10 Best Famous Greets Poems

Here is a collection of the top 10 all-time best famous Greets poems. This is a select list of the best famous Greets poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Greets poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of greets poems.

• All Famous Greets Poems

 There's a whisper down the line at 11.39
When the Night Mail's ready to depart,
Saying "Skimble where is Skimble has he gone to hunt the thimble?
We must find him or the train can't start."
All the guards and all the porters and the stationmaster's daughters
They are searching high and low,
Saying "Skimble where is Skimble for unless he's very nimble
Then the Night Mail just can't go."
At 11.42 then the signal's nearly due
And the passengers are frantic to a man—
Then Skimble will appear and he'll saunter to the rear:
He's been busy in the luggage van!

He gives one flash of his glass-green eyes
And the signal goes "All Clear!"
And we're off at last for the northern part
Of the Northern Hemisphere!

You may say that by and large it is Skimble who's in charge
Of the Sleeping Car Express.
From the driver and the guards to the bagmen playing cards
He will supervise them all, more or less.
Down the corridor he paces and examines all the faces
Of the travellers in the First and the Third;
He establishes control by a regular patrol
And he'd know at once if anything occurred.
He will watch you without winking and he sees what you are thinking
And it's certain that he doesn't approve
Of hilarity and riot, so the folk are very quiet
When Skimble is about and on the move.
You can play no pranks with Skimbleshanks!
He's a Cat that cannot be ignored;
So nothing goes wrong on the Northern Mail
When Skimbleshanks is aboard.

Oh, it's very pleasant when you have found your little den
With your name written up on the door.
And the berth is very neat with a newly folded sheet
And there's not a speck of dust on the floor.
There is every sort of light-you can make it dark or bright;
There's a handle that you turn to make a breeze.
There's a funny little basin you're supposed to wash your face in
And a crank to shut the window if you sneeze.
Then the guard looks in politely and will ask you very brightly
"Do you like your morning tea weak or strong?"
But Skimble's just behind him and was ready to remind him,
For Skimble won't let anything go wrong.
And when you creep into your cosy berth
And pull up the counterpane,
You ought to reflect that it's very nice
To know that you won't be bothered by mice—
You can leave all that to the Railway Cat,
The Cat of the Railway Train!

In the watches of the night he is always fresh and bright;
Every now and then he has a cup of tea
With perhaps a drop of Scotch while he's keeping on the watch,
Only stopping here and there to catch a flea.
You were fast asleep at Crewe and so you never knew
That he was walking up and down the station;
You were sleeping all the while he was busy at Carlisle,
Where he greets the stationmaster with elation.
But you saw him at Dumfries, where he speaks to the police
If there's anything they ought to know about:
When you get to Gallowgate there you do not have to wait—
For Skimbleshanks will help you to get out!
He gives you a wave of his long brown tail
Which says: "I'll see you again!
You'll meet without fail on the Midnight Mail
The Cat of the Railway Train."

 SWALLOWS travel to and fro,
And the great winds come and go,
And the steady breezes blow,
Bearing perfume, bearing love.
Breezes hasten, swallows fly,
Towered clouds forever ply,
And at noonday, you and I
See the same sunshine above.

Dew and rain fall everywhere,
Harvests ripen, flowers are fair,
And the whole round earth is bare
To the moonshine and the sun;
And the live air, fanned with wings,
Bright with breeze and sunshine, brings
Into contact distant things,
And makes all the countries one.

Let us wander where we will,
Something kindred greets us still;
Something seen on vale or hill
Falls familiar on the heart;
So, at scent or sound or sight,
Severed souls by day and night
Tremble with the same delight -
Tremble, half the world apart.

 How does Love speak? 
In the faint flush upon the tell-tale cheek, 
And in the pallor that succeeds it; by
The quivering lid of an averted eye –
The smile that proves the parent to a sigh –
Thus doth Love speak.

How does Love speak? 
By the uneven heart-throbs, and the freak
Of bounding pulses that stand still and ache, 
While new emotions, like strange barques, make
Along vein-channels their disturbing course; 
Still as the dawn, and with the dawn’s swift force –
Thus doth Love speak.

How does Love speak? 
In the avoidance of that which we seek –
The sudden silence and reserve when near –
The eye that glistens with an unshed tear –
The joy that seems the counterpart of fear, 
As the alarmed heart leaps in the breast, 
And knows, and names, the greets its god-like guest –
Thus doth Love speak.

How doth Love speak? 
In the proud spirit suddenly grown meek –
The haughty heart grown humble; in the tender
And unnamed light that floods the world with splendour, 
In the resemblance which the fond eyes trace
In all things to one beloved face; 
In the shy touch of hands that thrill and tremble; 
In looks and lips that can no more dissemble –
Thus doth Love speak.

