow | Pau-Puk-Keewis You shall hear how Pau-Puk-Keewis, He, the handsome Yenadizze, Whom the people called the Storm-Fool, Vexed the village with disturbance; You shall hear of all his mischief, And his flight from Hiawatha, And his wondrous transmigrations, And the end of his adventures. On the shores of Gitche Gumee, On the dunes of Nagow Wudjoo, By the shining Big-Sea-Water Stood the lodge of Pau-Puk-Keewis. It was he who in his frenzy Whirled these drifting sands together, On the dunes of Nagow Wudjoo, When, among the guests assembled, He so merrily and madly Danced at Hiawatha's wedding, Danced the Beggar's Dance to please them. Now, in search of new adventures, From his lodge went Pau-Puk-Keewis, Came with speed into the village, Found the young men all assembled In the lodge of old Iagoo, Listening to his monstrous stories, To his wonderful adventures. He was telling them the story Of Ojeeg, the Summer-Maker, How he made a hole in heaven, How he climbed up into heaven, And let out the summer-weather, The perpetual, pleasant Summer; How the Otter first essayed it; How the Beaver, Lynx, and Badger Tried in turn the great achievement, From the summit of the mountain Smote their fists against the heavens, Smote against the sky their foreheads, Cracked the sky, but could not break it; How the Wolverine, uprising, Made him ready for the encounter, Bent his knees down, like a squirrel, Drew his arms back, like a cricket. "Once he leaped," said old Iagoo, "Once he leaped, and lo! above him Bent the sky, as ice in rivers When the waters rise beneath it; Twice he leaped, and lo! above him Cracked the sky, as ice in rivers When the freshet is at highest! Thrice he leaped, and lo! above him Broke the shattered sky asunder, And he disappeared within it, And Ojeeg, the Fisher Weasel, With a bound went in behind him!" "Hark you!" shouted Pau-Puk-Keewis As he entered at the doorway; "I am tired of all this talking, Tired of old Iagoo's stories, Tired of Hiawatha's wisdom. Here is something to amuse you, Better than this endless talking." Then from out his pouch of wolf-skin Forth he drew, with solemn manner, All the game of Bowl and Counters, Pugasaing, with thirteen pieces. White on one side were they painted, And vermilion on the other; Two Kenabeeks or great serpents, Two Ininewug or wedge-men, One great war-club, Pugamaugun, And one slender fish, the Keego, Four round pieces, Ozawabeeks, And three Sheshebwug or ducklings. All were made of bone and painted, All except the Ozawabeeks; These were brass, on one side burnished, And were black upon the other. In a wooden bowl he placed them, Shook and jostled them together, Threw them on the ground before him, Thus exclaiming and explaining: "Red side up are all the pieces, And one great Kenabeek standing On the bright side of a brass piece, On a burnished Ozawabeek; Thirteen tens and eight are counted." Then again he shook the pieces, Shook and jostled them together, Threw them on the ground before him, Still exclaiming and explaining: "White are both the great Kenabeeks, White the Ininewug, the wedge-men, Red are all the other pieces; Five tens and an eight are counted." Thus he taught the game of hazard, Thus displayed it and explained it, Running through its various chances, Various changes, various meanings: Twenty curious eyes stared at him, Full of eagerness stared at him. "Many games," said old Iagoo, "Many games of skill and hazard Have I seen in different nations, Have I played in different countries. He who plays with old Iagoo Must have very nimble fingers; Though you think yourself so skilful, I can beat you, Pau-Puk-Keewis, I can even give you lessons In your game of Bowl and Counters!" So they sat and played together, All the old men and the young men, Played for dresses, weapons, wampum, Played till midnight, played till morning, Played until the Yenadizze, Till the cunning Pau-Puk-Keewis, Of their treasures had despoiled them, Of the best of all their dresses, Shirts of deer-skin, robes of ermine, Belts of wampum, crests of feathers, Warlike weapons, pipes and pouches. Twenty eyes glared wildly at him, Like the eyes of wolves glared at him. Said the lucky Pau-Puk-Keewis: "In my wigwam I am lonely, In my wanderings and adventures I have need of a companion, Fain would have a Meshinauwa, An attendant and pipe-bearer. I will