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Best Famous Hamilton Poems

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

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Written by Charles Simic | Create an image from this poem

White

 A New Version: 1980

 What is that little black thing I see there
 in the white?
 Walt Whitman


One

Out of poverty
To begin again: 

With the color of the bride
And that of blindness,

Touch what I can
Of the quick,

Speak and then wait,
As if this light

Will continue to linger
On the threshold.
All that is near, I no longer give it a name.
Once a stone hard of hearing, Once sharpened into a knife.
.
.
Now only a chill Slipping through.
Enough glow to kneel by and ask To be tied to its tail When it goes marrying Its cousins, the stars.
Is it a cloud? If it's a cloud it will move on.
The true shape of this thought, Migrant, waning.
Something seeks someone, It bears him a gift Of himself, a bit Of snow to taste, Glimpse of his own nakedness By which to imagine the face.
On a late afternoon of snow In a dim badly-aired grocery, Where a door has just rung With a short, shrill echo, A little boy hands the old, Hard-faced woman Bending low over the counter, A shiny nickel for a cupcake.
Now only that shine, now Only that lull abides.
That your gaze Be merciful, Sister, bride Of my first hopeless insomnia.
Kind nurse, show me The place of salves.
Teach me the song That makes a man rise His glass at dusk Until a star dances in it.
Who are you? Are you anybody A moonrock would recognize? There are words I need.
They are not near men.
I went searching.
Is this a deathmarch? You bend me, bend me, Oh toward what flower! Little-known vowel, Noose big for us all.
As strange as a shepherd In the Arctic Circle.
Someone like Bo-peep.
All his sheep are white And he can't get any sleep Over lost sheep.
And he's got a flute Which says Bo-peep, Which says Poor boy, Take care of your snow-sheep.
to A.
S.
Hamilton Then all's well and white, And no more than white.
Illinois snowbound.
Indiana with one bare tree.
Michigan a storm-cloud.
Wisconsin empty of men.
There's a trap on the ice Laid there centuries ago.
The bait is still fresh.
The metal glitters as the night descends.
Woe, woe, it sings from the bough.
Our Lady, etc.
.
.
You had me hoodwinked.
I see your brand new claws.
Praying, what do I betray By desiring your purity? There are old men and women, All bandaged up, waiting At the spiked, wrought-iron gate Of the Great Eye and Ear Infirmery.
We haven't gone far.
.
.
Fear lives there too.
Five ears of my fingertips Against the white page.
What do you hear? We hear holy nothing Blindfolding itself.
It touched you once, twice, And tore like a stitch Out of a new wound.
Two What are you up to son of a gun? I roast on my heart's dark side.
What do you use as a skewer sweetheart? I use my own crooked backbone.
What do you salt yourself with loverboy? I grind the words out of my spittle.
And how will you know when you're done chump? When the half-moons on my fingernails set.
With what knife will you carve yourself smartass? The one I hide in my tongue's black boot.
Well, you can't call me a wrestler If my own dead weight has me pinned down.
Well, you can't call me a cook If the pot's got me under its cover.
Well, you can't call me a king if the flies hang their hats in my mouth.
Well, you can't call me smart, When the rain's falling my cup's in the cupboard.
Nor can you call me a saint, If I didn't err, there wouldn't be these smudges.
One has to manage as best as one can.
The poppies ate the sunset for supper.
One has to manage as best as one can.
Who stole my blue thread, the one I tied around my pinky to remember? One has to manage as best as one can.
The flea I was standing on, jumped.
One has to manage as best as one can.
I think my head went out for a walk.
One has to manage as best as one can.
This is breath, only breath, Think it over midnight! A fly weighs twice as much.
The struck match nods as it passes, But when I shout, Its true name sticks in my throat.
It has to be cold So the breath turns white, And then mother, who's fast enough To write his life on it? A song in prison And for prisoners, Made of what the condemned Have hidden from the jailers.
White--let me step aside So that the future may see you, For when this sheet is blown away, What else is left But to set the food on the table, To cut oneself a slice of bread? In an unknown year Of an algebraic century, An obscure widow Wrapped in the colors of widowhood, Met a true-blue orphan On an indeterminate street-corner.
She offered him A tiny sugar cube In the hand so wizened All the lines said: fate.
Do you take this line Stretching to infinity? I take this chipped tooth On which to cut it in half.
Do you take this circle Bounded by a single curved line? I take this breath That it cannot capture.
Then you may kiss the spot Where her bridal train last rustled.
Winter can come now, The earth narrow to a ditch-- And the sky with its castles and stone lions Above the empty plains.
The snow can fall.
.
.
What other perennials would you plant, My prodigals, my explorers Tossing and turning in the dark For those remote, finely honed bees, The December stars? Had to get through me elsewhere.
Woe to bone That stood in their way.
Woe to each morsel of flesh.
White ants In a white anthill.
The rustle of their many feet Scurrying--tiptoing too.
Gravedigger ants.
Village-idiot ants.
This is the last summoning.
Solitude--as in the beginning.
A zero burped by a bigger zero-- It's an awful licking I got.
And fear--that dead letter office.
And doubt--that Chinese shadow play.
Does anyone still say a prayer Before going to bed? White sleeplessness.
No one knows its weight.
What The White Had To Say For how could anything white be distinct from or divided from whiteness? Meister Eckhart Because I am the bullet That has gone through everyone already, I thought of you long before you thought of me.
Each one of you still keeps a blood-stained handkerchief In which to swaddle me, but it stays empty And even the wind won't remain in it long.
Cleverly you've invented name after name for me, Mixed the riddles, garbled the proverbs, Shook you loaded dice in a tin cup, But I do not answer back even to your curses, For I am nearer to you than your breath.
One sun shines on us both through a crack in the roof.
A spoon brings me through the window at dawn.
A plate shows me off to the four walls While with my tail I swing at the flies.
But there's no tail and the flies are your thoughts.
Steadily, patiently I life your arms.
I arrange them in the posture of someone drowning, And yet the sea in which you are sinking, And even this night above it, is myself.
Because I am the bullet That has baptized each one of your senses, Poems are made of our lusty wedding nights.
.
.
The joy of words as they are written.
The ear that got up at four in the morning To hear the grass grow inside a word.
Still, the most beautiful riddle has no answer.
I am the emptiness that tucks you in like a mockingbird's nest, The fingernail that scratched on your sleep's blackboard.
Take a letter: From cloud to onion.
Say: There was never any real choice.
One gaunt shadowy mother wiped our asses, The same old orphanage taught us loneliness.
Street-organ full of blue notes, I am the monkey dancing to your grinding-- And still you are afraid-and so, It's as if we had not budged from the beginning.
Time slopes.
We are falling head over heels At the speed of night.
That milk tooth You left under the pillow, it's grinning.
1970-1980 This currently out-of-print edition: Copyright ©1980 Logbridge-Rhodes, Inc.
An earlier version of White was first published by New Rivers Press in 1972.


