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Best Famous Gambled Poems

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

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Written by Walt Whitman | Create an image from this poem

To Think of Time

 1
TO think of time—of all that retrospection! 
To think of to-day, and the ages continued henceforward! 

Have you guess’d you yourself would not continue? 
Have you dreaded these earth-beetles? 
Have you fear’d the future would be nothing to you?

Is to-day nothing? Is the beginningless past nothing? 
If the future is nothing, they are just as surely nothing.
To think that the sun rose in the east! that men and women were flexible, real, alive! that everything was alive! To think that you and I did not see, feel, think, nor bear our part! To think that we are now here, and bear our part! 2 Not a day passes—not a minute or second, without an accouchement! Not a day passes—not a minute or second, without a corpse! The dull nights go over, and the dull days also, The soreness of lying so much in bed goes over, The physician, after long putting off, gives the silent and terrible look for an answer, The children come hurried and weeping, and the brothers and sisters are sent for, Medicines stand unused on the shelf—(the camphor-smell has long pervaded the rooms,) The faithful hand of the living does not desert the hand of the dying, The twitching lips press lightly on the forehead of the dying, The breath ceases, and the pulse of the heart ceases, The corpse stretches on the bed, and the living look upon it, It is palpable as the living are palpable.
The living look upon the corpse with their eye-sight, But without eye-sight lingers a different living, and looks curiously on the corpse.
3 To think the thought of Death, merged in the thought of materials! To think that the rivers will flow, and the snow fall, and fruits ripen, and act upon others as upon us now—yet not act upon us! To think of all these wonders of city and country, and others taking great interest in them—and we taking no interest in them! To think how eager we are in building our houses! To think others shall be just as eager, and we quite indifferent! (I see one building the house that serves him a few years, or seventy or eighty years at most, I see one building the house that serves him longer than that.
) Slow-moving and black lines creep over the whole earth—they never cease—they are the burial lines, He that was President was buried, and he that is now President shall surely be buried.
4 A reminiscence of the vulgar fate, A frequent sample of the life and death of workmen, Each after his kind: Cold dash of waves at the ferry-wharf—posh and ice in the river, half-frozen mud in the streets, a gray, discouraged sky overhead, the short, last daylight of Twelfth-month, A hearse and stages—other vehicles give place—the funeral of an old Broadway stage-driver, the cortege mostly drivers.
Steady the trot to the cemetery, duly rattles the death-bell, the gate is pass’d, the new-dug grave is halted at, the living alight, the hearse uncloses, The coffin is pass’d out, lower’d and settled, the whip is laid on the coffin, the earth is swiftly shovel’d in, The mound above is flatted with the spades—silence, A minute—no one moves or speaks—it is done, He is decently put away—is there anything more? He was a good fellow, free-mouth’d, quick-temper’d, not bad-looking, able to take his own part, witty, sensitive to a slight, ready with life or death for a friend, fond of women, gambled, ate hearty, drank hearty, had known what it was to be flush, grew low-spirited toward the last, sicken’d, was help’d by a contribution, died, aged forty-one years—and that was his funeral.
Thumb extended, finger uplifted, apron, cape, gloves, strap, wet-weather clothes, whip carefully chosen, boss, spotter, starter, hostler, somebody loafing on you, you loafing on somebody, headway, man before and man behind, good day’s work, bad day’s work, pet stock, mean stock, first out, last out, turning-in at night; To think that these are so much and so nigh to other drivers—and he there takes no interest in them! 5 The markets, the government, the working-man’s wages—to think what account they are through our nights and days! To think that other working-men will make just as great account of them—yet we make little or no account! The vulgar and the refined—what you call sin, and what you call goodness—to think how wide a difference! To think the difference will still continue to others, yet we lie beyond the difference.
