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Best Famous Hat In Hand Poems

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

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Written by Rupert Brooke | Create an image from this poem

The Funeral of Youth: Threnody

 The Day that Youth had died,
There came to his grave-side, 
In decent mourning, from the country’s ends, 
Those scatter’d friends 
Who had lived the boon companions of his prime,
And laughed with him and sung with him and wasted, 
In feast and wine and many-crown’d carouse, 
The days and nights and dawnings of the time 
When Youth kept open house, 
Nor left untasted
Aught of his high emprise and ventures dear, 
No quest of his unshar’d— 
All these, with loitering feet and sad head bar’d, 
Followed their old friend’s bier.
Folly went first, With muffled bells and coxcomb still revers’d; And after trod the bearers, hat in hand— Laughter, most hoarse, and Captain Pride with tanned And martial face all grim, and fussy Joy Who had to catch a train, and Lust, poor, snivelling boy; These bore the dear departed.
Behind them, broken-hearted, Came Grief, so noisy a widow, that all said, “Had he but wed Her elder sister Sorrow, in her stead!” And by her, trying to soothe her all the time, The fatherless children, Colour, Tune, and Rhyme (The sweet lad Rhyme), ran all-uncomprehending.
Then, at the way’s sad ending, Round the raw grave they stay’d.
Old Wisdom read, In mumbling tone, the Service for the Dead.
There stood Romance, The furrowing tears had mark’d her roug?d cheek; Poor old Conceit, his wonder unassuaged; Dead Innocency’s daughter, Ignorance; And shabby, ill-dress’d Generosity; And Argument, too full of woe to speak; Passion, grown portly, something middle-aged; And Friendship—not a minute older, she; Impatience, ever taking out his watch; Faith, who was deaf, and had to lean, to catch Old Wisdom’s endless drone.
Beauty was there, Pale in her black; dry-eyed; she stood alone.
Poor maz’d Imagination; Fancy wild; Ardour, the sunlight on his greying hair; Contentment, who had known Youth as a child And never seen him since.
And Spring came too, Dancing over the tombs, and brought him flowers— She did not stay for long.
And Truth, and Grace, and all the merry crew, The laughing Winds and Rivers, and lithe Hours; And Hope, the dewy-eyed; and sorrowing Song;— Yes, with much woe and mourning general, At dead Youth’s funeral, Even these were met once more together, all, Who erst the fair and living Youth did know; All, except only Love.
Love had died long ago.
Written by Rupert Brooke | Create an image from this poem

Funeral Of Youth The: Threnody

 The day that YOUTH had died,
There came to his grave-side,
In decent mourning, from the country's ends,
Those scatter'd friends
Who had lived the boon companions of his prime,
And laughed with him and sung with him and wasted,
In feast and wine and many-crown'd carouse,
The days and nights and dawnings of the time
When YOUTH kept open house,
Nor left untasted
Aught of his high emprise and ventures dear,
No quest of his unshar'd --
All these, with loitering feet and sad head bar'd,
Followed their old friend's bier.
FOLLY went first, With muffled bells and coxcomb still revers'd; And after trod the bearers, hat in hand -- LAUGHTER, most hoarse, and Captain PRIDE with tanned And martial face all grim, and fussy JOY, Who had to catch a train, and LUST, poor, snivelling boy; These bore the dear departed.
Behind them, broken-hearted, Came GRIEF, so noisy a widow, that all said, "Had he but wed Her elder sister SORROW, in her stead!" And by her, trying to soothe her all the time, The fatherless children, COLOUR, TUNE, and RHYME (The sweet lad RHYME), ran all-uncomprehending.
Then, at the way's sad ending, Round the raw grave they stay'd.
Old WISDOM read, In mumbling tone, the Service for the Dead.
There stood ROMANCE, The furrowing tears had mark'd her rouged cheek; Poor old CONCEIT, his wonder unassuaged; Dead INNOCENCY's daughter, IGNORANCE; And shabby, ill-dress'd GENEROSITY; And ARGUMENT, too full of woe to speak; PASSION, grown portly, something middle-aged; And FRIENDSHIP -- not a minute older, she; IMPATIENCE, ever taking out his watch; FAITH, who was deaf, and had to lean, to catch Old WISDOM's endless drone.
BEAUTY was there, Pale in her black; dry-eyed; she stood alone.
Poor maz'd IMAGINATION; FANCY wild; ARDOUR, the sunlight on his greying hair; CONTENTMENT, who had known YOUTH as a child And never seen him since.
And SPRING came too, Dancing over the tombs, and brought him flowers -- She did not stay for long.
And TRUTH, and GRACE, and all the merry crew, The laughing WINDS and RIVERS, and lithe HOURS; And HOPE, the dewy-eyed; and sorrowing SONG; -- Yes, with much woe and mourning general, At dead YOUTH's funeral, Even these were met once more together, all, Who erst the fair and living YOUTH did know; All, except only LOVE.
LOVE had died long ago.
Written by Elizabeth Bishop | Create an image from this poem