Written by William Topaz McGonagall | Create an image from this poem

The Death of Lord and Lady Dalhousie

 Alas! Lord and Lady Dalhousie are dead, and buried at last,
Which causes many people to feel a little downcast;
And both lie side by side in one grave,
But I hope God in His goodness their souls will save.
And may He protect their children that are left behind, And may they always food and raiment find; And from the paths of virtue may they ne'er be led, And may they always find a house wherein to lay their head.
Lord Dalhousie was a man worthy of all praise, And to his memory I hope a monument the people will raise, That will stand for many ages to came To commemorate the good deeds he has done.
He was beloved by men of high and low degree, Especially in Forfarshire by his tenantry: And by many of the inhabitants in and around Dundee, Because he was affable in temper.
and void of all vanity.
He had great affection for his children, also his wife, 'Tis said he loved her as dear as his life; And I trust they are now in heaven above, Where all is joy, peace, and love.
At the age of fourteen he resolved to go to sea, So he entered the training ship Britannia belonging the navy, And entered as a midshipman as he considered most fit Then passed through the course of training with the greatest credit.
In a short time he obtained the rank of lieutenant, Then to her Majesty's ship Galatea he was sent; Which was under the command of the Duke of Edinburgh, And during his service there he felt but little sorrow.
And from that he was promoted to be commander of the Britannia, And was well liked by the men, for what he said was law; And by him Prince Albert Victor and Prince George received a naval education.
Which met with the Prince of Wales' roost hearty approbation.
'Twas in the year 1877 he married the Lady Ada Louisa Bennett, And by marrying that noble lady he ne'er did regret; And he was ever ready to give his service in any way, Most willingly and cheerfully by night or by day.
'Twas in the year of 1887, and on Thursday the 1st of December, Which his relatives and friends will long remember That were present at the funeral in Cockpen, churchyard, Because they had for the noble Lord a great regard.
About eleven o'clock the remains reached Dalhousie, And were met by a body of the tenantry.
They conveyed them inside the building allseemingly woe begone And among those that sent wreaths was Lord Claude Hamilton.
Those that sent wreaths were but very few, But one in particular was the Duke of Buccleuch; Besides Dr.
Herbert Spencer, and Countess Rosebery, and Lady Bennett, Which no doubt were sent by them with heartfelt regret.
Besides those that sent wreaths in addition were the Earl and Countess of Aberdeen, Especially the Prince of Wales' was most lovely to be seen, And the Earl of Dalkeith's wreath was very pretty too, With a mixture of green and white flowers, beautiful to view.
Amongst those present at the interment were Mr Marjoribanks, M.
P.
, Also ex-Provost Ballingall from Bonnie Dundee; Besides the Honourable W.
G.
Colville, representing the Duke and Duchess of Edinburgh, While in every one's face standing at the grave was depicted sorrow.
The funeral service was conducted in the Church of Cockpen By the Rev.
J.
Crabb, of St.
Andrew's Episcopal Church, town of Brechin; And as the two coffins were lowered into their last resting place, Then the people retired with sad hearts at a quick pace.
Written by Robert Burns | Create an image from this poem

