Best Famous Hectic Poems

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

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Written by Countee Cullen | Fruit of the Flower My father is a quiet man With sober, steady ways; For simile, a folded fan; His nights are like his days. My mother's life is puritan, No hint of cavalier, A pool so calm you're sure it can Have little depth to fear. And yet my father's eyes can boast How full his life has been; There haunts them yet the languid ghost Of some still sacred sin. And though my mother chants of God, And of the mystic river, I've seen a bit of checkered sod Set all her flesh aquiver. Why should he deem it pure mischance A son of his is fain To do a naked tribal dance Each time he hears the rain? Why should she think it devil's art That all my songs should be Of love and lovers, broken heart, And wild sweet agony? Who plants a seed begets a bud, Extract of that same root; Why marvel at the hectic blood That flushes this wild fruit?

Written by Walt Whitman | As a Strong Bird on Pinions Free 1 AS a strong bird on pinions free, Joyous, the amplest spaces heavenward cleaving, Such be the thought I’d think to-day of thee, America, Such be the recitative I’d bring to-day for thee. The conceits of the poets of other lands I bring thee not, Nor the compliments that have served their turn so long, Nor rhyme—nor the classics—nor perfume of foreign court, or indoor library; But an odor I’d bring to-day as from forests of pine in the north, in Maine—or breath of an Illinois prairie, With open airs of Virginia, or Georgia, or Tennessee—or from Texas uplands, or Florida’s glades, With presentment of Yellowstone’s scenes, or Yosemite; And murmuring under, pervading all, I’d bring the rustling sea-sound, That endlessly sounds from the two great seas of the world. And for thy subtler sense, subtler refrains, O Union! Preludes of intellect tallying these and thee—mind-formulas fitted for thee—real, and sane, and large as these and thee; Thou, mounting higher, diving deeper than we knew—thou transcendental Union! By thee Fact to be justified—blended with Thought; Thought of Man justified—blended with God: Through thy Idea—lo! the immortal Reality! Through thy Reality—lo! the immortal Idea! 2 Brain of the New World! what a task is thine! To formulate the Modern.....Out of the peerless grandeur of the modern, Out of Thyself—comprising Science—to recast Poems, Churches, Art, (Recast—may-be discard them, end them—May-be their work is done—who knows?) By vision, hand, conception, on the background of the mighty past, the dead, To limn, with absolute faith, the mighty living present. (And yet, thou living, present brain! heir of the dead, the Old World brain! Thou that lay folded, like an unborn babe, within its folds so long! Thou carefully prepared by it so long!—haply thou but unfoldest it—only maturest it; It to eventuate in thee—the essence of the by-gone time contain’d in thee; Its poems, churches, arts, unwitting to themselves, destined with reference to thee, The fruit of all the Old, ripening to-day in thee.) 3 Sail—sail thy best, ship of Democracy! Of value is thy freight—’tis not the Present only, The Past is also stored in thee! Thou holdest not the venture of thyself alone—not of thy western continent alone; Earth’s résumé entire floats on thy keel, O ship—is steadied by thy spars; With thee Time voyages in trust—the antecedent nations sink or swim with thee; With all their ancient struggles, martyrs, heroes, epics, wars, thou bear’st the other continents; Theirs, theirs as much as thine, the destination-port triumphant: —Steer, steer with good strong hand and wary eye, O helmsman—thou carryest great companions, Venerable, priestly Asia sails this day with thee, And royal, feudal Europe sails with thee. 4 Beautiful World of new, superber Birth, that rises to my eyes, Like a limitless golden cloud, filling the western sky; Emblem of general Maternity, lifted above all; Sacred shape of the bearer of daughters and sons; Out of thy teeming womb, thy giant babes in ceaseless procession issuing, Acceding from such gestation, taking and giving continual strength and life; World of the Real! world of the twain in one! World of the Soul—born by the world of the real alone—led to identity, body, by it alone; Yet in beginning only—incalculable