venture all these winnings, All these garments heaped about me, All this wampum, all these feathers, On a single throw will venture All against the young man yonder!" `T was a youth of sixteen summers, `T was a nephew of Iagoo; Face-in-a-Mist, the people called him. As the fire burns in a pipe-head Dusky red beneath the ashes, So beneath his shaggy eyebrows Glowed the eyes of old Iagoo. "Ugh!" he answered very fiercely; "Ugh!" they answered all and each one. Seized the wooden bowl the old man, Closely in his bony fingers Clutched the fatal bowl, Onagon, Shook it fiercely and with fury, Made the pieces ring together As he threw them down before him. Red were both the great Kenabeeks, Red the Ininewug, the wedge-men, Red the Sheshebwug, the ducklings, Black the four brass Ozawabeeks, White alone the fish, the Keego; Only five the pieces counted! Then the smiling Pau-Puk-Keewis Shook the bowl and threw the pieces; Lightly in the air he tossed them, And they fell about him scattered; Dark and bright the Ozawabeeks, Red and white the other pieces, And upright among the others One Ininewug was standing, Even as crafty Pau-Puk-Keewis Stood alone among the players, Saying, "Five tens! mine the game is," Twenty eyes glared at him fiercely, Like the eyes of wolves glared at him, As he turned and left the wigwam, Followed by his Meshinauwa, By the nephew of Iagoo, By the tall and graceful stripling, Bearing in his arms the winnings, Shirts of deer-skin, robes of ermine, Belts of wampum, pipes and weapons. "Carry them," said Pau-Puk-Keewis, Pointing with his fan of feathers, "To my wigwam far to eastward, On the dunes of Nagow Wudjoo!" Hot and red with smoke and gambling Were the eyes of Pau-Puk-Keewis As he came forth to the freshness Of the pleasant Summer morning. All the birds were singing gayly, All the streamlets flowing swiftly, And the heart of Pau-Puk-Keewis Sang with pleasure as the birds sing, Beat with triumph like the streamlets, As he wandered through the village, In the early gray of morning, With his fan of turkey-feathers, With his plumes and tufts of swan's down, Till he reached the farthest wigwam, Reached the lodge of Hiawatha. Silent was it and deserted; No one met him at the doorway, No one came to bid him welcome; But the birds were singing round it, In and out and round the doorway, Hopping, singing, fluttering, feeding, And aloft upon the ridge-pole Kahgahgee, the King of Ravens, Sat with fiery eyes, and, screaming, Flapped his wings at Pau-Puk-Keewis. "All are gone! the lodge Is empty!" Thus it was spake Pau-Puk-Keewis, In his heart resolving mischief "Gone is wary Hiawatha, Gone the silly Laughing Water, Gone Nokomis, the old woman, And the lodge is left unguarded!" By the neck he seized the raven, Whirled it round him like a rattle, Like a medicine-pouch he shook it, Strangled Kahgahgee, the raven, From the ridge-pole of the wigwam Left its lifeless body hanging, As an insult to its master, As a taunt to Hiawatha. With a stealthy step he entered, Round the lodge in wild disorder Threw the household things about him, Piled together in confusion Bowls of wood and earthen kettles, Robes of buffalo and beaver, Skins of otter, lynx, and ermine, As an insult to Nokomis, As a taunt to Minnehaha. Then departed Pau-Puk-Keewis, Whistling, singing through the forest, Whistling gayly to the squirrels, Who from hollow boughs above him Dropped their acorn-shells upon him, Singing gayly to the wood birds, Who from out the leafy darkness Answered with a song as merry. Then he climbed the rocky headlands, Looking o'er the Gitche Gumee, Perched himself upon their summit, Waiting full of mirth and mischief The return of Hiawatha. Stretched upon his back he lay there; Far below him splashed the waters, Plashed and washed the dreamy waters; Far above him swam the heavens, Swam the dizzy, dreamy heavens; Round him hovered, fluttered, rustled Hiawatha's mountain chickens, Flock-wise swept and wheeled about him, Almost brushed him with their pinions. And he killed them as he lay there, Slaughtered them by tens and twenties, Threw their bodies down the headland, Threw them on the beach below him, Till at length Kayoshk, the sea-gull, Perched upon a crag above them, Shouted: "It is Pau-Puk-Keewis! He is slaying us by hundreds! Send a message to our brother, Tidings send to Hiawatha!"