How doth Love speak? 
In the wild words that uttered seem so weak
They shrink ashamed to silence; in the fire
Glance strikes with glance, swift flashing high and higher, 
Like lightnings that precede the mighty storm; 
In the deep, soulful stillness; in the warm, 
Impassioned tide that sweeps through throbbing veins, 
Between the shores of keen delights and pains; 
In the embrace where madness melts in bliss, 
And in convulsive rapture of a kiss –
Thus doth Love speak.

 Could I from this valley drear,
Where the mist hangs heavily,
Soar to some more blissful sphere,
Ah! how happy should I be!
Distant hills enchant my sight,
Ever young and ever fair;
To those hills I'd take my flight
Had I wings to scale the air.

Harmonies mine ear assail,
Tunes that breathe a heavenly calm;
And the gently-sighing gale
Greets me with its fragrant balm.
Peeping through the shady bowers,
Golden fruits their charms display.
And those sweetly-blooming flowers
Ne'er become cold winter's prey.

In you endless sunshine bright,
Oh! what bliss 'twould be to dwell!
How the breeze on yonder height
Must the heart with rapture swell!
Yet the stream that hems my path
Checks me with its angry frown,
While its waves, in rising wrath,
Weigh my weary spirit down.

See--a bark is drawing near,
But, alas, the pilot fails!
Enter boldly--wherefore fear?
Inspiration fills its sails,
Faith and courage make thine own,--
Gods ne'er lend a helping-hand;
'Tis by magic power alone
Thou canst reach the magic land!

 Looking upon this tree with its quaint pretension
Of holding the earth, a leveret, in its claws,
Or marking the texture of its living bark,
A grey sea wrinkled by the winds of years,
I understand whence this man's body comes,
In veins and fibres, the bare boughs of bone,
The trellised thicket, where the heart, that robin,
Greets with a song the seasons of the blood.

But where in meadow or mountain shall I match
The individual accent of the speech
That is the ear's familiar? To what sun attribute
The honeyed warmness of his smile?
To which of the deciduous brood is german
The angel peeping from the latticed eye?

 DEATH, to the dead for evermore
A King, a God, the last, the best of friends -
Whene'er this mortal journey ends
Death, like a host, comes smiling to the door;
Smiling, he greets us, on that tranquil shore
Where neither piping bird nor peeping dawn
Disturbs the eternal sleep,
But in the stillness far withdrawn
Our dreamless rest for evermore we keep.

For as from open windows forth we peep
Upon the night-time star beset
And with dews for ever wet;
So from this garish life the spirit peers;
And lo! as a sleeping city death outspread,
Where breathe the sleepers evenly; and lo!
After the loud wars, triumphs, trumpets, tears
And clamour of man's passion, Death appears,
And we must rise and go.

Soon are eyes tired with sunshine; soon the ears
Weary of utterance, seeing all is said;
Soon, racked by hopes and fears,
The all-pondering, all-contriving head,
Weary with all things, wearies of the years;
And our sad spirits turn toward the dead;
And the tired child, the body, longs for bed.

