10 Best Famous Grinders Poems

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

• All Famous Grinders Poems

 The need to love that all the stars obey
Entered my heart and banished all beside.
Bare were the gardens where I used to stray;
Faded the flowers that one time satisfied.

Before the beauty of the west on fire,
The moonlit hills from cloister-casements viewed
Cloud-like arose the image of desire,
And cast out peace and maddened solitude.

I sought the City and the hopes it held:
With smoke and brooding vapors intercurled,
As the thick roofs and walls close-paralleled
Shut out the fair horizons of the world---

A truant from the fields and rustic joy,
In my changed thought that image even so
Shut out the gods I worshipped as a boy
And all the pure delights I used to know.

Often the veil has trembled at some tide
Of lovely reminiscence and revealed
How much of beauty Nature holds beside
Sweet lips that sacrifice and arms that yield:

Clouds, window-framed, beyond the huddled eaves
When summer cumulates their golden chains,
Or from the parks the smell of burning leaves,
Fragrant of childhood in the country lanes,

An organ-grinder's melancholy tune
In rainy streets, or from an attic sill
The blue skies of a windy afternoon
Where our kites climbed once from some grassy hill:

And my soul once more would be wrapped entire
In the pure peace and blessing of those years.
Before the fierce infection of Desire
Had ravaged all the flesh. Through starting tears

Shone that lost Paradise; but, if it did,
Again ere long the prison-shades would fall
That Youth condemns itself to walk amid,
So narrow, but so beautiful withal.

And I have followed Fame with less devotion,
And kept no real ambition but to see
Rise from the foam of Nature's sunlit ocean
My dream of palpable divinity;

And aught the world contends for to mine eye
Seemed not so real a meaning of success
As only once to clasp before I die
My vision of embodied happiness.

 "'As anybody seen Bill 'Awkins?"
 "Now 'ow in the devil would I know?"
"'E's taken my girl out walkin',
 An' I've got to tell 'im so --
 Gawd -- bless 'im!
 I've got to tell 'im so."

"D'yer know what 'e's like, Bill 'Awkins?"
 "Now what in the devil would I care?"
"'E's the livin', breathin' image of an organ-grinder's monkey,
 With a pound of grease in 'is 'air --
 Gawd -- bless 'im!
 An' a pound o' grease in 'is 'air."

"An' s'pose you met Bill 'Awkins,
 Now what in the devil 'ud ye do?"
"I'd open 'is cheek to 'is chin-strap buckle,
 An' bung up 'is both eyes, too --
 Gawd -- bless 'im!
 An bung up 'is both eyes, too!"

"Look 'ere, where 'e comes, Bill 'Awkins!
 Now, what in the devil will you say?"
"It isn't fit an' proper to be fightin' on a Sunday,
 So I'll pass 'im the time o' day --
 Gawd -- bless 'im!
 I'll pass 'im the time o' day!"

 I bought every kind of machine that's known --
Grinders, shellers, planters, mowers,
Mills and rakes and ploughs and threshers --
And all of them stood in the rain and sun,
Getting rusted, warped and battered,
For I had no sheds to store them in,
And no use for most of them.
And toward the last, when I thought it over,
There by my window, growing clearer
About myself, as my pulse slowed down,
And looked at one of the mills I bought --
Which I didn't have the slightest need of,
As things turned out, and I never ran --
A fine machine, once brightly varnished,
And eager to do its work,
Now with its paint washed off --
I saw myself as a good machine
That Life had never used.

 O little mouse, why dost thou cry 
While merry stars laugh in the sky? 


Alas! alas! my lord is dead! 
Ah, who will ease my bitter pain? 
He went to seek a millet-grain 
In the rich farmer's granary shed; 
They caught him in a baited snare, 
And slew my lover unaware: 
Alas! alas! my lord is dead.


O little deer, why dost thou moan, 
Hid in thy forest-bower alone?


Alas! alas! my lord is dead! 
Ah! who will quiet my lament?


At fall of eventide he went 
To drink beside the river-head; 
A waiting hunter threw his dart, 
And struck my lover through the heart. 
Alas! alas! my lord is dead.


O little bride, why dost thou weep 
With all the happy world asleep? 


Alas! alas! my lord is dead! 
Ah, who will stay these hungry tears, 
Or still the want of famished years, 
And crown with love my marriage-bed? 
My soul burns with the quenchless fire 
That lit my lover's funeral pyre: 
Alas! alas! my lord is dead.

 I RISE out of my depths with my language.
You rise out of your depths with your language.

Two tongues from the depths,
Alike only as a yellow cat and a green parrot are alike,
Fling their staccato tantalizations
Into a wildcat jabber
Over a gossamer web of unanswerables.

The second and the third silence,
Even the hundredth silence,
Is better than no silence at all
(Maybe this is a jabber too—are we at it again, you and I?)

I rise out of my depths with my language.
You rise out of your depths with your language.

One thing there is much of; the name men call it by is time; into this gulf our syllabic pronunciamentos empty by the way rockets of fire curve and are gone on the night sky; into this gulf the jabberings go as the shower at a scissors grinder’s wheel…

 Be my mistress short or tall 
And distorted therewithall 
Be she likewise one of those 
That an acre hath of nose 
Be her teeth ill hung or set 
And her grinders black as jet 
Be her cheeks so shallow too 
As to show her tongue wag through 
Hath she thin hair, hath she none 
She's to me a paragon.