Best Famous Gnat Poems

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

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Written by William Blake | Create an image from this poem

Auguries Of Innocence

 To see a world in a grain of sand
And a heaven in a wild flower,
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand
And eternity in an hour.
A robin redbreast in a cage Puts all heaven in a rage.
A dove-house filled with doves and pigeons Shudders hell through all its regions.
A dog starved at his master's gate Predicts the ruin of the state.
A horse misused upon the road Calls to heaven for human blood.
Each outcry of the hunted hare A fibre from the brain does tear.
A skylark wounded in the wing, A cherubim does cease to sing.
The game-cock clipped and armed for fight Does the rising sun affright.
Every wolf's and lion's howl Raises from hell a human soul.
The wild deer wandering here and there Keeps the human soul from care.
The lamb misused breeds public strife, And yet forgives the butcher's knife.
The bat that flits at close of eve Has left the brain that won't believe.
The owl that calls upon the night Speaks the unbeliever's fright.
He who shall hurt the little wren Shall never be beloved by men.
He who the ox to wrath has moved Shall never be by woman loved.
The wanton boy that kills the fly Shall feel the spider's enmity.
He who torments the chafer's sprite Weaves a bower in endless night.
The caterpillar on the leaf Repeats to thee thy mother's grief.
Kill not the moth nor butterfly, For the Last Judgment draweth nigh.
He who shall train the horse to war Shall never pass the polar bar.
The beggar's dog and widow's cat, Feed them, and thou wilt grow fat.
The gnat that sings his summer's song Poison gets from Slander's tongue.
The poison of the snake and newt Is the sweat of Envy's foot.
The poison of the honey-bee Is the artist's jealousy.
The prince's robes and beggar's rags Are toadstools on the miser's bags.
A truth that's told with bad intent Beats all the lies you can invent.
It is right it should be so: Man was made for joy and woe; And when this we rightly know Through the world we safely go.
Joy and woe are woven fine, A clothing for the soul divine.
Under every grief and pine Runs a joy with silken twine.
The babe is more than swaddling bands, Throughout all these human lands; Tools were made and born were hands, Every farmer understands.
Every tear from every eye Becomes a babe in eternity; This is caught by females bright And returned to its own delight.
The bleat, the bark, bellow, and roar Are waves that beat on heaven's shore.
The babe that weeps the rod beneath Writes Revenge! in realms of death.
The beggar's rags fluttering in air Does to rags the heavens tear.
The soldier armed with sword and gun Palsied strikes the summer's sun.
The poor man's farthing is worth more Than all the gold on Afric's shore.
One mite wrung from the labourer's hands Shall buy and sell the miser's lands, Or if protected from on high Does that whole nation sell and buy.
He who mocks the infant's faith Shall be mocked in age and death.
He who shall teach the child to doubt The rotting grave shall ne'er get out.
He who respects the infant's faith Triumphs over hell and death.
The child's toys and the old man's reasons Are the fruits of the two seasons.
The questioner who sits so sly Shall never know how to reply.
He who replies to words of doubt Doth put the light of knowledge out.
The strongest poison ever known Came from Caesar's laurel crown.
Nought can deform the human race Like to the armour's iron brace.
When gold and gems adorn the plough To peaceful arts shall Envy bow.
A riddle or the cricket's cry Is to doubt a fit reply.
The emmet's inch and eagle's mile Make lame philosophy to smile.
He who doubts from what he sees Will ne'er believe, do what you please.
If the sun and moon should doubt, They'd immediately go out.
To be in a passion you good may do, But no good if a passion is in you.
The whore and gambler, by the state Licensed, build that nation's fate.
The harlot's cry from street to street Shall weave old England's winding sheet.
The winner's shout, the loser's curse, Dance before dead England's hearse.
Every night and every morn Some to misery are born.
Every morn and every night Some are born to sweet delight.
Some are born to sweet delight, Some are born to endless night.
We are led to believe a lie When we see not through the eye Which was born in a night to perish in a night, When the soul slept in beams of light.
God appears, and God is light To those poor souls who dwell in night, But does a human form display To those who dwell in realms of day.
Written by Rg Gregory | Create an image from this poem