masses of composite, precious materials, By history’s cycles forwarded—by every nation, language, hither sent, Ready, collected here—a freer, vast, electric World, to be constructed here, (The true New World—the world of orbic Science, Morals, Literatures to come,) Thou Wonder World, yet undefined, unform’d—neither do I define thee; How can I pierce the impenetrable blank of the future? I feel thy ominous greatness, evil as well as good; I watch thee, advancing, absorbing the present, transcending the past; I see thy light lighting and thy shadow shadowing, as if the entire globe; But I do not undertake to define thee—hardly to comprehend thee; I but thee name—thee prophecy—as now! I merely thee ejaculate! Thee in thy future; Thee in thy only permanent life, career—thy own unloosen’d mind—thy soaring spirit; Thee as another equally needed sun, America—radiant, ablaze, swift-moving, fructifying all; Thee! risen in thy potent cheerfulness and joy—thy endless, great hilarity! (Scattering for good the cloud that hung so long—that weigh’d so long upon the mind of man, The doubt, suspicion, dread, of gradual, certain decadence of man;) Thee in thy larger, saner breeds of Female, Male—thee in thy athletes, moral, spiritual, South, North, West, East, (To thy immortal breasts, Mother of All, thy every daughter, son, endear’d alike, forever equal;) Thee in thy own musicians, singers, artists, unborn yet, but certain; Thee in thy moral wealth and civilization (until which thy proudest material wealth and civilization must remain in vain;) Thee in thy all-supplying, all-enclosing Worship—thee in no single bible, saviour, merely, Thy saviours countless, latent within thyself—thy bibles incessant, within thyself, equal to any, divine as any; Thee in an education grown of thee—in teachers, studies, students, born of thee; Thee in thy democratic fetes, en masse—thy high original festivals, operas, lecturers, preachers; Thee in thy ultimata, (the preparations only now completed—the edifice on sure foundations tied,) Thee in thy pinnacles, intellect, thought—thy topmost rational joys—thy love, and godlike aspiration, In thy resplendent coming literati—thy full-lung’d orators—thy sacerdotal bards—kosmic savans, These! these in thee, (certain to come,) to-day I prophecy. 5 Land tolerating all—accepting all—not for the good alone—all good for thee; Land in the realms of God to be a realm unto thyself; Under the rule of God to be a rule unto thyself. (Lo! where arise three peerless stars, To be thy natal stars, my country—Ensemble—Evolution—Freedom, Set in the sky of Law.) Land of unprecedented faith—God’s faith! Thy soil, thy very subsoil, all upheav’d; The general inner earth, so long, so sedulously draped over, now and hence for what it is, boldly laid bare, Open’d by thee to heaven’s light, for benefit or bale. Not for success alone; Not to fair-sail unintermitted always; The storm shall dash thy face—the murk of war, and worse than war, shall cover thee all over; (Wert capable of war—its tug and trials? Be capable of peace, its trials; For the tug and mortal strain of nations come at last in peace—not war;) In many a smiling mask death shall approach, beguiling thee—thou in disease shalt swelter; The livid cancer spread its hideous claws, clinging upon thy breasts, seeking to strike thee deep within; Consumption of the worst—moral consumption—shall rouge thy face with hectic: But thou shalt face thy fortunes, thy diseases, and surmount them all, Whatever they are to-day, and whatever through time they may be, They each and all shall lift, and pass away, and cease from thee; While thou, Time’s spirals rounding—out of thyself, thyself still extricating, fusing, Equable, natural, mystical Union thou—(the mortal with immortal blent,) Shalt soar toward the fulfilment of the future—the spirit of the body and the mind, The Soul—its destinies. The Soul, its destinies—the real real, (Purport of all these apparitions of the real;) In thee, America, the Soul, its destinies; Thou globe of globes! thou wonder nebulous! By many a throe of heat and cold convuls’d—(by these thyself solidifying;) Thou mental, moral orb! thou New, indeed new, Spiritual World! The Present holds thee not—for such vast growth as thine—for such unparallel’d flight as thine, The Future only holds thee, and can hold thee.

