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Best Famous Harsher Poems

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Written by William Cullen Bryant | Create an image from this poem

The Future Life

HOW shall I know thee in the sphere which keeps 
The disembodied spirits of the dead  
When all of thee that time could wither sleeps 
And perishes among the dust we tread? 

For I shall feel the sting of ceaseless pain 5 
If there I meet thy gentle presence not; 
Nor hear the voice I love nor read again 
In thy serenest eyes the tender thought. 

Will not thy own meek heart demand me there? 
That heart whose fondest throbs to me were given¡ª 10 
My name on earth was ever in thy prayer  
And wilt thou never utter it in heaven? 

In meadows fanned by heaven's life-breathing wind  
In the resplendence of that glorious sphere  
And larger movements of the unfettered mind 15 
Wilt thou forget the love that joined us here? 

The love that lived through all the stormy past  
And meekly with my harsher nature bore  
And deeper grew and tenderer to the last  
Shall it expire with life and be no more? 20 

A happier lot than mine and larger light  
Await thee there for thou hast bowed thy will 
In cheerful homage to the rule of right  
And lovest all and renderest good for ill. 

For me the sordid cares in which I dwell 25 
Shrink and consume my heart as heat the scroll; 
And wrath has left its scar¡ªthat fire of hell 
Has left its frightful scar upon my soul. 

Yet though thou wear'st the glory of the sky  
Wilt thou not keep the same belov¨¨d name 30 
The same fair thoughtful brow and gentle eye  
Lovelier in heaven's sweet climate yet the same? 

Shalt thou not teach me in that calmer home  
The wisdom that I learned so ill in this¡ª 
The wisdom which is love¡ªtill I become 35 
Thy fit companion in that land of bliss? 


Written by Sir Walter Scott | Create an image from this poem

Patriotism 02 Nelson Pitt Fox

 TO mute and to material things
New life revolving summer brings;
The genial call dead Nature hears,
And in her glory reappears.
But oh, my Country's wintry state
What second spring shall renovate?
What powerful call shall bid arise
The buried warlike and the wise;

The mind that thought for Britain's weal,
The hand that grasp'd the victor steel?
The vernal sun new life bestows
Even on the meanest flower that blows;
But vainly, vainly may he shine
Where glory weeps o'er NELSON'S shrine;
And vainly pierce the solemn gloom
That shrouds, O PITT, thy hallow'd tomb!

Deep graved in every British heart,
O never let those names depart!
Say to your sons,--Lo, here his grave,
Who victor died on Gadite wave!
To him, as to the burning levin,
Short, bright, resistless course was given.
Where'er his country's foes were found
Was heard the fated thunder's sound,
Till burst the bolt on yonder shore,
Roll'd, blazed, destroy'd--and was no more.

Nor mourn ye less his perish'd worth,
Who bade the conqueror go forth,
And launch'd that thunderbolt of war
On Egypt, Hafnia, Trafalgar;
Who, born to guide such high emprise,
For Britain's weal was early wise;
Alas! to whom the Almighty gave,
For Britain's sins, an early grave!
--His worth, who in his mightiest hour
A bauble held the pride of power,
Spurn'd at the sordid lust of pelf,
And served his Albion for herself;
Who, when the frantic crowd amain
Strain'd at subjection's bursting rein,
O'er their wild mood full conquest gain'd,
The pride he would not crush, restrain'd,
Show'd their fierce zeal a worthier cause,
And brought the freeman's arm to aid the freeman's laws.

Hadst thou but lived, though stripp'd of power,
A watchman on the lonely tower,
Thy thrilling trump had roused the land,
When fraud or danger were at hand;
By thee, as by the beacon-light,
Our pilots had kept course aright;
As some proud column, though alone,
Thy strength had propp'd the tottering throne.
Now is the stately column broke,
The beacon-light is quench'd in smoke,
The trumpet's silver voice is still,
The warder silent on the hill!

O think, how to his latest day,
When Death, just hovering, claim'd his prey,
With Palinure's unalter'd mood
Firm at his dangerous post he stood;
Each call for needful rest repell'd,
With dying hand the rudder held,
Till in his fall with fateful sway
The steerage of the realm gave way.
Then--while on Britain's thousand plains
One polluted church remains,
Whose peaceful bells ne'er sent around
The bloody tocsin's maddening sound,
But still upon the hallow'd day
Convoke the swains to praise and pray;
While faith and civil peace are dear,
Grace this cold marble with a tear:--
He who preserved them, PITT, lies here!

