Best Famous Glens Poems

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

Search and read the best famous Glens poems, articles about Glens poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Glens poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

• All Famous Glens Poems

Written by Lucy Maud Montgomery | November Evening Come, for the dusk is our own; let us fare forth together, With a quiet delight in our hearts for the ripe, still, autumn weather, Through the rustling valley and wood and over the crisping meadow, Under a high-sprung sky, winnowed of mist and shadow. Sharp is the frosty air, and through the far hill-gaps showing Lucent sunset lakes of crocus and green are glowing; 'Tis the hour to walk at will in a wayward, unfettered roaming, Caring for naught save the charm, elusive and swift, of the gloaming. Watchful and stirless the fields as if not unkindly holding Harvested joys in their clasp, and to their broad bosoms folding Baby hopes of a Spring, trusted to motherly keeping, Thus to be cherished and happed through the long months of their sleeping. Silent the woods are and gray; but the firs than ever are greener, Nipped by the frost till the tang of their loosened balsam is keener; And one little wind in their boughs, eerily swaying and swinging, Very soft and low, like a wandering minstrel is singing. Beautiful is the year, but not as the springlike maiden Garlanded with her hopes­rather the woman laden With wealth of joy and grief, worthily won through living, Wearing her sorrow now like a garment of praise and thanksgiving. Gently the dark comes down over the wild, fair places, The whispering glens in the hills, the open, starry spaces; Rich with the gifts of the night, sated with questing and dreaming, We turn to the dearest of paths where the star of the homelight is gleaming.

Written by Emily Brontë | Stanza Often rebuked, yet always back returning To those first feelings that were born with me, And leaving busy chase of wealth and learning For idle dreams of things which cannot be: Today, I will seek not the shadowy region; Its unsustaining vastness waxes drear; And visions rising, legion after legion, Bring the unreal world too strangely near. I'll walk, but not in old heroic traces, And not in paths of high morality, And not among the half-distingusihed faces, The clouded forms of long-past history. I'll walk where my own nature would be leading: It vexes me to choose another guide: Where the grey flocks in ferny glens are feeding; Where the wild wind blows on the mountain side. What have those lonely mountains worth revealing? More glory and more grief than I can tell: The earth that wakes one human heart to feeling Can centre both the worlds of heaven and hell.

Written by Sir Walter Scott | Lullaby of an Infant Chief hush thee, my babie, thy sire was a knight, Thy mother a lady, both lovely and bright; The woods and the glens, from the towers which we see, They all are belonging, dear babie, to thee. O ho ro, i ri ri, cadul gu lo, O ho ro, i ri ri, cadul gu lo. O fear not the bugle, though loudly it blows, It calls but the warders that guard thy repose; Their bows would be bended, their blades would be red, Ere the step of a foeman drew near to thy bed. O ho ro, i ri ri, cadul gu lo, O ho ro, i ri ri, cadul gu lo. O hush thee, my babie, the time soon will come When thy sleep shall be broken by trumpet and drum; Then hush thee, my darling, take rest while you may, For strife comes with manhood, and waking with day. O ho ro, i ri ri, cadul gu lo, O ho ro, i ri ri, cadul gu lo.