the rest home

 professor piebald
(the oldest man in the home) was meek
at the same time ribald
he clothed his matter (so to speak)
in latin and (was it) greek
it caused no great offence
to nobody did it make sense
to make a rude joke
in languages nobody spoke

once he'd changed the word agenda
at a home's committee meeting to pudenda
this sort of thing was tolerated by the other
inmates (except his younger brother -
a dustman all his life
who'd robbed the professor of his wife
and treated him now with disdainful anger
but to everyone piebald was a stranger)
well agenda/pudenda hardly ranked as humour
but there was rumour
piebald was said to have his eye on
nelly (frail and pretty in a feathery fashion
the sort perhaps to rouse a meek man's passion)
she wouldn't talk to him without a tie on

one such occasion burst the bubble
he spoke (no tie on) she demurred
refusing one further word
and so the trouble
piebald went white all over
muttered about being her lover
then shouted in a rage
(nelly whispered be your age)
i - two headed janus -
now pingo your anus
(less janus - i should have thought - than mars)
and pinched the dear frail lady on the arse
who died a second then exploded
swung a punch so loaded
poor old piebald eared it to the floor
the other old ones in the room
(more excited now than when the flowers came out in bloom)
were rushing pushing to the door

the brother stood across the fallen man
in total icy disdain
you academic lily-livered piss of a gnat
he hissed - and spat
into the piebald twitching face
drew back a pace
when wham - a seething body like a flung cat
lifted upwards into space

the younger brother was butted in the belly
(who staggered back hit head and made a dying fall
leaving a small red zigzag down the wall)
then this sizzling flesh-ball
fell on fluttering nelly
tore at her skirt
ripped other clothes apart
began kissing her fervently on her agenda
te amo te amo te amo te amo
(repeating it as though
it was the finest latin phrase he'd learned by heart)
crying abasing himself to her most wanted gender

she more dazed than hurt
clutching the virgin fragments of her skirt
a simpering victim in the rising clamour
old people now outraged beyond controlling
through the swing doors pushing tumbling rolling
armed with saucepans pokers knives
playing the greatest game in all their lives
attacked without compunction
the frenzied lover at his unction
a poker struck him once across the head
and professor piebald
once meek but ribald
dropped down undoubtedly dead

and even when the horror had subsided
and the arms of justice with their maker were abided
nelly stood rocking in her room
weeping for the heart-ache in her womb
that till then had hardly ever fluttered
and (only occasionally) muttered
if you have your eye on
me - my dear man - put your tie on

the home itself was closed a few days after
the house is riddled still by ribald laughter
Written by R S Thomas | Create an image from this poem

Ninetieth Birthday

 You go up the long track
That will take a car, but is best walked
On slow foot, noting the lichen
That writes history on the page
Of the grey rock.
Trees are about you At first, but yield to the green bracken, The nightjars house: you can hear it spin On warm evenings; it is still now In the noonday heat, only the lesser Voices sound, blue-fly and gnat And the stream's whisper.
As the road climbs, You will pause for breath and the far sea's Signal will flash, till you turn again To the steep track, buttressed with cloud.
And there at the top that old woman, Born almost a century back In that stone farm, awaits your coming; Waits for the news of the lost village She thinks she knows, a place that exists In her memory only.
You bring her greeting And praise for having lasted so long With time's knife shaving the bone.
Yet no bridge joins her own World with yours, all you can do Is lean kindly across the abyss To hear words that were once wise.
Written by Alan Seeger | Create an image from this poem