Nor yet suppress the generous sigh,
Because his rival slumbers nigh;
Nor be thy Requiescat dumb
Lest it be said o'er Fox's tomb.
For talents mourn, untimely lost,
When best employ'd, and wanted most;
Mourn genius high, and lore profound,
And wit that loved to play, not wound;
And all the reasoning powers divine
To penetrate, resolve, combine;
And feelings keen, and fancy's glow--
They sleep with him who sleeps below:
And, if thou mourn'st they could not save
From error him who owns this grave,
Be every harsher thought suppress'd,
And sacred be the last long rest.
Here, where the end of earthly things
Lays heroes, patriots, bards, and kings;
Where stiff the hand, and still the tongue,
Of those who fought, and spoke, and sung;
Here, where the fretted vaults prolong
The distant notes of holy song,
As if some angel spoke agen,
'All peace on earth, good-will to men';
If ever from an English heart,
O, here let prejudice depart,
And, partial feeling cast aside,
Record that Fox a Briton died!
When Europe crouch'd to France's yoke,
And Austria bent, and Prussia broke,
And the firm Russian's purpose brave
Was barter'd by a timorous slave--
Even then dishonour's peace he spurn'd,
The sullied olive-branch return'd,
Stood for his country's glory fast,
And nail'd her colours to the mast!
Heaven, to reward his firmness, gave
A portion in this honour'd grave;
And ne'er held marble in its trust
Of two such wondrous men the dust.

With more than mortal powers endow'd,
How high they soar'd above the crowd!
Theirs was no common party race,
Jostling by dark intrigue for place;
Like fabled gods, their mighty war
Shook realms and nations in its jar;
Beneath each banner proud to stand,
Look'd up the noblest of the land,
Till through the British world were known
The names of PITT and Fox alone.
Spells of such force no wizard grave
E'er framed in dark Thessalian cave,
Though his could drain the ocean dry,
And force the planets from the sky.
These spells are spent, and, spent with these,
The wine of life is on the lees.
Genius, and taste, and talent gone,
For ever tomb'd beneath the stone,
Where--taming thought to human pride!--
The mighty chiefs sleep side by side.
Drop upon Fox's grave the tear,
'Twill trickle to his rival's bier;
O'er PITT'S the mournful requiem sound,
And Fox's shall the notes rebound.
The solemn echo seems to cry,
'Here let their discord with them die.
Speak not for those a separate doom
Whom fate made Brothers in the tomb;
But search the land of living men,
Where wilt thou find their like agen?'
Written by Walter Savage Landor | Create an image from this poem

What News

 Here, ever since you went abroad,
If there be change, no change I see,
I only walk our wonted road,
The road is only walkt by me.

Yes; I forgot; a change there is;
Was it of that you bade me tell?
I catch at times, at times I miss
The sight, the tone, I know so well.

Only two months since you stood here!
Two shortest months! then tell me why
Voices are harsher than they were,
And tears are longer ere they dry.
Written by T Wignesan | Create an image from this poem

Ballade: In Favour Of Those Called Decadents And Symbolists Translation of Paul Verlaines Poem: Ballade

for Léon Vanier*

(The texts I use for my translations are from: Yves-Alain Favre, Ed. Paul Verlaine: Œuvres Poétiques Complètes. Paris: Robert Laffont,1992, XCIX-939p.)

Some few in all this Paris:
We live off pride, yet flat broke we’re
Even if with the bottle a bit too free
We drink above all fresh water
Being very sparing when taken with hunger.
With other fine fare and wines of high-estate
Likewise with beauty: sour-tempered never.
We are the writers of good taste.

Phoebé when all the cats gray be
Highly sharpened to a point much harsher
Our bodies nourrished by glory
Hell licks its lips and in ambush does cower
And with his dart Phoebus pierces us ever
The night cradling us through dreamy waste
Strewn with seeds of peach beds over.
We are the writers of good taste.

A good many of the best minds rally
Holding high Man’s standard: toffee-nosed scoffer
And Lemerre* retains with success poetry’s destiny.
More than one poet then helter-skelter
Sought to join the rest through the narrow fissure;
But Vanier at the very end made haste
The only lucky one to assume the rôle of Fisher*.
We are the writers of good taste.

ENVOI

Even if our stock exchange tends to dither
Princes hold sway: gentle folk and the divining caste.
Whatever one might say or pours forth the preacher,
We are the writers of good taste.

*One of Verlaine’s publishers who first published his near-collected works at 19, quai Saint-Michel, Paris-V.

* Alphonse Lemerre (1838-1912) , one of Verlaine’s publishers at 47, Passage Choiseul, Paris, where from 1866 onwards the Parnassians met regularly.

*Vanier first specialised in articles for fishing as a sport.

© T. Wignesan – Paris,2013 
Written by Robert Seymour Bridges | Create an image from this poem

Absence

 HERE, ever since you went abroad, 
 If there be change no change I see: 
I only walk our wonted road, 
 The road is only walk'd by me. 

Yes; I forgot; a change there is-- 
 Was it of that you bade me tell? 
I catch at times, at times I miss 
 The sight, the tone, I know so well. 

Only two months since you stood here? 
 Two shortest months? Then tell me why 
Voices are harsher than they were, 
 And tears are longer ere they dry.