Written by Matthew Arnold | The Strayed Reveller 1 Faster, faster, 2 O Circe, Goddess, 3 Let the wild, thronging train 4 The bright procession 5 Of eddying forms, 6 Sweep through my soul! 7 Thou standest, smiling 8 Down on me! thy right arm, 9 Lean'd up against the column there, 10 Props thy soft cheek; 11 Thy left holds, hanging loosely, 12 The deep cup, ivy-cinctured, 13 I held but now. 14 Is it, then, evening 15 So soon? I see, the night-dews, 16 Cluster'd in thick beads, dim 17 The agate brooch-stones 18 On thy white shoulder; 19 The cool night-wind, too, 20 Blows through the portico, 21 Stirs thy hair, Goddess, 22 Waves thy white robe! Circe. 23 Whence art thou, sleeper? The Youth. 24 When the white dawn first 25 Through the rough fir-planks 26 Of my hut, by the chestnuts, 27 Up at the valley-head, 28 Came breaking, Goddess! 29 I sprang up, I threw round me 30 My dappled fawn-skin; 31 Passing out, from the wet turf, 32 Where they lay, by the hut door, 33 I snatch'd up my vine-crown, my fir-staff, 34 All drench'd in dew- 35 Came swift down to join 36 The rout early gather'd 37 In the town, round the temple, 38 Iacchus' white fane 39 On yonder hill. 40 Quick I pass'd, following 41 The wood-cutters' cart-track 42 Down the dark valley;-I saw 43 On my left, through the beeches, 44 Thy palace, Goddess, 45 Smokeless, empty! 46 Trembling, I enter'd; beheld 47 The court all silent, 48 The lions sleeping, 49 On the altar this bowl. 50 I drank, Goddess! 51 And sank down here, sleeping, 52 On the steps of thy portico. Circe. 53 Foolish boy! Why tremblest thou? 54 Thou lovest it, then, my wine? 55 Wouldst more of it? See, how glows, 56 Through the delicate, flush'd marble, 57 The red, creaming liquor, 58 Strown with dark seeds! 59 Drink, thee! I chide thee not, 60 Deny thee not my bowl. 61 Come, stretch forth thy hand, thee-so! 62 Drink-drink again! The Youth. 63 Thanks, gracious one! 64 Ah, the sweet fumes again! 65 More soft, ah me, 66 More subtle-winding 67 Than Pan's flute-music! 68 Faint-faint! Ah me, 69 Again the sweet sleep! Circe. 70 Hist! Thou-within there! 71 Come forth, Ulysses! 72 Art tired with hunting? 73 While we range the woodland, 74 See what the day brings. Ulysses. 75 Ever new magic! 76 Hast thou then lured hither, 77 Wonderful Goddess, by thy art, 78 The young, languid-eyed Ampelus, 79 Iacchus' darling- 80 Or some youth beloved of Pan, 81 Of Pan and the Nymphs? 82 That he sits, bending downward 83 His white, delicate neck 84 To the ivy-wreathed marge 85 Of thy cup; the bright, glancing vine-leaves 86 That crown his hair, 87 Falling forward, mingling 88 With the dark ivy-plants-- 89 His fawn-skin, half untied, 90 Smear'd with red wine-stains? Who is he, 91 That he sits, overweigh'd 92 By fumes of wine and sleep, 93 So late, in thy portico? 94 What youth, Goddess,-what guest 95 Of Gods or mortals? Circe. 96 Hist! he wakes! 97 I lured him not hither, Ulysses. 98 Nay, ask him! The Youth. 99 Who speaks' Ah, who comes forth 100 To thy side, Goddess, from within? 101 How shall I name him? 102 This spare, dark-featured, 103 Quick-eyed stranger? 104 Ah, and I see too 105 His sailor's bonnet, 106 His short coat, travel-tarnish'd, 107 With one arm bare!-- 108 Art thou not he, whom fame 109 This long time rumours 110 The favour'd guest of Circe, brought by the waves? 111 Art thou he, stranger? 112 The wise Ulysses, 113 Laertes' son? Ulysses. 114 I am Ulysses. 115 And thou, too, sleeper? 116 Thy voice is sweet. 117 It may be thou hast follow'd 118 Through the islands some divine bard, 119 By age taught many things, 120 Age and the Muses; 121 And heard him delighting 122 The chiefs and people 123 In the banquet, and learn'd his songs. 124 Of Gods and Heroes, 125 Of war and arts, 126 And peopled cities, 127 Inland, or built 128 By the gray sea.-If so, then hail! 129 I honour and welcome thee. The Youth. 130 The Gods are happy. 131 They turn on all sides 132 Their shining eyes, 133 And see below them 134 The earth and men. 135 They see Tiresias 136 Sitting, staff in hand, 137 On the warm, grassy 138 Asopus bank, 139 His robe drawn over 140 His old sightless head, 141 Revolving inly 142 The doom of Thebes. 143 They see the Centaurs 144 In the upper glens 145 Of Pelion, in the streams, 146 Where red-berried ashes fringe 147 The clear-brown shallow pools, 148 With streaming flanks, and heads 149 Rear'd proudly, snuffing 150 The mountain wind. 151 They see the Indian 152 Drifting, knife in hand, 153 His frail boat moor'd to 154 A floating isle thick-matted 155 With large-leaved, low-creeping melon-plants 156 And the dark cucumber. 