Translations: Dante - Inferno Canto XXVI

 Florence, rejoice! For thou o'er land and sea 
So spread'st thy pinions that the fame of thee 
Hath reached no less into the depths of Hell.
So noble were the five I found to dwell Therein -- thy sons -- whence shame accrues to me And no great praise is thine; but if it be That truth unveil in dreamings before dawn, Then is the vengeful hour not far withdrawn When Prato shall exult within her walls To see thy suffering.
Whate'er befalls, Let it come soon, since come it must, for later, Each year would see my grief for thee the greater.
We left; and once more up the craggy side By the blind steps of our descent, my guide, Remounting, drew me on.
So we pursued The rugged path through that steep solitude, Where rocks and splintered fragments strewed the land So thick, that foot availed not without hand.
Grief filled me then, and still great sorrow stirs My heart as oft as memory recurs To what I saw; that more and more I rein My natural powers, and curb them lest they strain Where Virtue guide not, -- that if some good star, Or better thing, have made them what they are, That good I may not grudge, nor turn to ill.
As when, reclining on some verdant hill -- What season the hot sun least veils his power That lightens all, and in that gloaming hour The fly resigns to the shrill gnat -- even then, As rustic, looking down, sees, o'er the glen, Vineyard, or tilth where lies his husbandry, Fireflies innumerable sparkle: so to me, Come where its mighty depth unfolded, straight With flames no fewer seemed to scintillate The shades of the eighth pit.
And as to him Whose wrongs the bears avenged, dim and more dim Elijah's chariot seemed, when to the skies Uprose the heavenly steeds; and still his eyes Strained, following them, till naught remained in view But flame, like a thin cloud against the blue: So here, the melancholy gulf within, Wandered these flames, concealing each its sin, Yet each, a fiery integument, Wrapped round a sinner.
On the bridge intent, Gazing I stood, and grasped its flinty side, Or else, unpushed, had fallen.
And my guide, Observing me so moved, spake, saying: "Behold Where swathed each in his unconsuming fold, The spirits lie confined.
" Whom answering, "Master," I said, "thy words assurance bring To that which I already had supposed; And I was fain to ask who lies enclosed In the embrace of that dividing fire, Which seems to curl above the fabled pyre, Where with his twin-born brother, fiercely hated, Eteocles was laid.
" He answered, "Mated In punishment as once in wrath they were, Ulysses there and Diomed incur The eternal pains; there groaning they deplore The ambush of the horse, which made the door For Rome's imperial seed to issue: there In anguish too they wail the fatal snare Whence dead Deidamia still must grieve, Reft of Achilles; likewise they receive Due penalty for the Palladium.
" "Master," I said, "if in that martyrdom The power of human speech may still be theirs, I pray -- and think it worth a thousand prayers -- That, till this horned flame be come more nigh, We may abide here; for thou seest that I With great desire incline to it.
" And he: "Thy prayer deserves great praise; which willingly I grant; but thou refrain from speaking; leave That task to me; for fully I conceive What thing thou wouldst, and it might fall perchance That these, being Greeks, would scorn thine utterance.
" So when the flame had come where time and place Seemed not unfitting to my guide with grace To question, thus he spoke at my desire: "O ye that are two souls within one fire, If in your eyes some merit I have won -- Merit, or more or less -- for tribute done When in the world I framed my lofty verse: Move not; but fain were we that one rehearse By what strange fortunes to his death he came.
" The elder crescent of the antique flame Began to wave, as in the upper air A flame is tempest-tortured, here and there Tossing its angry height, and in its sound As human speech it suddenly had found, Rolled forth a voice of thunder, saying: "When, The twelvemonth past in Circe's halls, again I left Gaeta's strand (ere thither came Aeneas, and had given it that name) Not love of son, nor filial reverence, Nor that affection that might recompense The weary vigil of Penelope, Could so far quench the hot desire in me To prove more wonders of the teeming earth, -- Of human frailty and of manly worth.
In one small bark, and with the faithful band That all awards had shared of Fortune's hand, I launched once more upon the open main.
Both shores I visited as far as Spain, -- Sardinia, and Morocco, and what more The midland sea upon its bosom wore.
The hour of our lives was growing late When we arrived before that narrow strait Where Hercules had set his bounds to show That there Man's foot shall pause, and further none shall go.
Borne with the gale past Seville on the right, And on the left now swept by Ceuta's site, `Brothers,' I cried, `that into the far West Through perils numberless are now addressed, In this brief respite that our mortal sense Yet hath, shrink not from new experience; But sailing still against the setting sun, Seek we new worlds where Man has never won Before us.
Ponder your proud destinies: Born were ye not like brutes for swinish ease, But virtue and high knowledge to pursue.
' My comrades with such zeal did I imbue By these brief words, that scarcely could I then Have turned them from their purpose; so again We set out poop against the morning sky, And made our oars as wings wherewith to fly Into the Unknown.
And ever from the right Our course deflecting, in the balmy night All southern stars we saw, and ours so low, That scarce above the sea-marge it might show.
So five revolving periods the soft, Pale light had robbed of Cynthia, and as oft Replenished since our start, when far and dim Over the misty ocean's utmost rim, Rose a great mountain, that for very height Passed any I had seen.
Boundless delight Filled us -- alas, and quickly turned to dole: For, springing from our scarce-discovered goal, A whirlwind struck the ship; in circles three It whirled us helpless in the eddying sea; High on the fourth the fragile stern uprose, The bow drove down, and, as Another chose, Over our heads we heard the surging billows close.
"
Written by Rupert Brooke | Create an image from this poem