128. The Farewell

 FAREWELL, old Scotia’s bleak domains,
Far dearer than the torrid plains,
 Where rich ananas blow!
Farewell, a mother’s blessing dear!
A borther’s sigh! a sister’s tear!
 My Jean’s heart-rending throe!
Farewell, my Bess! tho’ thou’rt bereft
 Of my paternal care.
A faithful brother I have left, My part in him thou’lt share! Adieu, too, to you too, My Smith, my bosom frien’; When kindly you mind me, O then befriend my Jean! What bursting anguish tears my heart; From thee, my Jeany, must I part! Thou, weeping, answ’rest—“No!” Alas! misfortune stares my face, And points to ruin and disgrace, I for thy sake must go! Thee, Hamilton, and Aiken dear, A grateful, warm adieu: I, with a much-indebted tear, Shall still remember you! All hail then, the gale then, Wafts me from thee, dear shore! It rustles, and whistles I’ll never see thee more!
Written by Robert Burns | Create an image from this poem

113. A Dedication to Gavin Hamilton Esq

 EXPECT na, sir, in this narration,
A fleechin, fleth’rin Dedication,
To roose you up, an’ ca’ you guid,
An’ sprung o’ great an’ noble bluid,
Because ye’re surnam’d like His Grace—
Perhaps related to the race:
Then, when I’m tir’d-and sae are ye,
Wi’ mony a fulsome, sinfu’ lie,
Set up a face how I stop short,
For fear your modesty be hurt.
This may do—maun do, sir, wi’ them wha Maun please the great folk for a wamefou; For me! sae laigh I need na bow, For, Lord be thankit, I can plough; And when I downa yoke a naig, Then, Lord be thankit, I can beg; Sae I shall say—an’ that’s nae flatt’rin— It’s just sic Poet an’ sic Patron.
The Poet, some guid angel help him, Or else, I fear, some ill ane skelp him! He may do weel for a’ he’s done yet, But only—he’s no just begun yet.
The Patron (sir, ye maun forgie me; I winna lie, come what will o’ me), On ev’ry hand it will allow’d be, He’s just—nae better than he should be.
I readily and freely grant, He downa see a poor man want; What’s no his ain, he winna tak it; What ance he says, he winna break it; Ought he can lend he’ll no refus’t, Till aft his guidness is abus’d; And rascals whiles that do him wrang, Ev’n that, he does na mind it lang; As master, landlord, husband, father, He does na fail his part in either.
But then, nae thanks to him for a’that; Nae godly symptom ye can ca’ that; It’s naething but a milder feature Of our poor, sinfu’ corrupt nature: Ye’ll get the best o’ moral works, ’Mang black Gentoos, and pagan Turks, Or hunters wild on Ponotaxi, Wha never heard of orthodoxy.
That he’s the poor man’s friend in need, The gentleman in word and deed, It’s no thro’ terror of damnation; It’s just a carnal inclination.
Morality, thou deadly bane, Thy tens o’ thousands thou hast slain! Vain is his hope, whase stay an’ trust is In moral mercy, truth, and justice! No—stretch a point to catch a plack: Abuse a brother to his back; Steal through the winnock frae a whore, But point the rake that taks the door; Be to the poor like ony whunstane, And haud their noses to the grunstane; Ply ev’ry art o’ legal thieving; No matter—stick to sound believing.
Learn three-mile pray’rs, an’ half-mile graces, Wi’ weel-spread looves, an’ lang, wry faces; Grunt up a solemn, lengthen’d groan, And damn a’ parties but your own; I’ll warrant they ye’re nae deceiver, A steady, sturdy, staunch believer.
O ye wha leave the springs o’ Calvin, For gumlie dubs of your ain delvin! Ye sons of Heresy and Error, Ye’ll some day squeel in quaking terror, When Vengeance draws the sword in wrath.
And in the fire throws the sheath; When Ruin, with his sweeping besom, Just frets till Heav’n commission gies him; While o’er the harp pale Misery moans, And strikes the ever-deep’ning tones, Still louder shrieks, and heavier groans! Your pardon, sir, for this digression: I maist forgat my Dedication; But when divinity comes ’cross me, My readers still are sure to lose me.
So, sir, you see ’twas nae daft vapour; But I maturely thought it proper, When a’ my works I did review, To dedicate them, sir, to you: Because (ye need na tak it ill), I thought them something like yoursel’.