Girlhood, the dearest time of joy and love,
The sunny spring of gladness and of peace,
The time that joins its links with heaven above,
And all that's pure below; a running ease
Of careless thought beguiles the murmuring stream
Of girlish life, and as some sweet, vague dream,
The fleeting days go by; fair womanhood
Comes oft to lure the girlish feet away,
But by the brooklet still they love to stray,
Nor long to seek the world's engulfing flood.
Hilda—a name that seems to stand alone—
So strong, so clear it sharply echoing tone;
And yet a name that holds a weirdlike grace,
Withal like some strange, haunting, beauteous face;
A woman's name, by woman's truth made dear,
That leans upon itself and knows no fear,
And yet a name a shrinking girl might wear,
With girlish ease, devoid of thought and care.
And she is worthy of this name so true—
This girl with thoughtful eyes of darkest hue,
This maiden stepping o'er the golden line
That separates the child from woman divine.
Not yet she feels the longing, vague unrest
That ever fills the woman's throbbing breast,
But with a childlike questioning after truth,
She lingers yet amid the dreams of youth.
And now upon the bounding ocean's shore
She stands where creep the wavelets more and more,
Until at last the rocky ledge they meet,
And break in foam around her lingering feet.
Her eyes glance downward in a careless way,
As though she loved their soft caressing play,
And fain would stand and muse forever there,
Lulled by their murmuring sound.
                                  Placid and fair
The ocean lies before her dreamy eyes,
Stretched forth in beauty 'neath the sunny skies,
And through the clouds' far lifting, sheeny mist
She sees the pale blue skies by sunlight kissed.
Enraptured by the calm and holy scene,
She stands a creature pure and glad; serene,
Her eyes glance heavenward and a roseate shade
Plays o'er her Hebe features—perfect made.
A child of nature, she has never known
The arts and wiles which worldlier spirits own;
She loves the ocean's ever changing play,
When round her form is flung its dashing spray,
And oft she laughs in wildest, merriest glee
When folded close within its billows free.
She loves the wildwood's green and leafy maze,
Within whose foliage hide the sun's bright rays;
And like a child she hoards the bright-eyed flowers,
Companions of so many happy hours.
With loving heart she greets each form of earth,
To which God's kindly hand has given birth.
But better far than all, she loves to roam
Far on the cliff's lone height, and there at eve
To watch the dark ships as they wander home.
Strange dreams in this calm hour her fancies weave,
So quaint and odd, they seem but shadowy rays,
Caught from the sunset's deep, mysterious haze.
Lo! now she stands like some pale statue fair,
With eyes cast down and careless falling hair;
She vaguely dreams of things that are to be,
A woman's future, noble, fresh and free;
And o'er her face youth's crimson colors flow,
As with a beating heart she thinks she'll give
Her life to one true heart, and with a glow
Of pride she vows her future life to live
So good and true that all her days shall seem
But the fulfillment of his heart's proud dream.
Yet soon she trembles with some unknown thought,
A vague and restless longing fills her breast,
And with a passionate fear her mind is wrought.
She cannot case away the strange unrest;
With hands clasped close in attitude of prayer
She stands, her pleading face so young and fair,
Is turned unto the skies, but no, not here
Will God speak all unto her listening ear;
Too soon in dark, deep strife upon this shore
Her soul will yield its peace forevermore.
And then she hurries home with flying feet,
The faces of that humble home to meet;
For there in peace her dear old parents dwell,
That simple twain who love this maid so well
They fain would keep her with them ever there,
A thoughtless child, free from all grief and care.
But ah! they cannot understand the heart,
Which turns from all their loving ways apart,
And dwells within a region of its own.
Within that home she seems to stand alone,
While all unseen the forces gather, day
By day, that o'er her life shall hold their sway;
And like a fragile flower before the storm,
She bows her head and ends her slender form,
For even like the flower she must stand
And brave the tempest, for 'tis God's command.
And like to her how many a girl has stood
Upon the unknown brink of womanhood
And sought in vain from guiding hand and power;
But unlike her in that dread trial hour,
They've lost their faith, for Hilda's trusting mind,
E'en though it stood alone, had so much strength,
And faith that to life's problem she could find
Solution strange and subtle; even though at length
She might complain and grieve o'er all the wasted past.
Oh! life is dark and full of unseen care,
And better were it if all girls thus fair
And young were truly understood at last.
For every girl some time will feel the need
Of loving hearts to strengthen and to lead,
When first are opened to her wondering eyes
The world's fair fields and seeming paradise.
She only sees the beauty—hears the song,
Knows not the hidden snares, nor dreams of wrong.
'Tis woman's happiest time, and yet 'tis true
A sombre tinge may mar its brightest hue.
For girlhood too will have its doubts and fears,
Will lose the past and long for coming years,
And sad indeed when youth is left alone
To face the coming future all unknown.
The eyes see not that should be strong and keen;
While powerless, weak girlhood stands between
The tides of life, and though its aims are high,
How often will they fail!
                           Where dangers lie
Poor Hilda stands and knows it not, the dream
Of life to her is bright, youth's sunny gleam
Shines over all in tender, softened light,
And swiftly do the moments wing their flight.
But yet so sensitive her shrinking soul,
That o'er her life sometimes great shadows roll,
Like angry clouds; upon a wild dark shore
She stands, alone and weak, while more and more
The unknown forces grow and cast their blight,
Till all the past is lost in one dark night;
Unto the woman's lot her life is cast,
And like a dream the girlish days drift past.

 If the Led Striker call it a strike,
 Or the papers call it a war,
They know not much what I am like,
 Nor what he is, My Avatar.

Throuh many roads, by me possessed,
 He shambles forth in cosmic guise;
He is the Jester and the Jest,
 And he the Text himself applies.

The Celt is in his heart and hand,
 The Gaul is in his brain and nerve;
Where, cosmopolitanly planned,
 He guards the Redskin's dry reserve

His easy unswept hearth he lends
 From Labrador to Guadeloupe;
Till, elbowed out by sloven friends,
 He camps, at sufferance, on the stoop.

