Get Your Premium Membership

Best Famous Guessed Poems

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

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

See Also:
Written by Carol Ann Duffy | Create an image from this poem

Talent

 This is the word tightrope.
Now imagine a man, inching across it in the space between our thoughts.
He holds our breath.
There is no word net.
You want him to fall, don't you? I guessed as much; he teeters but succeeds.
The word applause is written all over him.


Written by G K Chesterton | Create an image from this poem

The Skeleton

 Chattering finch and water-fly 
Are not merrier than I; 
Here among the flowers I lie 
Laughing everlastingly.
No; I may not tell the best; Surely, friends, I might have guessed Death was but the good King's jest, It was hid so carefully.
Written by Charles Baudelaire | Create an image from this poem

The Ghost

 Down the street as I was drifting with the city's human tide, 
Came a ghost, and for a moment walked in silence by my side -- 
Now my heart was hard and bitter, and a bitter spirit he, 
So I felt no great aversion to his ghostly company.
Said the Shade: `At finer feelings let your lip in scorn be curled, `Self and Pelf', my friend, has ever been the motto for the world.
' And he said: `If you'd be happy, you must clip your fancy's wings, Stretch your conscience at the edges to the size of earthly things; Never fight another's battle, for a friend can never know When he'll gladly fly for succour to the bosom of the foe.
At the power of truth and friendship let your lip in scorn be curled -- `Self and Pelf', my friend, remember, is the motto of the world.
`Where Society is mighty, always truckle to her rule; Never send an `i' undotted to the teacher of a school; Only fight a wrong or falsehood when the crowd is at your back, And, till Charity repay you, shut the purse, and let her pack; At the fools who would do other let your lip in scorn be curled, `Self and Pelf', my friend, remember, that's the motto of the world.
`Ne'er assail the shaky ladders Fame has from her niches hung, Lest unfriendly heels above you grind your fingers from the rung; Or the fools who idle under, envious of your fair renown, Heedless of the pain you suffer, do their worst to shake you down.
At the praise of men, or censure, let your lip in scorn be curled, `Self and Pelf', my friend, remember, is the motto of the world.
`Flowing founts of inspiration leave their sources parched and dry, Scalding tears of indignation sear the hearts that beat too high; Chilly waters thrown upon it drown the fire that's in the bard; And the banter of the critic hurts his heart till it grows hard.
At the fame your muse may offer let your lip in scorn be curled, `Self and Pelf', my friend, remember, that's the motto of the world.
`Shun the fields of love, where lightly, to a low and mocking tune, Strong and useful lives are ruined, and the broken hearts are strewn.
Not a farthing is the value of the honest love you hold; Call it lust, and make it serve you! Set your heart on nought but gold.
At the bliss of purer passions let your lip in scorn be curled -- `Self and Pelf', my friend, shall ever be the motto of the world.
' Then he ceased and looked intently in my face, and nearer drew; But a sudden deep repugnance to his presence thrilled me through; Then I saw his face was cruel, by the look that o'er it stole, Then I felt his breath was poison, by the shuddering of my soul, Then I guessed his purpose evil, by his lip in sneering curled, And I knew he slandered mankind, by my knowledge of the world.
But he vanished as a purer brighter presence gained my side -- `Heed him not! there's truth and friendship in this wondrous world,' she cried, And of those who cleave to virtue in their climbing for renown, Only they who faint or falter from the height are shaken down.
At a cynic's baneful teaching let your lip in scorn be curled! `Brotherhood and Love and Honour!' is the motto for the world.
'
Written by Anne Kingsmill Finch | Create an image from this poem

Adam Posed

Could our first father, at his toilsome plow,
Thorns in his path, and labor on his brow,
Clothed only in a rude, unpolished skin,
Could he a vain fantastic nymph have seen,
In all her airs, in all her antic graces,
Her various fashions, and more various faces;
How had it posed that skill, which late assigned
Just appellations to each several kind!
A right idea of the sight to frame;
T'have guessed from what new element she came;
T'have hit the wav'ring form, or giv'n this thing a name.
Written by Sir John Suckling | Create an image from this poem