157 He reaps, and stows them, 158 Drifting--drifting;--round him, 159 Round his green harvest-plot, 160 Flow the cool lake-waves, 161 The mountains ring them. 162 They see the Scythian 163 On the wide stepp, unharnessing 164 His wheel'd house at noon. 165 He tethers his beast down, and makes his meal-- 166 Mares' milk, and bread 167 Baked on the embers;--all around 168 The boundless, waving grass-plains stretch, thick-starr'd 169 With saffron and the yellow hollyhock 170 And flag-leaved iris-flowers. 171 Sitting in his cart 172 He makes his meal; before him, for long miles, 173 Alive with bright green lizards, 174 And the springing bustard-fowl, 175 The track, a straight black line, 176 Furrows the rich soil; here and there 177 Cluster of lonely mounds 178 Topp'd with rough-hewn, 179 Gray, rain-blear'd statues, overpeer 180 The sunny waste. 181 They see the ferry 182 On the broad, clay-laden 183 Lone Chorasmian stream;--thereon, 184 With snort and strain, 185 Two horses, strongly swimming, tow 186 The ferry-boat, with woven ropes 187 To either bow 188 Firm harness'd by the mane; a chief 189 With shout and shaken spear, 190 Stands at the prow, and guides them; but astern 191 The cowering merchants, in long robes, 192 Sit pale beside their wealth 193 Of silk-bales and of balsam-drops, 194 Of gold and ivory, 195 Of turquoise-earth and amethyst, 196 Jasper and chalcedony, 197 And milk-barred onyx-stones. 198 The loaded boat swings groaning 199 In the yellow eddies; 200 The Gods behold him. 201 They see the Heroes 202 Sitting in the dark ship 203 On the foamless, long-heaving 204 Violet sea. 205 At sunset nearing 206 The Happy Islands. 207 These things, Ulysses, 208 The wise bards, also 209 Behold and sing. 210 But oh, what labour! 211 O prince, what pain! 212 They too can see 213 Tiresias;--but the Gods, 214 Who give them vision, 215 Added this law: 216 That they should bear too 217 His groping blindness, 218 His dark foreboding, 219 His scorn'd white hairs; 220 Bear Hera's anger 221 Through a life lengthen'd 222 To seven ages. 223 They see the Centaurs 224 On Pelion:--then they feel, 225 They too, the maddening wine 226 Swell their large veins to bursting; in wild pain 227 They feel the biting spears 228 Of the grim Lapith?, and Theseus, drive, 229 Drive crashing through their bones; they feel 230 High on a jutting rock in the red stream 231 Alcmena's dreadful son 232 Ply his bow;--such a price 233 The Gods exact for song: 234 To become what we sing. 235 They see the Indian 236 On his mountain lake; but squalls 237 Make their skiff reel, and worms 238 In the unkind spring have gnawn 239 Their melon-harvest to the heart.--They see 240 The Scythian: but long frosts 241 Parch them in winter-time on the bare stepp, 242 Till they too fade like grass; they crawl 243 Like shadows forth in spring. 244 They see the merchants 245 On the Oxus stream;--but care 246 Must visit first them too, and make them pale. 247 Whether, through whirling sand, 248 A cloud of desert robber-horse have burst 249 Upon their caravan; or greedy kings, 250 In the wall'd cities the way passes through, 251 Crush'd them with tolls; or fever-airs, 252 On some great river's marge, 253 Mown them down, far from home. 254 They see the Heroes 255 Near harbour;--but they share 256 Their lives, and former violent toil in Thebes, 257 Seven-gated Thebes, or Troy; 258 Or where the echoing oars 259 Of Argo first 260 Startled the unknown sea. 261 The old Silenus 262 Came, lolling in the sunshine, 263 From the dewy forest-coverts, 264 This way at noon. 265 Sitting by me, while his Fauns 266 Down at the water-side 267 Sprinkled and smoothed 268 His drooping garland, 269 He told me these things. 270 But I, Ulysses, 271 Sitting on the warm steps, 272 Looking over the valley, 273 All day long, have seen, 274 Without pain, without labour, 275 Sometimes a wild-hair'd M?nad-- 276 Sometimes a Faun with torches-- 277 And sometimes, for a moment, 278 Passing through the dark stems 279 Flowing-robed, the beloved, 280 The desired, the divine, 281 Beloved Iacchus. 282 Ah, cool night-wind, tremulous stars! 283 Ah, glimmering water, 284 Fitful earth-murmur, 285 Dreaming woods! 286 Ah, golden-haired, strangely smiling Goddess, 287 And thou, proved, much enduring, 288 Wave-toss'd Wanderer! 289 Who can stand still? 290 Ye fade, ye swim, ye waver before me-- 291 The cup again! 292 Faster, faster, 293 O Circe, Goddess. 294 Let the wild, thronging train, 295 The bright procession 296 Of eddying forms, 297 Sweep through my soul!