Written by Percy Bysshe Shelley | Ode to the West Wind O WILD West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being¡ª Thou from whose unseen presence the leaves dead Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing, Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red, Pestilence-stricken multitudes!¡ªO thou 5 Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed The wing¨¨d seeds, where they lie cold and low, Each like a corpse within its grave, until Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill 10 (Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air) With living hues and odours plain and hill¡ª Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere¡ª Destroyer and Preserver¡ªhear, O hear! Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's commotion, 15 Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed, Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven and Ocean, Angels of rain and lightning! they are spread On the blue surface of thine airy surge, Like the bright hair uplifted from the head 20 Of some fierce M?nad, ev'n from the dim verge Of the horizon to the zenith's height¡ª The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge Of the dying year, to which this closing night Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre, 25 Vaulted with all thy congregated might Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere Black rain, and fire, and hail will burst:¡ªO hear! Thou who didst waken from his summer-dreams The blue Mediterranean, where he lay, 30 Lull'd by the coil of his crystalline streams, Beside a pumice isle in Bai?'s bay, And saw in sleep old palaces and towers Quivering within the wave's intenser day, All overgrown with azure moss, and flowers 35 So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou For whose path the Atlantic's level powers Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear The sapless foliage of the ocean, know 40 Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear And tremble and despoil themselves:¡ªO hear! If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear; If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee; A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share 45 The impulse of thy strength, only less free Than thou, O uncontrollable!¡ªif even I were as in my boyhood, and could be The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven, As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed 50 Scarce seem'd a vision,¡ªI would ne'er have striven As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need. O lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud! I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed! A heavy weight of hours has chain'd and bow'd 55 One too like thee¡ªtameless, and swift, and proud. Make me thy lyre, ev'n as the forest is: What if my leaves are falling like its own! The tumult of thy mighty harmonies Will take from both a deep autumnal tone, 60 Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce, My spirit! be thou me, impetuous one! Drive my dead thoughts over the universe, Like wither'd leaves, to quicken a new birth; And, by the incantation of this verse, 65 Scatter, as from an unextinguish'd hearth Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind! Be through my lips to unawaken'd earth The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind, If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind? 70

Written by Robert Lowell | The Withdrawal 1 Only today and just for this minute, when the sunslant finds its true angle, you can see yellow and pinkish leaves spangle our gentle, fluffy tree— suddenly the green summer is momentary... Autumn is my favorite season— why does it change clothes and withdraw? This week the house went on the market— suddenly I woke up among strangers; when I go into a room, it moves with embarrassment, and joins another room. I don't need conversation, but you to laugh with— you and a room and a fire, cold starlight blowing through an open window— whither? 2 After sunfall, heaven is melodramatic, a temporary, puckering, burning green. The patched-up oak and blacker, indelible pines have the indigestible meagerness of spines. One wishes heaven had less solemnity: a sensual table with five half-filled bottles of red wine set round the hectic carved roast— Bohemia for ourselves and the familiars of a lifetime charmed to communion by resurrection— running together in the rain to mail a single letter, not the chafe and cling of this despondent chaff. 3 Yet for a moment, the children could play truant from their tuition. 4 When I look back, I see a collapsing accordion of my receding houses, and myself receding to a boy of twenty-five or thirty, too shopworn for less, too impressionable for more— blackmaned, illmade in a washed blue workshirt and coalblack trousers, moving from house to house, still seeking a boy's license to see the countryside without arrival. Hell? Darling, terror in happiness may not cure the hungry future, the time when any illness is chronic, and the years of discretion are spent on complaint— until the wristwatch is taken from the wrist.

Written by Edward Taylor | The List of Famous Hats Napoleon's hat is an obvious choice I guess to list as a famous hat, but that's not the hat I have in mind. That was his hat for show. I am thinking of his private bathing cap, which in all hon- esty wasn't much different than the one any jerk might buy at a corner drugstore now, except for two minor eccentricities. The first one isn't even funny: Simply it was a white rubber bathing cap, but too small. Napoleon led such a hectic life ever since his childhood, even farther back than that, that he never had a chance to buy a new bathing cap and still as a grown-up--well, he didn't really grow that much, but his head did: He was a pin- head at birth, and he used, until his death really, the same little tiny bathing cap that he was born in, and this meant that later it was very painful to him and gave him many headaches, as if he needed more. So, he had to vaseline his skull like crazy to even get the thing on. The second eccentricity was that it was a tricorn bathing cap. Scholars like to make a lot out of this, and it would be easy to do. My theory is simple-minded to be sure: that be- neath his public head there was another head and it was a pyra- mid or something.