A Ballad upon a Wedding

 I tell thee, Dick, where I have been, 
Where I the rarest things have seen, 
O, things without compare! 
Such sights again cannot be found 
In any place on English ground, 
Be it at wake or fair.
At Charing Cross, hard by the way Where we, thou know'st, do sell our hay, There is a house with stairs; And there did I see coming down Such folks as are not in our town, Forty at least, in pairs.
Amongst the rest, one pest'lent fine (His beard no bigger, though, than thine) Walked on before the rest: Our landlord looks like nothing to him; The King (God bless him!) 'twould undo him, Should he go still so dressed.
At course-a-park, without all doubt, He should have first been taken out By all the maids i' th' town: Though lusty Roger there had been, Or little George upon the Green, Or Vincent of the Crown.
But wot you what? the youth was going To make an end of all his wooing; The Parson for him stayed.
Yet, by his leave, for all his haste, He did not so much wish all past, Perchance, as did the maid.
The maid (and thereby hangs a tale), For such a maid no Whitsun-ale Could ever yet produce; No grape that's kindly ripe could be So round, so plump, so soft, as she, Nor half so full of juice! Her finger was so small the ring Would not stay on, which they did bring; It was too wide a peck: And to say truth (for out it must), It looked like a great collar (just) About our young colt's neck.
Her feet beneath her petticoat, Like little mice, stole in and out, As if they feared the light: But oh! she dances such a way, No sun upon an Easter Day Is half so fine a sight! He would have kissed her once or twice, But she would not, she was so nice, She would not do 't in sight: And then she looked as who should say "I will do what I list today, And you shall do 't at night.
" Her cheeks so rare a white was on, No daisy makes comparison, (Who sees them is undone), For streaks of red were mingled there, Such as are on a Catherine pear, (The side that's next the sun).
Her lips were red, and one was thin Compared to that was next her chin, - (Some bee had stung it newly); But, Dick, her eyes so guard her face, I durst no more upon them gaze Than on the sun in July.
Her mouth so small, when she does speak Thou'dst swear her teeth her words did break, That they might passage get; But she so handled still the matter, They came as good as ours, or better, And are not spent a whit.
If wishing should be any sin, The Parson himself had guilty been, (She looked that day so purely); And, did the youth so oft the feat At night, as some did in conceit, It would have spoiled him surely.
Just in the nick, the cook knocked thrice, And all the waiters in a trice His summons did obey.
Each servingman, with dish in hand, Marched boldly up, like our trained band, Presented, and away.
When all the meat was on the table, What man of knife or teeth was able To stay to be entreated? And this the very reason was, Before the parson could say grace, The company was seated.
The business of the kitchen's great, For it is fit that man should eat; Nor was it there denied.
Passion o' me, how I run on! There's that that would be thought upon, I trow, besides the bride.
Now hats fly off, and youths carouse, Healths first go round, and then the house: The bride's came thick and thick; And when 'twas named another's health, Perhaps he made it hers by stealth.
And who could help it, Dick? O' th' sudden, up they rise and dance; Then sit again and sigh and glance; Then dance again and kiss.
Thus several ways the time did pass, Whilst every woman wished her place, And every man wished his! By this time all were stolen aside To counsel and undress the bride; But that he must not know; And yet 'twas thought he guessed her mind, And did not mean to stay behind Above an hour or so.
When in he came, Dick, there she lay Like new-fallen snow melting away ('Twas time, I trow, to part).
Kisses were now the only stay, Which soon she gave, as one would say, "God-be-with-ye, with all my heart.
" But, just as Heavens would have, to cross it, In came the bridesmaids with the posset: The bridegroom ate in spite; For, had he left the women to 't, It would have cost two hours to do 't, Which were too much that night.
At length the candle's out, and now All that they had not done they do; What that is, who can tell? But I believe it was no more Than thou and I have done before With Bridget and with Nell.


Written by Edward Estlin (E E) Cummings | Create an image from this poem

Anyone Lived In A Pretty How Town

anyone lived in a pretty how town
(with up so floating many bells down)
spring summer autumn winter
he sang his didn't he danced his did

Women and men(both little and samll)
cared for anyone not at all
they sowed their isn't they reaped their
same
sun moon stars rain

children guessed(but only a few
and down they forgot as up they grew
autumn winter spring summer)
that noone loved him more by more

when by now and tree by leaf
she laughed his joy she cried his grief
bird by snow and stir by still
anyone's any was all to her

someones married their everyones
laughed their cryings and did their dance
(sleep wake hope and then)they
said their nevers they slept their dream

stars rain sun moon
(and only the snow can begin to explain
how children are apt to forget to remember
with up so floating many bells down)

one day anyone died i guess
(and noone stooped to kiss his face)
busy folk buried them side by side
little by little and was by was

all by all and deep by deep
and more by moe they dream their sleep
noone and anyone earth by april

wish by spirit and if by yes

Women and men(both dong and ding)
summer sutumn winter spring
reaped their sowing and went their came
sun moon stars rain
Written by Linda Pastan | Create an image from this poem