Manuelzinho

 Half squatter, half tenant (no rent)—
a sort of inheritance; white,
in your thirties now, and supposed
to supply me with vegetables,
but you don't; or you won't; or you can't
get the idea through your brain—
the world's worst gardener since Cain.
Titled above me, your gardens ravish my eyes.
You edge the beds of silver cabbages with red carnations, and lettuces mix with alyssum.
And then umbrella ants arrive, or it rains for a solid week and the whole thing's ruined again and I buy you more pounds of seeds, imported, guaranteed, and eventually you bring me a mystic thee-legged carrot, or a pumpkin "bigger than the baby.
" I watch you through the rain, trotting, light, on bare feet, up the steep paths you have made— or your father and grandfather made— all over my property, with your head and back inside a sodden burlap bag, and feel I can't endure it another minute; then, indoors, beside the stove, keep on reading a book.
You steal my telephone wires, or someone does.
You starve your horse and yourself and your dogs and family.
among endless variety, you eat boiled cabbage stalks.
And once I yelled at you so loud to hurry up and fetch me those potatoes your holey hat flew off, you jumped out of your clogs, leaving three objects arranged in a triangle at my feet, as if you'd been a gardener in a fairy tale all this time and at the word "potatoes" had vanished to take up your work of fairy prince somewhere.
The strangest things happen to you.
Your cows eats a "poison grass" and drops dead on the spot.
Nobody else's does.
And then your father dies, a superior old man with a black plush hat, and a moustache like a white spread-eagled sea gull.
The family gathers, but you, no, you "don't think he's dead! I look at him.
He's cold.
They're burying him today.
But you know, I don't think he's dead.
" I give you money for the funeral and you go and hire a bus for the delighted mourners, so I have to hand over some more and then have to hear you tell me you pray for me every night! And then you come again, sniffing and shivering, hat in hand, with that wistful face, like a child's fistful of bluets or white violets, improvident as the dawn, and once more I provide for a shot of penicillin down at the pharmacy, or one more bottle of Electrical Baby Syrup.
Or, briskly, you come to settle what we call our "accounts," with two old copybooks, one with flowers on the cover, the other with a camel.
immediate confusion.
You've left out decimal points.
Your columns stagger, honeycombed with zeros.
You whisper conspiratorially; the numbers mount to millions.
Account books? They are Dream Books.
in the kitchen we dream together how the meek shall inherit the earth— or several acres of mine.
With blue sugar bags on their heads, carrying your lunch, your children scuttle by me like little moles aboveground, or even crouch behind bushes as if I were out to shoot them! —Impossible to make friends, though each will grab at once for an orange or a piece of candy.
Twined in wisps of fog, I see you all up there along with Formoso, the donkey, who brays like a pump gone dry, then suddenly stops.
—All just standing, staring off into fog and space.
Or coming down at night, in silence, except for hoofs, in dim moonlight, the horse or Formoso stumbling after.
Between us float a few big, soft, pale-blue, sluggish fireflies, the jellyfish of the air.
.
.
Patch upon patch upon patch, your wife keeps all of you covered.
She has gone over and over (forearmed is forewarned) your pair of bright-blue pants with white thread, and these days your limbs are draped in blueprints.
You paint—heaven knows why— the outside of the crown and brim of your straw hat.
Perhaps to reflect the sun? Or perhaps when you were small, your mother said, "Manuelzinho, one thing; be sure you always paint your straw hat.
" One was gold for a while, but the gold wore off, like plate.
One was bright green.
Unkindly, I called you Klorophyll Kid.
My visitors thought it was funny.
I apologize here and now.
You helpless, foolish man, I love you all I can, I think.
Or I do? I take off my hat, unpainted and figurative, to you.
Again I promise to try.
Written by Marriott Edgar | Create an image from this poem