Then patronize them wi’ your favor, And your petitioner shall ever—— I had amaist said, ever pray, But that’s a word I need na say; For prayin, I hae little skill o’t, I’m baith dead-sweer, an’ wretched ill o’t; But I’se repeat each poor man’s pray’r, That kens or hears about you, sir.
—— “May ne’er Misfortune’s gowling bark, Howl thro’ the dwelling o’ the clerk! May ne’er his genrous, honest heart, For that same gen’rous spirit smart! May Kennedy’s far-honour’d name Lang beet his hymeneal flame, Till Hamiltons, at least a dizzen, Are frae their nuptial labours risen: Five bonie lasses round their table, And sev’n braw fellows, stout an’ able, To serve their king an’ country weel, By word, or pen, or pointed steel! May health and peace, with mutual rays, Shine on the ev’ning o’ his days; Till his wee, curlie John’s ier-oe, When ebbing life nae mair shall flow, The last, sad, mournful rites bestow!” I will not wind a lang conclusion, With complimentary effusion; But, whilst your wishes and endeavours Are blest with Fortune’s smiles and favours, I am, dear sir, with zeal most fervent, Your much indebted, humble servant.
But if (which Pow’rs above prevent) That iron-hearted carl, Want, Attended, in his grim advances, By sad mistakes, and black mischances, While hopes, and joys, and pleasures fly him, Make you as poor a dog as I am, Your humble servant then no more; For who would humbly serve the poor? But, by a poor man’s hopes in Heav’n! While recollection’s pow’r is giv’n— If, in the vale of humble life, The victim sad of fortune’s strife, I, thro’ the tender-gushing tear, Should recognise my master dear; If friendless, low, we meet together, Then, sir, your hand—my Friend and Brother!
Written by Jane Austen | Create an image from this poem

To the Memory of Mrs. Lefroy who died Dec:r 16 -- my Birthday

 The day returns again, my natal day;
What mix'd emotions with the Thought arise!
Beloved friend, four years have pass'd away
Since thou wert snatch'd forever from our eyes.
-- The day, commemorative of my birth Bestowing Life and Light and Hope on me, Brings back the hour which was thy last on Earth.
Oh! bitter pang of torturing Memory!-- Angelic Woman! past my power to praise In Language meet, thy Talents, Temper, mind.
Thy solid Worth, they captivating Grace!-- Thou friend and ornament of Humankind!-- At Johnson's death by Hamilton t'was said, 'Seek we a substitute--Ah! vain the plan, No second best remains to Johnson dead-- None can remind us even of the Man.
' So we of thee--unequall'd in thy race Unequall'd thou, as he the first of Men.
Vainly we wearch around the vacant place, We ne'er may look upon thy like again.
Come then fond Fancy, thou indulgant Power,-- --Hope is desponding, chill, severe to thee!-- Bless thou, this little portion of an hour, Let me behold her as she used to be.
I see her here, with all her smiles benign, Her looks of eager Love, her accents sweet.
That voice and Countenance almost divine!-- Expression, Harmony, alike complete.
-- I listen--'tis not sound alone--'tis sense, 'Tis Genius, Taste and Tenderness of Soul.
'Tis genuine warmth of heart without pretence And purity of Mind that crowns the whole.
She speaks; 'tis Eloquence--that grace of Tongue So rare, so lovely!--Never misapplied By her to palliate Vice, or deck a Wrong, She speaks and reasons but on Virtue's side.
Her's is the Engergy of Soul sincere.
Her Christian Spirit ignorant to feign, Seeks but to comfort, heal, enlighten, chear, Confer a pleasure, or prevent a pain.
-- Can ought enhance such Goodness?--Yes, to me, Her partial favour from my earliest years Consummates all.
--Ah! Give me yet to see Her smile of Love.
--the Vision diappears.
'Tis past and gone--We meet no more below.
Short is the Cheat of Fancy o'er the Tomb.
Oh! might I hope to equal Bliss to go! To meet thee Angel! in thy future home!-- Fain would I feel an union in thy fate, Fain would I seek to draw an Omen fair From this connection in our Earthly date.
Indulge the harmless weakness--Reason, spare.
--