Written by Lucy Maud Montgomery | An Autumn Evening Dark hills against a hollow crocus sky Scarfed with its crimson pennons, and below The dome of sunset long, hushed valleys lie Cradling the twilight, where the lone winds blow And wake among the harps of leafless trees Fantastic runes and mournful melodies. The chilly purple air is threaded through With silver from the rising moon afar, And from a gulf of clear, unfathomed blue In the southwest glimmers a great gold star Above the darkening druid glens of fir Where beckoning boughs and elfin voices stir. And so I wander through the shadows still, And look and listen with a rapt delight, Pausing again and yet again at will To drink the elusive beauty of the night, Until my soul is filled, as some deep cup, That with divine enchantment is brimmed up.

Written by William Topaz McGonagall | Beautiful Aberfoyle The mountains and glens of Aberfoyle are beautiful to sight, Likewise the rivers and lakes are sparkling and bright; And its woods were frequented by the Lady of the Lake, And on its Lakes many a sail in her boat she did take. The scenery there will fill the tourist with joy, Because 'tis there once lived the bold Rob Roy, Who spent many happy days with his Helen there, By chasing the deer in the woods so fair. The little vale of Aberfoyle and its beautiful river Is a sight, once seen, forget it you'll never; And romantic ranges of rock on either side Form a magnificent background far and wide. And the numerous lochs there abound with trout Which can be had for the taking out, Especially from the Lochs Chon and Ard, There the angler can make a catch which will his toil reward. And between the two lochs the Glasgow Water Works are near, Which convey water of Loch Katrine in copious streams clear To the inhabitants of the Great Metropolis of the West, And for such pure water they should think themselves blest. The oak and birch woods there are beautiful to view, Also the Ochil hills which are blue in hue, Likewise the Lake of Menteith can be seen far eastward, Also Stirling Castle, which long ago the English beseiged very hard. Then away to Aberfoyle, Rob Roy's country, And gaze on the magnificent scenery. A region of rivers and mountains towering majestically Which is lovely and fascinating to see. But no words can describe the beautiful scenery. Aberfoyle must be visited in order to see, So that the mind may apprehend its beauties around, Which will charm the hearts of the visitors I'll be bound. As for the clachan of aberfoyle, little remains but a hotel, Which for accomodation which will suit the traveller very well. And the bedding thereis clean and good, And good cooks there to cook the food. Then away to the mountains and lakes of bonnie Aberfoyle, Ye hard-working sons and daughters of daily toil; And traverse its heathery mountains and viewits lakes so clear, When the face of Nature's green in the spring of the year.

Written by Elizabeth Bishop | Arrival At Santos Here is a coast; here is a harbor; here, after a meager diet of horizon, is some scenery: impractically shaped and--who knows?--self-pitying mountains, sad and harsh beneath their frivolous greenery, with a little church on top of one. And warehouses, some of them painted a feeble pink, or blue, and some tall, uncertain palms. Oh, tourist, is this how this country is going to answer you and your immodest demands for a different world, and a better life, and complete comprehension of both at last, and immediately, after eighteen days of suspension? Finish your breakfast. The tender is coming, a strange and ancient craft, flying a strange and brilliant rag. So that's the flag. I never saw it before. I somehow never thought of there being a flag, but of course there was, all along. And coins, I presume, and paper money; they remain to be seen. And gingerly now we climb down the ladder backward, myself and a fellow passenger named Miss Breen, descending into the midst of twenty-six freighters waiting to be loaded with green coffee beaus. Please, boy, do be more careful with that boat hook! Watch out! Oh! It has caught Miss Breen's skirt! There! Miss Breen is about seventy, a retired police lieutenant, six feet tall, with beautiful bright blue eyes and a kind expression. Her home, when she is at home, is in Glens Fall s, New York. There. We are settled. The customs officials will speak English, we hope, and leave us our bourbon and cigarettes. Ports are necessities, like postage stamps, or soap, but they seldom seem to care what impression they make, or, like this, only attempt, since it does not matter, the unassertive colors of soap, or postage stamps-- wasting away like the former, slipping the way the latter do when we mail the letters we wrote on the boat, either because the glue here is very inferior or because of the heat. We leave Santos at once; we are driving to the interior.