Written by Anne Kingsmill Finch | Create an image from this poem

The Equipage

 Since the Road of Life's so ill; 
I, to pass it, use this Skill, 
My frail Carriage driving home 
To its latest Stage, the Tomb. 
Justice first, in Harness strong, 
Marches stedfastly along: 
Charity, to smooth the Pace, 
Fills the next adjoining Trace: 
Independance leads the Way, 
Whom no heavy Curb do's sway; 
Truth an equal Part sustains, 
All indulg'd the loosen'd Reins: 
In the Box fits vig'rous Health, 
Shunning miry Paths of Wealth: 
Gaiety with easy Smiles, 
Ev'ry harsher Step beguiles; 
Whilst of Nature, or of Fate 
Only This I wou'd intreat: 
The Equipage might not decay, 
Till the worn Carriage drops away.
Written by Edna St. Vincent Millay | Create an image from this poem

Menses

 (He speaks, but to himself, being aware how it is with her)
Think not I have not heard.
Well-fanged the double word
And well-directed flew.

I felt it. Down my side
Innocent as oil I see the ugly venom slide:
Poison enough to stiffen us both, and all our friends;
But I am not pierced, so there the mischief ends.

There is more to be said: I see it coiling;
The impact will be pain.
Yet coil; yet strike again.
You cannot riddle the stout mail I wove
Long since, of wit and love.

As for my answer . . . stupid in the sun
He lies, his fangs drawn:
I will not war with you.

You know how wild you are. You are willing to be turned
To other matters; you would be grateful, even.
You watch me shyly. I (for I have learned
More things than one in our few years together)
Chafe at the churlish wind, the unseasonable weather.

"Unseasonable?" you cry, with harsher scorn
Than the theme warrants; "Every year it is the same!
'Unseasonable!' they whine, these stupid peasants!—and never
since they were born
Have they known a spring less wintry! Lord, the shame,
The crying shame of seeing a man no wiser than the beasts he
feeds—
His skull as empty as a shell!"

("Go to. You are unwell.")

Such is my thought, but such are not my words.

"What is the name," I ask, "of those big birds
With yellow breast and low and heavy flight,
That make such mournful whistling?"

 "Meadowlarks,"
You answer primly, not a little cheered.
"Some people shoot them." Suddenly your eyes are wet
And your chin trembles. On my breast you lean,
And sob most pitifullly for all the lovely things that are not and
have been.

"How silly I am!—and I know how silly I am!"
You say; "You are very patient. You are very kind.
I shall be better soon. Just Heaven consign and damn
To tedious Hell this body with its muddy feet in my mind!"
Written by Victor Hugo | Create an image from this poem

The Preceptor

 ("Homme chauve et noir.") 
 
 {XIX., May, 1839.} 


 A gruesome man, bald, clad in black, 
 Who kept us youthful drudges in the track, 
 Thinking it good for them to leave home care, 
 And for a while a harsher yoke to bear; 
 Surrender all the careless ease of home, 
 And be forbid from schoolyard bounds to roam; 
 For this with blandest smiles he softly asks 
 That they with him will prosecute their tasks; 
 Receives them in his solemn chilly lair, 
 The rigid lot of discipline to share. 
 At dingy desks they toil by day; at night 
 To gloomy chambers go uncheered by light, 
 Where pillars rudely grayed by rusty nail 
 Of heavy hours reveal the weary tale; 
 Where spiteful ushers grin, all pleased to make 
 Long scribbled lines the price of each mistake. 
 By four unpitying walls environed there 
 The homesick students pace the pavements bare. 
 
 E.E. FREWER 


 




Written by Francesco Petrarch | Create an image from this poem

Sonnet CXLI

SONNET CXLI.

Fera stella (se 'l cielo ha forza in noi).

TO PINE FOR HER IS BETTER THAN TO ENJOY HAPPINESS WITH ANY OTHER.

Ill-omen'd was that star's malignant gleamThat ruled my hapless birth; and dim the mornThat darted on my infant eyes the beam;And harsh the wail, that told a man was born;And hard the sterile earth, which first was wornBeneath my infant feet; but harder far,And harsher still, the tyrant maid, whose scorn,In league with savage Love, inflamed the warOf all my passions.—Love himself more tame,With pity soothes my ills; while that cold heart,Insensible to the devouring flameWhich wastes my vitals, triumphs in my smart.One thought is comfort—that her scorn to bear,Excels e'er prosperous love, with other earthly fair.
Woodhouselee.
[Pg 163] An evil star usher'd my natal morn(If heaven have o'er us power, as some have said),Hard was the cradle where I lay when born,And hard the earth where first my young feet play'd;Cruel the lady who, with eyes of scornAnd fatal bow, whose mark I still was made,Dealt me the wound, O Love, which since I mournWhose cure thou only, with those arms, canst aid.But, ah! to thee my torments pleasure bring:She, too, severer would have wished the blow,A spear-head thrust, and not an arrow-sting.One comfort rests—better to suffer soFor her, than others to enjoy: and I,Sworn on thy golden dart, on this for death rely.
Macgregor.

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