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Best Famous Hand Off Poems

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

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Written by Robert Frost | Create an image from this poem

I. The Witch of Coös

 I stayed the night for shelter at a farm
Behind the mountains, with a mother and son,
Two old-believers.
They did all the talking.
MOTHER: Folks think a witch who has familiar spirits She could call up to pass a winter evening, But won’t, should be burned at the stake or something.
Summoning spirits isn’t “Button, button, Who’s got the button,” I would have them know.
SON: Mother can make a common table rear And kick with two legs like an army mule.
MOTHER: And when I’ve done it, what good have I done? Rather than tip a table for you, let me Tell you what Ralle the Sioux Control once told me.
He said the dead had souls, but when I asked him How could that be — I thought the dead were souls— He broke my trance.
Don’t that make you suspicious That there’s something the dead are keeping back? Yes, there’s something the dead are keeping back.
SON: You wouldn’t want to tell him what we have Up attic, mother? MOTHER: Bones — a skeleton.
SON: But the headboard of mother’s bed is pushed Against the” attic door: the door is nailed.
It’s harmless.
Mother hears it in the night Halting perplexed behind the barrier Of door and headboard.
Where it wants to get Is back into the cellar where it came from.
MOTHER: We’ll never let them, will we, son! We’ll never! SON: It left the cellar forty years ago And carried itself like a pile of dishes Up one flight from the cellar to the kitchen, Another from the kitchen to the bedroom, Another from the bedroom to the attic, Right past both father and mother, and neither stopped it.
Father had gone upstairs; mother was downstairs.
I was a baby: I don’t know where I was.
35 MOTHER: The only fault my husband found with me — I went to sleep before I went to bed, Especially in winter when the bed Might just as well be ice and the clothes snow.
The night the bones came up the cellar-stairs Toffile had gone to bed alone and left me, But left an open door to cool the room off So as to sort of turn me out of it.
I was just coming to myself enough To wonder where the cold was coming from, When I heard Toffile upstairs in the bedroom And thought I heard him downstairs in the cellar.
The board we had laid down to walk dry-shod on When there was water in the cellar in spring Struck the hard cellar bottom.
And then someone Began the stairs, two footsteps for each step, The way a man with one leg and a crutch, Or a little child, comes up.
It wasn’t Toffile: It wasn’t anyone who could be there.
The bulkhead double-doors were double-locked And swollen tight and buried under snow.
The cellar windows were banked up with sawdust And swollen tight and buried under snow.
It was the bones.
I knew them — and good reason.
My first impulse was to get to the knob And hold the door.
But the bones didn’t try The door; they halted helpless on the landing, Waiting for things to happen in their favor.
” The faintest restless rustling ran all through them.
I never could have done the thing I did If the wish hadn’t been too strong in me To see how they were mounted for this walk.
I had a vision of them put together Not like a man, but like a chandelier.
So suddenly I flung the door wide on him.
A moment he stood balancing with emotion, And all but lost himself.
(A tongue of fire Flashed out and licked along his upper teeth.
Smoke rolled inside the sockets of his eyes.
) Then he came at me with one hand outstretched, The way he did in life once; but this time I struck the hand off brittle on the floor, And fell back from him on the floor myself.
The finger-pieces slid in all directions.
(Where did I see one of those pieces lately? Hand me my button-box- it must be there.
) I sat up on the floor and shouted, “Toffile, It’s coming up to you.
” It had its choice Of the door to the cellar or the hall.
It took the hall door for the novelty, And set off briskly for so slow a thing, Still going every which way in the joints, though, So that it looked like lightning or a scribble, From the slap I had just now given its hand.
I listened till it almost climbed the stairs From the hall to the only finished bedroom, Before I got up to do anything; Then ran and shouted, “Shut the bedroom door, Toffile, for my sake!” “Company?” he said, “Don’t make me get up; I’m too warm in bed.
” So lying forward weakly on the handrail I pushed myself upstairs, and in the light (The kitchen had been dark) I had to own I could see nothing.
“Toffile, I don’t see it.
It’s with us in the room though.
It’s the bones.
” “What bones?” “The cellar bones— out of the grave.
” That made him throw his bare legs out of bed And sit up by me and take hold of me.
I wanted to put out the light and see If I could see it, or else mow the room, With our arms at the level of our knees, And bring the chalk-pile down.
“I’ll tell you what- It’s looking for another door to try.
The uncommonly deep snow has made him think Of his old song, The Wild Colonial Boy, He always used to sing along the tote-road.
He’s after an open door to get out-doors.
Let’s trap him with an open door up attic.
” Toffile agreed to that, and sure enough, Almost the moment he was given an opening, The steps began to climb the attic stairs.
I heard them.
Toffile didn’t seem to hear them.
“Quick !” I slammed to the door and held the knob.
“Toffile, get nails.
” I made him nail the door shut, And push the headboard of the bed against it.
Then we asked was there anything Up attic that we’d ever want again.
The attic was less to us than the cellar.
If the bones liked the attic, let them have it.
Let them stay in the attic.
When they sometimes Come down the stairs at night and stand perplexed Behind the door and headboard of the bed, Brushing their chalky skull with chalky fingers, With sounds like the dry rattling of a shutter, That’s what I sit up in the dark to say— To no one any more since Toffile died.
Let them stay in the attic since they went there.
I promised Toffile to be cruel to them For helping them be cruel once to him.
SON: We think they had a grave down in the cellar.
MOTHER: We know they had a grave down in the cellar.
SON: We never could find out whose bones they were.
MOTHER: Yes, we could too, son.
Tell the truth for once.
They were a man’s his father killed for me.
I mean a man he killed instead of me.
The least I could do was to help dig their grave.
We were about it one night in the cellar.
Son knows the story: but “twas not for him To tell the truth, suppose the time had come.
Son looks surprised to see me end a lie We’d kept all these years between ourselves So as to have it ready for outsiders.
But to-night I don’t care enough to lie— I don’t remember why I ever cared.
Toffile, if he were here, I don’t believe Could tell you why he ever cared himself- She hadn’t found the finger-bone she wanted Among the buttons poured out in her lap.
I verified the name next morning: Toffile.
The rural letter-box said Toffile Lajway.
Written by Robert Frost | Create an image from this poem