The Jolly Company

 The stars, a jolly company,
I envied, straying late and lonely;
And cried upon their revelry:
"O white companionship! You only
In love, in faith unbroken dwell,
Friends radiant and inseparable!"

Light-heart and glad they seemed to me
And merry comrades (EVEN SO
GOD OUT OF HEAVEN MAY LAUGH TO SEE
THE HAPPY CROWDS; AND NEVER KNOW
THAT IN HIS LONE OBSCURE DISTRESS
EACH WALKETH IN A WILDERNESS).
But I, remembering, pitied well And loved them, who, with lonely light, In empty infinite spaces dwell, Disconsolate.
For, all the night, I heard the thin gnat-voices cry, Star to faint star, across the sky.
Written by Emily Dickinson | Create an image from this poem

Wonder -- is not precisely Knowing

 Wonder -- is not precisely Knowing
And not precisely Knowing not --
A beautiful but bleak condition
He has not lived who has not felt --

Suspense -- is his maturer Sister --
Whether Adult Delight is Pain
Or of itself a new misgiving --
This is the Gnat that mangles men --
Written by Anne Kingsmill Finch | Create an image from this poem

The Lyon And The Gnat

 To the still Covert of a Wood 
About the prime of Day, 
A Lyon, satiated with Food, 
With stately Pace, and sullen Mood, 
Now took his lazy way.
To Rest he there himself compos'd, And in his Mind revolv'd, How Great a Person it enclos'd, How free from Danger he repos'd, Though now in Ease dissolv'd! Who Guard, nor Centinel did need, Despising as a Jest All whom the Forest else did feed, As Creatures of an abject Breed, Who durst not him molest.
But in the Air a Sound he heard, That gave him some dislike; At which he shook his grisly Beard, Enough to make the Woods affeard, And stretch'd his Paw to strike.
When on his lifted Nose there fell A Creature, slight of Wing, Who neither fear'd his Grin, nor Yell, Nor Strength, that in his Jaws did dwell, But gores him with her Sting.
Transported with th' Affront and Pain, He terribly exclaims, Protesting, if it comes again, Its guilty Blood the Grass shall stain.
And to surprize it aims.
The scoffing Gnat now laugh'd aloud, And bids him upwards view The Jupiter within the Cloud, That humbl'd him, who was so proud, And this sharp Thunder threw.
That Taunt no Lyon's Heart cou'd bear; And now much more he raves, Whilst this new Perseus in the Air Do's War and Strife again declare, And all his Terrour braves.
Upon his haughty Neck she rides, Then on his lashing Tail; (Which need not now provoke his Sides) Where she her slender Weapon guides, And makes all Patience fail.
A Truce at length he must propose, The Terms to be her Own; Who likewise Rest and Quiet chose, Contented now her Life to close, When she'd such Triumph known.
You mighty Men, who meaner ones despise, Learn from this Fable to become more Wise; You see the Lyon may be vext with Flies
Written by Emily Dickinson | Create an image from this poem

Who Giants know with lesser Men

 Who Giants know, with lesser Men
Are incomplete, and shy --
For Greatness, that is ill at ease
In minor Company --

A Smaller, could not be perturbed --
The Summer Gnat displays --
Unconscious that his single Fleet
Do not comprise the skies --
Written by Robert William Service | Create an image from this poem

The Worlds All Right

 Be honest, kindly, simple, true;
Seek good in all, scorn but pretence;
Whatever sorrow come to you,
Believe in Life's Beneficence!