To think how much pleasure there is! Have you pleasure from looking at the sky? have you pleasure from poems? Do you enjoy yourself in the city? or engaged in business? or planning a nomination and election? or with your wife and family? Or with your mother and sisters? or in womanly housework? or the beautiful maternal cares? —These also flow onward to others—you and I flow onward, But in due time, you and I shall take less interest in them.
Your farm, profits, crops,—to think how engross’d you are! To think there will still be farms, profits, crops—yet for you, of what avail? 6 What will be, will be well—for what is, is well, To take interest is well, and not to take interest shall be well.
The sky continues beautiful, The pleasure of men with women shall never be sated, nor the pleasure of women with men, nor the pleasure from poems, The domestic joys, the daily housework or business, the building of houses—these are not phantasms—they have weight, form, location; Farms, profits, crops, markets, wages, government, are none of them phantasms, The difference between sin and goodness is no delusion, The earth is not an echo—man and his life, and all the things of his life, are well-consider’d.
You are not thrown to the winds—you gather certainly and safely around yourself; Yourself! Yourself! Yourself, forever and ever! 7 It is not to diffuse you that you were born of your mother and father—it is to identify you; It is not that you should be undecided, but that you should be decided; Something long preparing and formless is arrived and form’d in you, You are henceforth secure, whatever comes or goes.
The threads that were spun are gather’d, the weft crosses the warp, the pattern is systematic.
The preparations have every one been justified, The orchestra have sufficiently tuned their instruments—the baton has given the signal.
The guest that was coming—he waited long, for reasons—he is now housed, He is one of those who are beautiful and happy—he is one of those that to look upon and be with is enough.
The law of the past cannot be eluded, The law of the present and future cannot be eluded, The law of the living cannot be eluded—it is eternal, The law of promotion and transformation cannot be eluded, The law of heroes and good-doers cannot be eluded, The law of drunkards, informers, mean persons—not one iota thereof can be eluded.
8 Slow moving and black lines go ceaselessly over the earth, Northerner goes carried, and Southerner goes carried, and they on the Atlantic side, and they on the Pacific, and they between, and all through the Mississippi country, and all over the earth.
The great masters and kosmos are well as they go—the heroes and good-doers are well, The known leaders and inventors, and the rich owners and pious and distinguish’d, may be well, But there is more account than that—there is strict account of all.
The interminable hordes of the ignorant and wicked are not nothing, The barbarians of Africa and Asia are not nothing, The common people of Europe are not nothing—the American aborigines are not nothing, The infected in the immigrant hospital are not nothing—the murderer or mean person is not nothing, The perpetual successions of shallow people are not nothing as they go, The lowest prostitute is not nothing—the mocker of religion is not nothing as he goes.
9 Of and in all these things, I have dream’d that we are not to be changed so much, nor the law of us changed, I have dream’d that heroes and good-doers shall be under the present and past law, And that murderers, drunkards, liars, shall be under the present and past law, For I have dream’d that the law they are under now is enough.
If otherwise, all came but to ashes of dung, If maggots and rats ended us, then Alarum! for we are betray’d! Then indeed suspicion of death.
Do you suspect death? If I were to suspect death, I should die now, Do you think I could walk pleasantly and well-suited toward annihilation? 10 Pleasantly and well-suited I walk, Whither I walk I cannot define, but I know it is good, The whole universe indicates that it is good, The past and the present indicate that it is good.
How beautiful and perfect are the animals! How perfect the earth, and the minutest thing upon it! What is called good is perfect, and what is called bad is just as perfect, The vegetables and minerals are all perfect, and the imponderable fluids are perfect; Slowly and surely they have pass’d on to this, and slowly and surely they yet pass on.
11 I swear I think now that everything without exception has an eternal Soul! The trees have, rooted in the ground! the weeds of the sea have! the animals! I swear I think there is nothing but immortality! That the exquisite scheme is for it, and the nebulous float is for it, and the cohering is for it; And all preparation is for it! and identity is for it! and life and materials are altogether for it