Written by Edna St. Vincent Millay | The Blue-Flag In The Bog God had called us, and we came; Our loved Earth to ashes left; Heaven was a neighbor's house, Open to us, bereft. Gay the lights of Heaven showed, And 'twas God who walked ahead; Yet I wept along the road, Wanting my own house instead. Wept unseen, unheeded cried, "All you things my eyes have kissed, Fare you well! We meet no more, Lovely, lovely tattered mist! Weary wings that rise and fall All day long above the fire!"— Red with heat was every wall, Rough with heat was every wire— "Fare you well, you little winds That the flying embers chase! Fare you well, you shuddering day, With your hands before your face! And, ah, blackened by strange blight, Or to a false sun unfurled, Now forevermore goodbye, All the gardens in the world! On the windless hills of Heaven, That I have no wish to see, White, eternal lilies stand, By a lake of ebony. But the Earth forevermore Is a place where nothing grows,— Dawn will come, and no bud break; Evening, and no blossom close. Spring will come, and wander slow Over an indifferent land, Stand beside an empty creek, Hold a dead seed in her hand." God had called us, and we came, But the blessed road I trod Was a bitter road to me, And at heart I questioned God. "Though in Heaven," I said, "be all That the heart would most desire, Held Earth naught save souls of sinners Worth the saving from a fire? Withered grass,—the wasted growing! Aimless ache of laden boughs!" Little things God had forgotten Called me, from my burning house. "Though in Heaven," I said, "be all That the eye could ask to see, All the things I ever knew Are this blaze in back of me." "Though in Heaven," I said, "be all That the ear could think to lack, All the things I ever knew Are this roaring at my back." It was God who walked ahead, Like a shepherd to the fold; In his footsteps fared the weak, And the weary and the old, Glad enough of gladness over, Ready for the peace to be,— But a thing God had forgotten Was the growing bones of me. And I drew a bit apart, And I lagged a bit behind, And I thought on Peace Eternal, Lest He look into my mind: And I gazed upon the sky, And I thought of Heavenly Rest,— And I slipped away like water Through the fingers of the blest! All their eyes were fixed on Glory, Not a glance brushed over me; "Alleluia! Alleluia!" Up the road,—and I was free. And my heart rose like a freshet, And it swept me on before, Giddy as a whirling stick, Till I felt the earth once more. All the earth was charred and black, Fire had swept from pole to pole; And the bottom of the sea Was as brittle as a bowl; And the timbered mountain-top Was as naked as a skull,— Nothing left, nothing left, Of the Earth so beautiful! "Earth," I said, "how can I leave you?" "You are all I have," I said; "What is left to take my mind up, Living always, and you dead?" "Speak!" I said, "Oh, tell me something! Make a sign that I can see! For a keepsake! To keep always! Quick!—before God misses me!" And I listened for a voice;— But my heart was all I heard; Not a screech-owl, not a loon, Not a tree-toad said a word. And I waited for a sign;— Coals and cinders, nothing more; And a little cloud of smoke Floating on a valley floor. And I peered into the smoke Till it rotted, like a fog:— There, encompassed round by fire, Stood a blue-flag in a bog! Little flames came wading out, Straining, straining towards its stem, But it was so blue and tall That it scorned to think of them! Red and thirsty were their tongues, As the tongues of wolves must be, But it was so blue and tall— Oh, I laughed, I cried, to see! All my heart became a tear, All my soul became a tower, Never loved I anything As I loved that tall blue flower! It was all the little boats That had ever sailed the sea, It was all the little books That had gone to school with me; On its roots like iron claws Rearing up so blue and tall,— It was all the gallant Earth With its back against a wall! In a breath, ere I had breathed,— Oh, I laughed, I cried, to see!— I was kneeling at its side, And it leaned its head on me! Crumbling stones and sliding sand Is the road to Heaven now; Icy at my straining knees Drags the awful under-tow; Soon but stepping-stones of dust Will the road to Heaven be,— Father, Son and Holy Ghost, Reach a hand and rescue me! "There—there, my blue-flag flower; Hush—hush—go to sleep; That is only God you hear, Counting up His folded sheep! Lullabye—lullabye— That is only God that calls, Missing me, seeking me, Ere the road to nothing falls! He will set His mighty feet Firmly on the sliding sand; Like a little frightened bird I will creep into His hand; I will tell Him all my grief, I will tell Him all my sin; He will give me half His robe For a cloak to wrap you in. Lullabye—lullabye—" Rocks the burnt-out planet free!— Father, Son and Holy Ghost, Reach a hand and rescue me! Ah, the voice of love at last! Lo, at last the face of light! And the whole of His white robe For a cloak against the night! And upon my heart asleep All the things I ever knew!— "Holds Heaven not some cranny, Lord, For a flower so tall and blue?" All's well and all's well! Gay the lights of Heaven show! In some moist and Heavenly place We will set it out to grow.