The Happiest Day

 It was early May, I think
a moment of lilac or dogwood
when so many promises are made
it hardly matters if a few are broken.
My mother and father still hovered in the background, part of the scenery like the houses I had grown up in, and if they would be torn down later that was something I knew but didn't believe.
Our children were asleep or playing, the youngest as new as the new smell of the lilacs, and how could I have guessed their roots were shallow and would be easily transplanted.
I didn't even guess that I was happy.
The small irritations that are like salt on melon were what I dwelt on, though in truth they simply made the fruit taste sweeter.
So we sat on the porch in the cool morning, sipping hot coffee.
Behind the news of the day-- strikes and small wars, a fire somewhere-- I could see the top of your dark head and thought not of public conflagrations but of how it would feel on my bare shoulder.
If someone could stop the camera then.
.
.
if someone could only stop the camera and ask me: are you happy? perhaps I would have noticed how the morning shone in the reflected color of lilac.
Yes, I might have said and offered a steaming cup of coffee.
Written by Maggie Estep | Create an image from this poem

Sex Goddess

 I am THE SEX GODDESS OF THE WESTERN HEMISPHERE 
so don't mess with me 
I've got a big bag full of SEX TOYS 
and you can't have any
'cause they're all mine
'cause I'm
the SEX GODDESS OF THE WESTERN HEMISPHERE.
"Hey," you may say to yourself, "who the hell's she tryin' to kid, she's no sex goddess," But trust me, I am if only for the fact that I have the unabashed gall to call myself a SEX GODDESS, I mean, after all, it's what so many of us have at some point thought, we've all had someone who worshipped our filthy socks and barked like a dog when we were near giving us cause to pause and think: You know, I may not look like much but deep inside, I am a SEX GODDESS.
Only we'd never come out and admit it publicly well, you wouldn't admit it publicly but I will because I am THE SEX GODDESS OF THE WESTERN HEMISPHERE.
I haven't always been a SEX GODDESS I used to be just a mere mortal woman but I grew tired of sexuality being repressed then manifest in late night 900 number ads where 3 bodacious bimbettes heave cleavage into the camera's winking lens and sigh: "Big Girls oooh, Bad Girls oooh, Blonde Girls oooh, you know what to do, call 1-900-UNMITIGATED BIMBO ooooh.
" Yeah I got fed up with the oooh oooh oooh oooh oooh I got fed up with it all so I put on my combat boots and hit the road with my bag full of SEX TOYS that were a vital part of my SEX GODDESS image even though I would never actually use my SEX TOYS 'cause my being a SEX GODDESS it isn't a SEXUAL thing it's a POLITICAL thing I don't actually have SEX, no I'm too busy taking care of important SEX GODDESS BUSINESS, yeah, I gotta go on The Charlie Rose Show and MTV and become a parody of myself and make buckets full of money off my own inane brand of self-righteous POP PSYCHOLOGY because my pain is different because I am a SEX GODDESS and when I talk, people listen why ? Because, you guessed it, I AM THE SEX GODDESS OF THE WESTERN HEMISPHERE and you're not.
Written by Eugene Field | Create an image from this poem

The dolls wooing

 The little French doll was a dear little doll
Tricked out in the sweetest of dresses;
Her eyes were of hue
A most delicate blue
And dark as the night were her tresses;
Her dear little mouth was fluted and red,
And this little French doll was so very well bred
That whenever accosted her little mouth said
"Mamma! mamma!"

The stockinet doll, with one arm and one leg,
Had once been a handsome young fellow;
But now he appeared
Rather frowzy and bleared
In his torn regimentals of yellow;
Yet his heart gave a curious thump as he lay
In the little toy cart near the window one day
And heard the sweet voice of that French dolly say:
"Mamma! mamma!"

He listened so long and he listened so hard
That anon he grew ever so tender,
For it's everywhere known
That the feminine tone
Gets away with all masculine gender!
He up and he wooed her with soldierly zest
But all she'd reply to the love he professed
Were these plaintive words (which perhaps you have guessed):
"Mamma! mamma!"

Her mother - a sweet little lady of five -
Vouchsafed her parental protection,
And although stockinet
Wasn't blue-blooded, yet
She really could make no objection!
So soldier and dolly were wedded one day,
And a moment ago, as I journeyed that way,
I'm sure that I heard a wee baby voice say:
"Mamma! mamma!"
Written by Robert Frost | Create an image from this poem

A Patch of Old Snow

 There's a patch of old snow in a corner
That I should have guessed
Was a blow-away paper the rain
Had brought to rest.
It is speckled with grime as if Small print overspread it, The news of a day I've forgotten-- If I ever read it.

Book: Reflection on the Important Things