Written by Robert William Service | Create an image from this poem

The Ballad Of Soulful Sam

 You want me to tell you a story, a yarn of the firin' line,
Of our thin red kharki 'eroes, out there where the bullets whine;
Out there where the bombs are bustin',
and the cannons like 'ell-doors slam --
Just order another drink, boys, and I'll tell you of Soulful Sam.
Oh, Sam, he was never 'ilarious, though I've 'ad some mates as was wus; He 'adn't C.
B.
on his programme, he never was known to cuss.
For a card or a skirt or a beer-mug he 'adn't a friendly word; But when it came down to Scriptures, say! Wasn't he just a bird! He always 'ad tracts in his pocket, the which he would haste to present, And though the fellers would use them in ways that they never was meant, I used to read 'em religious, and frequent I've been impressed By some of them bundles of 'oly dope he carried around in his vest.
For I -- and oh, 'ow I shudder at the 'orror the word conveys! 'Ave been -- let me whisper it 'oarsely -- a gambler 'alf of me days; A gambler, you 'ear -- a gambler.
It makes me wishful to weep, And yet 'ow it's true, my brethren! -- I'd rather gamble than sleep.
I've gambled the 'ole world over, from Monte Carlo to Maine; From Dawson City to Dover, from San Francisco to Spain.
Cards! They 'ave been me ruin.
They've taken me pride and me pelf, And when I'd no one to play with -- why, I'd go and I'd play by meself.
And Sam 'e would sit and watch me, as I shuffled a greasy deck, And 'e'd say: "You're bound to Perdition," And I'd answer: "Git off me neck!" And that's 'ow we came to get friendly, though built on a different plan, Me wot's a desprite gambler, 'im sich a good young man.
But on to me tale.
Just imagine .
.
.
Darkness! The battle-front! The furious 'Uns attackin'! Us ones a-bearin' the brunt! Me crouchin' be'ind a sandbag, tryin' 'ard to keep calm, When I 'ears someone singin' a 'ymn toon; be'old! it is Soulful Sam.
Yes; right in the crash of the combat, in the fury of flash and flame, 'E was shootin' and singin' serenely as if 'e enjoyed the same.
And there in the 'eat of the battle, as the 'ordes of demons attacked, He dipped down into 'is tunic, and 'e 'anded me out a tract.
Then a star-shell flared, and I read it: Oh, Flee From the Wrath to Come! Nice cheerful subject, I tell yer, when you're 'earin' the bullets 'um.
And before I 'ad time to thank 'im, just one of them bits of lead Comes slingin' along in a 'urry, and it 'its my partner.
.
.
.
Dead? No, siree! not by a long sight! For it plugged 'im 'ard on the chest, Just where 'e'd tracts for a army corps stowed away in 'is vest.
On its mission of death that bullet 'ustled along, and it caved A 'ole in them tracts to 'is 'ide, boys -- but the life o' me pal was saved.
And there as 'e showed me in triumph, and 'orror was chokin' me breath, On came another bullet on its 'orrible mission of death; On through the night it cavorted, seekin' its 'aven of rest, And it zipped through a crack in the sandbags, and it wolloped me bang on the breast.
Was I killed, do you ask? Oh no, boys.
Why am I sittin' 'ere Gazin' with mournful vision at a mug long empty of beer? With a throat as dry as a -- oh, thanky! I don't much mind if I do.
Beer with a dash of 'ollands, that's my particular brew.
Yes, that was a terrible moment.
It 'ammered me 'ard o'er the 'eart; It bowled me down like a nine-pin, and I looked for the gore to start; And I saw in the flash of a moment, in that thunder of hate and strife, Me wretched past like a pitchur -- the sins of a gambler's life.
For I 'ad no tracts to save me, to thwart that mad missile's doom; I 'ad no pious pamphlets to 'elp me to cheat the tomb; I 'ad no 'oly leaflets to baffle a bullet's aim; I'd only -- a deck of cards, boys, but .
.
.
it seemed to do just the same.
Written by Henry Lawson | Create an image from this poem

Camerons Heart

 The diggings were just in their glory when Alister Cameron came, 
With recommendations, he told me, from friends and a parson `at hame'; 
He read me his recommendations -- he called them a part of his plant -- 
The first one was signed by an Elder, the other by Cameron's aunt.
The meenister called him `ungodly -- a stray frae the fauld o' the Lord', And his aunt set him down as a spendthrift, `a rebel at hame and abroad'.
He got drunk now and then and he gambled (such heroes are often the same); That's all they could say in connection with Alister Cameron's name.
He was straight and he stuck to his country and spoke with respect of his kirk; He did his full share of the cooking, and more than his share of the work.
And many a poor devil then, when his strength and his money were spent, Was sure of a lecture -- and tucker, and a shakedown in Cameron's tent.
He shunned all the girls in the camp, and they said he was proof to the dart -- That nothing but whisky and gaming had ever a place in his heart; He carried a packet about him, well hid, but I saw it at last, And -- well, 'tis a very old story -- the story of Cameron's past: A ring and a sprig o' white heather, a letter or two and a curl, A bit of a worn silver chain, and the portrait of Cameron's girl.
.
.
.
.
.
It chanced in the first of the Sixties that Ally and I and McKean Were sinking a shaft on Mundoorin, near Fosberry's puddle-machine.
The bucket we used was a big one, and rather a weight when 'twas full, Though Alister wound it up easy, for he had the strength of a bull.
He hinted at heart-disease often, but, setting his fancy apart, I always believed there was nothing the matter with Cameron's heart.
One day I was working below -- I was filling the bucket with clay, When Alister cried, `Pack it on, mon! we ought to be bottomed to-day.
' He wound, and the bucket rose steady and swift to the surface until It reached the first log on the top, where it suddenly stopped, and hung still.
I knew what was up in a moment when Cameron shouted to me: `Climb up for your life by the footholes.
I'LL STICK TAE TH' HAUN'LE -- OR DEE!' And those were the last words he uttered.
He groaned, for I heard him quite plain -- There's nothing so awful as that when it's wrung from a workman in pain.
The strength of despair was upon me; I started, and scarcely drew breath, But climbed to the top for my life in the fear of a terrible death.
And there, with his waist on the handle, I saw the dead form of my mate, And over the shaft hung the bucket, suspended by Cameron's weight.
I wonder did Alister think of the scenes in the distance so dim, When Death at the windlass that morning took cruel advantage of him? He knew if the bucket rushed down it would murder or cripple his mate -- His hand on the iron was closed with a grip that was stronger than Fate; He thought of my danger, not his, when he felt in his bosom the smart, And stuck to the handle in spite of the Finger of Death on his heart.
Written by Henry Lawson | Create an image from this poem