Written by William Butler Yeats | Wisdom The true faith discovered was When painted panel, statuary. Glass-mosaic, window-glass, Amended what was told awry By some peasant gospeller; Swept the Sawdust from the floor Of that working-carpenter. Miracle had its playtime where In damask clothed and on a seat Chryselephantine, cedar-boarded, His majestic Mother sat Stitching at a purple hoarded That He might be nobly breeched In starry towers of Babylon Noah's freshet never reached. King Abundance got Him on Innocence; and Wisdom He. That cognomen sounded best Considering what wild infancy Drove horror from His Mother's breast.

Written by Emily Dickinson | Dew -- is the Freshet in the Grass -- Dew -- is the Freshet in the Grass -- 'Tis many a tiny Mill Turns unperceived beneath our feet And Artisan lies still -- We spy the Forests and the Hills The Tents to Nature's Show Mistake the Outside for the in And mention what we saw. Could Commentators on the Sign Of Nature's Caravan Obtain "Admission" as a Child Some Wednesday Afternoon.

Written by Rudyard Kipling | The Song of Seven Cities I was Lord of Cities very sumptuously builded. Seven roaring Cities paid me tribute from far. Ivory their outposts were--the guardrooms of them gilded, And garrisoned with Amazons invincible in war. All the world went softly when it walked before my Cities-- Neither King nor Army vexed my peoples at their toil. Never horse nor chariot irked or overbore my Cities. Never Mob nor Ruler questioned whence they drew their spoil. Banded, mailed and arrogant from sunrise unto sunset, Singing while they sacked it, they possessed the land at large. Yet when men would rob them, they resisted, they made onset And pierced the smoke of battle with a thousand-sabred charge. So they warred and trafficked only yesterday, my Cities. To-day there is no mark or mound of where my Cities stood. For the River rose at midnight and it washed away my Cities. They are evened with Atlantis and the towns before the Flood. Rain on rain-gorged channels raised the -water-levels round them, Freshet backed on freshet swelled and swept their world from sight; Till the emboldened floods linked arms and, flashing forward, droned them-- Drowned my Seven Cities and their peoples in one night! Low among the alders lie their derelict foundations, The beams wherein they trusted and the plinths whereon they built-- My rulers and their treasure and their unborn populations, Dead, destroyed, aborted, and defiled with mud and silt! The Daughters of the Palace whom they cherished in my Cities, My silver-tongued Princesses, and the promise of their May-- Their bridegrooms of the June-tide-all have perished in my Cities, With the harsh envenomed virgins that can neither love nor play. I was Lord of Cities--I will build anew my Cities, Seven set on rocks, above the wrath of any flood. Nor will I rest from search till I have filled anew my Cities With peoples undefeated of the dark, enduring blood. To the sound of trumpets shall their seed restore my Cities, Wealthy and well-weaponed, that once more may I behold All the world go softly when it walks before my Cities, And the horses and the chariots fleeing from them as of old!