Calm-eyed he scoffs at Sword and Crown,
 Or, panic-blinded, stabs and slays:
Blatant he bids the world bow down,
 Or cringing begs a crust of praise;

Or, sombre-drunk, at mine and mart,
 He dubs his dreary breathren Kings.
His hands are black with blood -- his heart
 Leaps, as a babe's, at little things.

But, through the shift of mood and mood,
 Mine ancient humour saves him whole --
The cynic devil in his blood
 That bids him mock his hurrying soul;

That bids him flout the Law he makes,
 That bids him make the Law he flouts,
Till, dazed by many doubts, he wakes
 The drumming guns that -- have no doubts;

That checks him foolish-hot and fond,
 That chuckles through his deepest ire,
That gilds the slough of his despond
 But dims the goal of his desire;

Inopportune, shrill-accented,
 The acrid Asiatic mirth
That leaves him, careless 'mid his dead,
 The scandal of the elder earth.

How shall he clear himself, how reach
 Your bar or weighed defence prefer --
A brother hedged with alien speech
 And lacking all interpreter?

Which knowledge vexes him a space;
 But, while Reproof around him rings,
He turns a keen untroubled face
 Home, to the instant need of things.

Enslaved, illogical, elate,
 He greets the embarrassed Gods, nor fears
To shake the iron hand of Fate
 Or match with Destiny for beers.

Lo, imperturbable he rules,
 Unkempt, desreputable, vast --
And, in the teeth of all the schools,
 I -- I shall save him at the last!

 Even the bravest that are slain
Shall not dissemble their surprise
On waking to find valor reign,
Even as on earth, in paradise;
And where they sought without the sword
Wide fields of asphodel fore'er,
To find that the utmost reward
Of daring should be still to dare.

The light of heaven falls whole and white
And is not shattered into dyes,
The light forever is morning light;
The hills are verdured pasture-wise;
The angle hosts with freshness go,
And seek with laughter what to brave;--
And binding all is the hushed snow
Of the far-distant breaking wave.

And from a cliff-top is proclaimed
The gathering of the souls for birth,
The trial by existence named,
The obscuration upon earth.
And the slant spirits trooping by
In streams and cross- and counter-streams
Can but give ear to that sweet cry
For its suggestion of what dreams!

And the more loitering are turned
To view once more the sacrifice
Of those who for some good discerned
Will gladly give up paradise.
And a white shimmering concourse rolls
Toward the throne to witness there
The speeding of devoted souls
Which God makes his especial care.

And none are taken but who will,
Having first heard the life read out
That opens earthward, good and ill,
Beyond the shadow of a doubt;
And very beautifully God limns,
And tenderly, life's little dream,
But naught extenuates or dims,
Setting the thing that is supreme.

Nor is there wanting in the press
Some spirit to stand simply forth,
Heroic in it nakedness,
Against the uttermost of earth.
The tale of earth's unhonored things
Sounds nobler there than 'neath the sun;
And the mind whirls and the heart sings,
And a shout greets the daring one.

But always God speaks at the end:
'One thought in agony of strife
The bravest would have by for friend,
The memory that he chose the life;
But the pure fate to which you go
Admits no memory of choice,
Or the woe were not earthly woe
To which you give the assenting voice.'

And so the choice must be again,
But the last choice is still the same;
And the awe passes wonder then,
And a hush falls for all acclaim.
And God has taken a flower of gold
And broken it, and used therefrom
The mystic link to bind and hold
Spirit to matter till death come.

'Tis of the essence of life here,
Though we choose greatly, still to lack
The lasting memory at all clear,
That life has for us on the wrack
Nothing but what we somehow chose;
Thus are we wholly stipped of pride
In the pain that has but one close,
Bearing it crushed and mystified.

 BLEST be thy song, sweet NIGHTINGALE, 
Lorn minstrel of the lonely vale ! 
Where oft I've heard thy dulcet strain 
In mournful melody complain; 
When in the POPLAR'S trembling shade, 
At Evening's purple hour I've stray'd, 
While many a silken folded flow'r 
Wept on its couch of Gossamer, 
And many a time in pensive mood 
Upon the upland mead I've stood, 
To mark grey twilight's shadows glide 
Along the green hill's velvet side; 
To watch the perfum'd hand of morn 
Hang pearls upon the silver thorn, 
Till rosy day with lustrous eye 
In saffron mantle deck'd the sky, 
And bound the mountain's brow with fire, 
And ting'd with gold the village spire: 
While o'er the frosted vale below 
The amber tints began to glow: 
And oft I seek the daisied plain 
To greet the rustic nymph and swain, 
When cowslips gay their bells unfold, 
And flaunt their leaves of glitt'ring gold, 
While from the blushes of the rose 
A tide of musky essence flows, 
And o'er the odour-breathing flow'rs 
The woodlands shed their diamond show'rs, 
When from the scented hawthorn bud 
The BLACKBIRD sips the lucid flood, 
While oft the twitt'ring THRUSH essays 
To emulate the LINNET'S lays; 
While the poiz'd LARK her carol sings 
And BUTTERFLIES expand their wings, 
And BEES begin their sultry toils 
And load their limbs with luscious spoils, 
I stroll along the pathless vale, 
And smile, and bless thy soothing tale. 