Out Out--

 The buzz-saw snarled and rattled in the yard
And made dust and dropped stove-length sticks of wood,
Sweet-scented stuff when the breeze drew across it.
And from there those that lifted eyes could count Five mountain ranges one behind the other Under the sunset far into Vermont.
And the saw snarled and rattled, snarled and rattled, As it ran light, or had to bear a load.
And nothing happened: day was all but done.
Call it a day, I wish they might have said To please the boy by giving him the half hour That a boy counts so much when saved from work.
His sister stood beside them in her apron To tell them 'Supper'.
At the word, the saw, As if to prove saws knew what supper meant, Leaped out at the boy's hand, or seemed to leap-- He must have given the hand.
However it was, Neither refused the meeting.
But the hand! The boy's first outcry was a rueful laugh.
As he swung toward them holding up the hand Half in appeal, but half as if to keep The life from spilling.
Then the boy saw all-- Since he was old enough to know, big boy Doing a man's work, though a child at heart-- He saw all spoiled.
'Don't let him cut my hand off The doctor, when he comes.
Don't let him, sister!' So.
But the hand was gone already.
The doctor put him in the dark of ether.
He lay and puffed his lips out with his breath.
And then -- the watcher at his pulse took fright.
No one believed.
They listened at his heart.
Little -- less -- nothing! -- and that ended it.
No more to build on there.
And they, since they Were not the one dead, turned to their affairs.
Written by Gerard Manley Hopkins | Create an image from this poem

The Sea And The Skylark

 On ear and ear two noises too old to end
 Trench—right, the tide that ramps against the shore;
 With a flood or a fall, low lull-off or all roar,
Frequenting there while moon shall wear and wend.
Left hand, off land, I hear the lark ascend, His rash-fresh re-winded new-skeinèd score In crisps of curl off wild winch whirl, and pour And pelt music, till none 's to spill nor spend.
How these two shame this shallow and frail town! How ring right out our sordid turbid time, Being pure! We, life's pride and cared-for crown, Have lost that cheer and charm of earth's past prime: Our make and making break, are breaking, down To man's last dust, drain fast towards man's first slime.