Written by John Greenleaf Whittier | The Pipes At Lucknow Pipes of the misty moorlands, Voice of the glens and hills; The droning of the torrents, The treble of the rills! Not the braes of bloom and heather, Nor the mountains dark with rain, Nor maiden bower, nor border tower, Have heard your sweetest strain! Dear to the Lowland reaper, And plaided mountaineer, - To the cottage and the castle The Scottish pipes are dear; - Sweet sounds the ancient pibroch O'er mountain, loch, and glade; But the sweetest of all music The pipes at Lucknow played. Day by day the Indian tiger Louder yelled, and nearer crept; Round and round the jungle-serpent Near and nearer circles swept. 'Pray for rescue, wives and mothers, - Pray to-day!' the soldier said; 'To-morrow, death's between us And the wrong and shame we dread.' Oh, they listened, looked, and waited, Till their hope became despair; And the sobs of low bewailing Filled the pauses of their prayer. Then up spake a Scottish maiden. With her ear unto the ground: 'Dinna ye hear it? - dinna ye hear it? The pipes o' Havelock sound!' Hushed the wounded man his groaning; Hushed the wife her little ones; Alone they heard the drum-roll And the roar of Sepoy guns. But to sounds of home and childhood The Highland ear was true; - As her mother's cradle-crooning The mountain pipes she knew. Like the march of soundless music Through the vision of the seer, More of feeling than of hearing, Of the heart than of the ear, She knew the droning pibroch, She knew the Campbell's call: 'Hark! hear ye no MacGregor's, The grandest o' them all!' Oh, they listened, dumb and breathless, And they caught the sound at last; Faint and far beyond the Goomtee Rose and fell the piper's blast! Then a burst of wild thanksgiving Mingled woman's voice and man's; 'God be praised! - the march of Havelock! The piping of the clans!' Louder, nearer, fierce as vengeance, Sharp and shrill as swords at strife, Came the wild MacGregor's clan-call, Stinging all the air to life. But when the far-off dust-cloud To plaided legions grew, Full tenderly and blithesomely The pipes of rescue blew! Round the silver domes of Lucknow. Moslem mosque and Pagan shrine, Breathed the air to Britons dearest, The air of Auld Lang Syne. O'er the cruel roll of war-drums Rose that sweet and homelike strain; And the tartan clove the turban, As the Goomtee cleaves the plain. Dear to the corn-land reaper And plaided mountaineer, - To the cottage and the castle The piper's song is dear. Sweet sounds the Gaelic pibroch O'er mountain, glen, and glade; But the sweetest of all music The pipes at Lucknow played!

Written by Alfred Lord Tennyson | Blow Bugle Blow THE splendour falls on castle walls And snowy summits old in story: The long light shakes across the lakes, And the wild cataract leaps in glory. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. O hark, O hear! how thin and clear, And thinner, clearer, farther going! O sweet and far from cliff and scar The horns of Elfland faintly blowing! Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying: Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. O love, they die in yon rich sky, They faint on hill or field or river: Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow for ever and for ever. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.

Written by Emily Brontë | Faith and Despondency The winter wind is loud and wild, Come close to me, my darling child; Forsake thy books, and mateless play; And, while the night is gathering grey, We'll talk its pensive hours away;-- 'Ierne, round our sheltered hall November's gusts unheeded call; Not one faint breath can enter here Enough to wave my daughter's hair, And I am glad to watch the blaze Glance from her eyes, with mimic rays; To feel her cheek so softly pressed, In happy quiet on my breast. 'But, yet, even this tranquillity Brings bitter, restless thoughts to me; And, in the red fire's cheerful glow, I think of deep glens, blocked with snow; I dream of moor, and misty hill, Where evening closes dark and chill; For, lone, among the mountains cold, Lie those that I have loved of old. And my heart aches, in hopeless pain Exhausted with repinings vain, That I shall greet them ne'er again!' 'Father, in early infancy, When you were far beyond the sea, Such thoughts were tyrants over me! I often sat, for hours together, Through the long nights of angry weather, Raised on my pillow, to descry The dim moon struggling in the sky; Or, with strained ear, to catch the shock, Of rock with wave, and wave with rock; So would I fearful vigil keep, And, all for listening, never sleep. But this world's life has much to dread, Not so, my Father, with the dead. 'Oh! not for them, should we despair, The grave is drear, but they are not there; Their dust is mingled with the sod, Their happy souls are gone to God! You told me this, and yet you sigh, And murmur that your friends must die. Ah! my dear father, tell me why? For, if your former words were true, How useless would such sorrow be; As wise, to mourn the seed which grew Unnoticed on its parent tree, Because it fell in fertile earth, And sprang up to a glorious birth-- Struck deep its root, and lifted high Its green boughs, in the breezy sky. 'But, I'll not fear, I will not weep For those whose bodies rest in sleep,-- I know there is a blessed shore, Opening its ports for me, and mine; And, gazing Time's wide waters o'er, I weary for that land divine, Where we were born, where you and I Shall meet our Dearest, when we die; From suffering and corruption free, Restored into the Deity.' 'Well hast thou spoken, sweet, trustful child! And wiser than thy sire; And worldly tempests, raging wild, Shall strengthen thy desire-- Thy fervent hope, through storm and foam, Through wind and ocean's roar, To reach, at last, the eternal home, The steadfast, changeless, shore!'