The World's all right; serene I sit,
And cease to puzzle over it.
There's much that's mighty strange, no doubt; But Nature knows what she's about; And in a million years or so We'll know more than to-day we know.
Old Evolution's under way -- What ho! the World's all right, I say.
Could things be other than they are? All's in its place, from mote to star.
The thistledown that flits and flies Could drift no hair-breadth otherwise.
What is, must be; with rhythmic laws All Nature chimes, Effect and Cause.
The sand-grain and the sun obey -- What ho! the World's all right, I say.
Just try to get the Cosmic touch, The sense that "you" don't matter much.
A million stars are in the sky; A million planets plunge and die; A million million men are sped; A million million wait ahead.
Each plays his part and has his day -- What ho! the World's all right, I say.
Just try to get the Chemic view: A million million lives made "you".
In lives a million you will be Immortal down Eternity; Immortal on this earth to range, With never death, but ever change.
You always were, and will be aye -- What ho! the World's all right, I say.
Be glad! And do not blindly grope For Truth that lies beyond our scope: A sober plot informeth all Of Life's uproarious carnival.
Your day is such a little one, A gnat that lives from sun to sun; Yet gnat and you have parts to play -- What ho! the World's all right, I say.
And though it's written from the start, Just act your best your little part.
Just be as happy as you can, And serve your kind, and die -- a man.
Just live the good that in you lies, And seek no guerdon of the skies; Just make your Heaven here, to-day -- What ho! the World's all right, I say.
Remember! in Creation's swing The Race and not the man's the thing.
There's battle, murder, sudden death, And pestilence, with poisoned breath.
Yet quick forgotten are such woes; On, on the stream of Being flows.
Truth, Beauty, Love uphold their sway -- What ho! the World's all right, I say.
The World's all right; serene I sit, And joy that I am part of it; And put my trust in Nature's plan, And try to aid her all I can; Content to pass, if in my place I've served the uplift of the Race.
Truth! Beauty! Love! O Radiant Day -- What ho! the World's all right, I say.
Written by Eugene Field | Create an image from this poem

The three tailors

 I shall tell you in rhyme how, once on a time,
Three tailors tramped up to the inn Ingleheim,
On the Rhine, lovely Rhine;
They were broke, but the worst of it all, they were curst
With that malady common to tailors--a thirst
For wine, lots of wine.
"Sweet host," quoth the three, "we're hard up as can be, Yet skilled in the practice of cunning are we, On the Rhine, genial Rhine; And we pledge you we will impart you that skill Right quickly and fully, providing you'll fill Us with wine, cooling wine.
" But that host shook his head, and he warily said: "Though cunning be good, we take money instead, On the Rhine, thrifty Rhine; If ye fancy ye may without pelf have your way You'll find that there's both host and the devil to pay For your wine, costly wine.
" Then the first knavish wight took his needle so bright And threaded its eye with a wee ray of light From the Rhine, sunny Rhine; And, in such a deft way, patched a mirror that day That where it was mended no expert could say-- Done so fine 't was for wine.
The second thereat spied a poor little gnat Go toiling along on his nose broad and flat Towards the Rhine, pleasant Rhine; "Aha, tiny friend, I should hate to offend, But your stockings need darning"--which same did he mend, All for wine, soothing wine.
And next there occurred what you'll deem quite absurd-- His needle a space in the wall thrust the third, By the Rhine, wondrous Rhine; And then all so spry, he leapt through the eye Of that thin cambric needle--nay, think you I'd lie About wine--not for wine.
The landlord allowed (with a smile) he was proud To do the fair thing by that talented crowd On the Rhine, generous Rhine.
So a thimble filled he as full as could be-- "Drink long and drink hearty, my jolly friends three, Of my wine, filling wine.
"
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