Knocked Up

 I'm lyin' on the barren ground that's baked and cracked with drought, 
And dunno if my legs or back or heart is most wore out; 
I've got no spirits left to rise and smooth me achin' brow -- 
I'm too knocked up to light a fire and bile the billy now.
Oh it's trampin', trampin', tra-a-mpin', in flies an' dust an' heat, Or it's trampin' trampin' tra-a-a-mpin' through mud and slush 'n sleet; It's tramp an' tramp for tucker -- one everlastin' strife, An' wearin' out yer boots an' heart in the wastin' of yer life.
They whine o' lost an' wasted lives in idleness and crime -- I've wasted mine for twenty years, and grafted all the time And never drunk the stuff I earned, nor gambled when I shore -- But somehow when yer on the track yer life seems wasted more.
A long dry stretch of thirty miles I've tramped this broilin' day, All for the off-chance of a job a hundred miles away; There's twenty hungry beggars wild for any job this year, An' fifty might be at the shed while I am lyin' here.
The sinews in my legs seem drawn, red-hot -- 'n that's the truth; I seem to weigh a ton, and ache like one tremendous tooth; I'm stung between my shoulder-blades -- my blessed back seems broke; I'm too knocked out to eat a bite -- I'm too knocked up to smoke.
The blessed rain is comin' too -- there's oceans in the sky, An' I suppose I must get up and rig the blessed fly; The heat is bad, the water's bad, the flies a crimson curse, The grub is bad, mosquitoes damned -- but rheumatism's worse.
I wonder why poor blokes like me will stick so fast ter breath, Though Shakespeare says it is the fear of somethin' after death; But though Eternity be cursed with God's almighty curse -- What ever that same somethin' is I swear it can't be worse.
For it's trampin', trampin', tra-a-mpin' thro' hell across the plain, And it's trampin' trampin' tra-a-mpin' thro' slush 'n mud 'n rain -- A livin' worse than any dog -- without a home 'n wife, A-wearin' out yer heart 'n soul in the wastin' of yer life.
Written by Robert William Service | Create an image from this poem

Sensitive Burglar

 Selecting in the dining-room
 The silver of his choice,
The burglar heard from chamber gloom
 A female voice.
As cold and bitter as a toad, She spat a nasty name, So even as his swag he stowed He blushed for shame.
'You dirty dog!' he heard her say, 'I sniff your whisky stench.
I bet you've gambled half your pay, Or blown it on a wench.
Begone from here, you rakehell boor! You shame the human race.
What wife would pillow-share with your Disgusting face!' A tear the tender burglar shed, Then indignation rose, And swiftly striding to her bed He said: 'I'm none of those.
I am a connoisseur in crime And felonies I plan .
.
.
But otherwise, believe me I'm A GENTLEMAN.
'


Written by Robert William Service | Create an image from this poem

Birds Of A Feather

 Of bosom friends I've had but seven,
 Despite my years are ripe;
I hope they're now enjoying Heaven,
 Although they're not the type;
Nor, candidly, no more am I,
 Though overdue to die.
For looking back I see that they Were weak and wasteful men; They loved a sultry jest alway, And women now and then.
They smoked and gambled, soused and swore, --Yet no one was a bore.
'Tis strange I took to lads like these, On whom the good should frown; Yet all with poetry would please To wash his wassail down; Their temples touched the starry way, But O what feet of clay! Well, all are dust, of fame bereft; They bore a cruel cross, And I, the canny one, am left,-- Yet as I grieve their loss, I deem, because they loved me well, They'll welcome me in Hell.