But ah ! when hoary winter chills 
The plumy race­and wraps the hills 
In snowy vest, I tell my pains 
Beside the brook in icy chains 
Bound its weedy banks between, 
While sad I watch night's pensive queen, 
Just emblem of MY weary woes: 
For ah ! where'er the virgin goes, 
Each flow'ret greets her with a tear 
To sympathetic sorrow dear; 
And when in black obtrusive clouds 
The chilly MOON her pale cheek shrouds, 
I mark the twinkling starry train 
Exulting glitter in her wane, 
And proudly gleam their borrow'd light 
To gem the sombre dome of night. 
Then o'er the meadows cold and bleak, 
The glow-worm's glimm'ring lamp I seek. 
Or climb the craggy cliff to gaze 
On some bright planet's azure blaze, 
And o'er the dizzy height inclin'd 
I listen to the passing wind, 
That loves my mournful song to seize, 
And bears it to the mountain breeze. 
Or where the sparry caves among 
Dull ECHO sits with aëry tongue, 
Or gliding on the ZEPHYR'S wings 
From hill to hill her cadence flings, 
O, then my melancholy tale 
Dies on the bosom of the gale, 
While awful stillness reigning round 
Blanches my cheek with chilling fear; 
Till from the bushy dell profound, 
The woodman's song salutes mine ear. 

When dark NOVEMBER'S boist'rous breath 
Sweeps the blue hill and desart heath, 
When naked trees their white tops wave 
O'er many a famish'd REDBREAST'S grave, 
When many a clay-built cot lays low 
Beneath the growing hills of snow, 
Soon as the SHEPHERD's silv'ry head 
Peeps from his tottering straw-roof'd shed, 
To hail the glimm'ring glimpse of day, 
With feeble steps he ventures forth 
Chill'd by the bleak breath of the North, 
And to the forest bends his way, 
To gather from the frozen ground 
Each branch the night-blast scatter'd round.­ 
If in some bush o'erspread with snow 
He hears thy moaning wail of woe, 
A flush of warmth his cheek o'erspreads, 
With anxious timid care he treads, 
And when his cautious hands infold 
Thy little breast benumb'd with cold, 
"Come, plaintive fugitive," he cries, 
While PITY dims his aged eyes, 
"Come to my glowing heart, and share 
"My narrow cell, my humble fare, 
"Tune thy sweet carol­plume thy wing, 
"And quaff with me the limpid spring, 
"And peck the crumbs my meals supply, 
"And round my rushy pillow fly." 

O, MINSTREL SWEET, whose jocund lay 
Can make e'en POVERTY look gay, 
Who can the poorest swain inspire 
And while he fans his scanty fire, 
When o'er the plain rough Winter pours 
Nocturnal blasts, and whelming show'rs, 
Canst thro' his little mansion fling 
The rapt'rous melodies of spring. 
To THEE with eager gaze I turn, 
Blest solace of the aching breast; 
Each gaudy, glitt'ring scene I spurn, 
And sigh for solitude and rest, 
For art thou not, blest warbler, say, 
My mind's best balm, my bosom's friend ? 
Didst thou not trill thy softest lay, 
And with thy woes my sorrows blend ? 
YES, darling Songstress ! when of late 
I sought thy leafy-fringed bow'r, 
The victim of relentless fate, 
Fading in life's dark ling'ring hour, 
Thou heard'st my plaint, and pour'd thy strain 
Thro' the sad mansion of my breast, 
And softly, sweetly lull'd to rest 
The throbbing anguish of my brain. 

AH ! while I tread this vale of woe, 
Still may thy downy measures flow, 
To wing my solitary hours 
With kind, obliterating pow'rs; 
And tho' my pensive, patient heart 
No wild, extatic bliss shall prove, 
Tho' life no raptures shall impart, 
No boundless joy, or, madd'ning love, 
Sweet NIGHTINGALE, thy lenient strain 
Shall mock Despair, AND BLUNT THE SHAFT OF PAIN.