Best Famous Fusses Poems

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

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• All Famous Fusses Poems

Written by Wilfred Owen | Exposure I Our brains ache, in the merciless iced east winds that knife us . . . Wearied we keep awake because the night is silent . . . Low drooping flares confuse our memory of the salient . . . Worried by silence, sentries whisper, curious, nervous, But nothing happens. Watching, we hear the mad gusts tugging on the wire. Like twitching agonies of men among its brambles. Northward incessantly, the flickering gunnery rumbles, Far off, like a dull rumour of some other war. What are we doing here? The poignant misery of dawn begins to grow . . . We only know war lasts, rain soaks, and clouds sag stormy. Dawn massing in the east her melancholy army Attacks once more in ranks on shivering ranks of gray, But nothing happens. Sudden successive flights of bullets streak the silence. Less deadly than the air that shudders black with snow, With sidelong flowing flakes that flock, pause and renew, We watch them wandering up and down the wind's nonchalance, But nothing happens. II Pale flakes with lingering stealth come feeling for our faces -- We cringe in holes, back on forgotten dreams, and stare, snow-dazed, Deep into grassier ditches. So we drowse, sun-dozed, Littered with blossoms trickling where the blackbird fusses. Is it that we are dying? Slowly our ghosts drag home: glimpsing the sunk fires glozed With crusted dark-red jewels; crickets jingle there; For hours the innocent mice rejoice: the house is theirs; Shutters and doors all closed: on us the doors are closed -- We turn back to our dying. Since we believe not otherwise can kind fires burn; Now ever suns smile true on child, or field, or fruit. For God's invincible spring our love is made afraid; Therefore, not loath, we lie out here; therefore were born, For love of God seems dying. To-night, His frost will fasten on this mud and us, Shrivelling many hands and puckering foreheads crisp. The burying-party, picks and shovels in their shaking grasp, Pause over half-known faces. All their eyes are ice, But nothing happens.

Written by Stevie Smith | Alone In The Woods Alone in the woods I felt The bitter hostility of the sky and the trees Nature has taught her creatures to hate Man that fusses and fumes Unquiet man As the sap rises in the trees As the sap paints the trees a violent green So rises the wrath of Nature's creatures At man So paints the face of Nature a violent green. Nature is sick at man Sick at his fuss and fume Sick at his agonies Sick at his gaudy mind That drives his body Ever more quickly More and more In the wrong direction.

Written by Rg Gregory | two spanish poems (a) orihuela-time the sun in orihuela calms the dust and people glide about the streets at ease (problems left indoors to cool themselves) time has grown fat and no one cares to pin each minute to its proper place the day is long tomorrow's not yet real doves and old men occupy the squares nattering to each other in such tongues that take the clock away from what is time i could be moorish strolling in this heat past tiled seats paved stones and dusty plants a town that knows the desert's not far off only the traffic fusses about like now fuming and farting worse than any horse desperate to catch up centuries of drift and get the people moving like machines a modern bustle seeps up through the drains where buildings fall to caterpillar tracks that night we're in a garden roofed in glass a hothouse cafe where candles play at stars sipping iced drinks and talking casually a silence green and golden threads our bones and tapestries contain us - time's come unstuck each gesture shall be / was - the present glows (b) spanish day all i hear at first are sparrows i come to the window - they are foraging across the grassless ground their chirps are business voices grunts of satisfaction a comment on the nature of their find the morning's cool - some fifteen trees in rows with broad-splayed leaves are caught by breeze and flutter like the hands of pale young ladies gathered half-undressed a car glides past the hedge with muted sound a lorry chugs uphill - the sky is trembling out of grey with that first flat blue that says the sun is indirectly on its way the breeze is cool but being spain i stand in short shirt-sleeves - my forearmed hairs accept the ruffling breeze and wait for warmth i follow a car's noise down the hill it fades - a silence stands with arms outspread catching all breath - i listen more intently from my cell-like room where cubby holes of dark have not yet given into morning a sharper breeze now roughs it through the trees and every leaf would run away but can't so stays and rattles off complaints metallically the sparrows beat their beaks more urgently and i am thrust at by a stab of sun the rooftop opposite has a golden cowl rays slide down and leap into the trees the breeze desists the leaves play mute in no time sun has occupied the square my room's invaded - dark stains are blanched coolness abandoned for the next few hours the heat-to-come has come - the spanish day has no fancy way to sell its onions you take it or you leave it – sweatingly