Joe Ramsbottom

 Joe Ramshottom rented a bit of a farm 
From its owner, Squire Goslett his name;
And the Gosletts came over with William the First,
And found Ramsbottoms here when they came.
One day Joe were ploughing his three-acre field When the front of his plough hit a rock, And on closer inspection o' t' damage he found As the coulter had snapped wi' the shock.
He'd got a spare coulter at home in his shed, But that were some distance away, And he reckoned by t' time he had been there and back He'd have wasted best part of the day.
The accident 'appened not far from the place Where the Squire had his sumptuous abode; He thought he might borrow a coulter from him, And save going back all that road.
He were going to ask.
.
.
but he suddenly stopped, And he said " Nay-I'd better not call; He might think it cheek I borrowed from him, I'd best get my own after all.
" He were going off back when he turned to himself And said "That's a gormless idea; The land you were ploughing belongs to the Squire, It were 'is rock as caused all this 'ere!" This 'eartened Joe up, so he set off again, But he very soon stopped as before, And he said 'Happen Squire'II have comp'ny to tea, Nay I'd, better go round to t' back.
Then he answered himself in a manner quite stern And said "Here's a nice how-de-do! You can manage without him when all's said and done, And where would he be without you?" Joe knew this were right and he knew it were just, But he didn't seem happy somehow, So he said "Well, there's no harm in paying a call, And I needn't say owt about plough.
" This suggestion that he were afraid of the Squire Were most deeply resented by Joe; He said "Right! I'll show you.
.
.
I'll go up at once, At the worst he can only say 'No.
'' Then he said "After all as I've done in the past He would have a nerve to decline; He ought to be thankful to give me his plough, Seein'' damage his rock did to mine.
Then he said "Who is he To be puffed up wi' pride, And behave as if he were King Dick He's only a farmer the same as myself, As I'll tell him an' all- Jolly quick.
" Then he turned round and looked himself straight in the face, And he said "What you're scared of beats me; Ramsbottoms was landlords when Gosletts was nowt, And it's him should be working for thee!" Then he said "I'm surprised at myself, so I am, To think I should so condescend As to come hat in hand to a feller like 'im And ask if he's owt he can lend.
" This argument brought him to Squire's front door, It were open and Squire stood inside; He said "Hello, Joe.
.
.
What brings thee right up here?" "You'll know in a tick," Joe replied.
He said "P'raps you think yourself better than me, Well, I'm telling you straight that you're not And I don't want your coulter.
.
.
Your plough-or your farm, You can-do what you like with the lot.
"
Written by Emily Dickinson | Create an image from this poem

The Crickets sang

 The Crickets sang
And set the Sun
And Workmen finished one by one
Their Seam the Day upon.
The low Grass loaded with the Dew The Twilight stood, as Strangers do With Hat in Hand, polite and new To stay as if, or go.
A Vastness, as a Neighbor, came, A Wisdom, without Face, or Name, A Peace, as Hemispheres at Home And so the Night became.