Written by Robert Burns | Create an image from this poem

106. To Gavin Hamilton Esq. Mauchline recommending a Boy

 I HOLD it, sir, my bounden duty
To warn you how that Master Tootie,
 Alias, Laird M’Gaun,
Was here to hire yon lad away
’Bout whom ye spak the tither day,
 An’ wad hae don’t aff han’;
But lest he learn the callan tricks—
 An’ faith I muckle doubt him—
Like scrapin out auld Crummie’s nicks,
 An’ tellin lies about them;
 As lieve then, I’d have then
 Your clerkship he should sair,
 If sae be ye may be
 Not fitted otherwhere.
Altho’ I say’t, he’s gleg enough, An’ ’bout a house that’s rude an’ rough, The boy might learn to swear; But then, wi’ you, he’ll be sae taught, An’ get sic fair example straught, I hae na ony fear.
Ye’ll catechise him, every quirk, An’ shore him weel wi’ hell; An’ gar him follow to the kirk— Aye when ye gang yoursel.
If ye then maun be then Frae hame this comin’ Friday, Then please, sir, to lea’e, sir, The orders wi’ your lady.
My word of honour I hae gi’en, In Paisley John’s, that night at e’en, To meet the warld’s worm; To try to get the twa to gree, An’ name the airles an’ the fee, In legal mode an’ form: I ken he weel a snick can draw, When simple bodies let him: An’ if a Devil be at a’, In faith he’s sure to get him.
To phrase you and praise you,.
Ye ken your Laureat scorns: The pray’r still you share still Of grateful MINSTREL BURNS.
Written by Edgar Lee Masters | Create an image from this poem

Elsa Wertman

 I was a peasant girl from Germany,
Blue-eyed, rosy, happy and strong.
And the first place I worked was at Thomas Greene's.
On a summer's day when she was away He stole into the kitchen and took me Right in his arms and kissed me on my throat, I turning my head.
Then neither of us Seemed to know what happened.
And I cried for what would become of me.
And cried and cried as my secret began to show.
One day Mrs.
Greene said she understood, And would make no trouble for me, And, being childless, would adopt it.
(He had given her a farm to be still.
) So she hid in the house and sent out rumors, As if it were going to happen to her.
And all went well and the child was born -- They were so kind to me.
Later I married Gus Wertman, and years passed.
But -- at political rallies when sitters-by thought I was crying At the eloquence of Hamilton Greene -- That was not it.
No! I wanted to say: That's my son! That's my son!
Written by Robert Burns | Create an image from this poem

120. Epitaph for Gavin Hamilton Esq

 THE POOR man weeps—here Gavin sleeps,
 Whom canting wretches blam’d;
But with such as he, where’er he be,
 May I be sav’d or d—d!
Written by Dorothy Parker | Create an image from this poem

Song Of One Of The Girls

 Here in my heart I am Helen;
I'm Aspasia and Hero, at least.
I'm Judith, and Jael, and Madame de Stael; I'm Salome, moon of the East.
Here in my soul I am Sappho; Lady Hamilton am I, as well.
In me Recamier vies with Kitty O'Shea, With Dido, and Eve, and poor Nell.
I'm of the glamorous ladies At whose beckoning history shook.
But you are a man, and see only my pan, So I stay at home with a book.
Written by William Ernest Henley | Create an image from this poem

I. M. R. T. Hamilton Bruce (1846-1899)

 Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears Looms but the Horror of the shade, And yet the menace of the years Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate, How charged with punishments the scroll, I am the master of my fate: I am the captain of my soul.

Book: Reflection on the Important Things