Written by Delmore Schwartz | Poem (In the morning when it was raining) In the morning, when it was raining, Then the birds were hectic and loudy; Through all the reign is fall's entertaining; Their singing was erratic and full of disorder: They did not remember the summer blue Or the orange of June. They did not think at all Of the great red and bursting ball Of the kingly sun's terror and tempest, blazing, Once the slanting rain threw over all The colorless curtains of the ceaseless spontaneous fall.

Written by George (Lord) Byron | To A Lady O! had my Fate been join'd with thine, As once this pledge appear'd a token, These follies had not, then, been mine, For, then, my peace had not been broken. To thee, these early faults I owe, To thee, the wise and old reproving: They know my sins, but do not know 'Twas thine to break the bonds of loving. For once my soul, like thine, was pure, And all its rising fires could smother; But, now, thy vows no more endure, Bestow'd by thee upon another. Perhaps, his peace I could destroy, And spoil the blisses that await him; Yet let my Rival smile in joy, For thy dear sake, I cannot hate him. Ah! since thy angel form is gone, My heart no more can rest with any; But what it sought in thee alone, Attempts, alas! to find in many. Then, fare thee well, deceitful Maid! 'Twere vain and fruitless to regret thee; Nor Hope, nor Memory yield their aid, But Pride may teach me to forget thee. Yet all this giddy waste of years, This tiresome round of palling pleasures; These varied loves, these matrons' fears, These thoughtless strains to Passion's measures--- If thou wert mine, had all been hush'd:--- This cheek, now pale from early riot, With Passion's hectic ne'er had flush'd, But bloom'd in calm domestic quiet. Yes, once the rural Scene was sweet, For Nature seem'd to smile before thee; And once my Breast abhorr'd deceit,--- For then it beat but to adore thee. But, now, I seek for other joys--- To think, would drive my soul to madness; In thoughtless throngs, and empty noise, I conquer half my Bosom's sadness. Yet, even in these, a thought will steal, In spite of every vain endeavor; And fiends might pity what I feel--- To know that thou art lost for ever.

Written by Sir Walter Scott | The Maid of Neidpath O lovers’ eyes are sharp to see, And lovers’ ears in hearing; And love, in life’s extremity, Can lend an hour of cheering. Disease had been in Mary’s bower And slow decay from mourning, Though now she sits on Neidpath’s tower To watch her Love’s returning. All sunk and dim her eyes so bright, Her form decay’d by pining, Till through her wasted hand, at night, You saw the taper shining. By fits a sultry hectic hue Across her cheek was flying; By fits so ashy pale she grew Her maidens thought her dying. Yet keenest powers to see and hear Seem’d in her frame residing; Before the watch-dog prick’d his ear She heard her lover’s riding; Ere scarce a distant form was kenn’d She knew and waved to greet him, And o’er the battlement did bend As on the wing to meet him. He came—he pass’d—an heedless gaze As o’er some stranger glancing: Her welcome, spoke in faltering phrase, Lost in his courser’s prancing— The castle-arch, whose hollow tone Returns each whisper spoken, Could scarcely catch the feeble moan Which told her heart was broken.

Written by Ella Wheeler Wilcox | Fading All in the beautiful Autumn weather One thought lingers with me and stays; Death and winter are coming together, Though both are veiled by the amber haze I look on the forest of royal splendour! I look on the face in my quiet room; A face all beautiful, sad and tender, And both are stamped with the seal of doom. All through the days of Indian summer, Minute by minute and hour by hour, I feel the approach of a dreaded Comer – A ghastly presence of awful power. I hear the birds in the early morning, As they fly from the fields that are turning brown, And at noon and at night my heart takes warning, For the maple leaves fall down and down. The sumac bushes are all a-flaming! The world is scarlet, and gold, and green, And my darling’s beautiful cheeks are shaming The painted bloom of the ball-room queen. Why talk of winter, amid such glory? Why speak of death of a thing so fair? Oh, but the forest king white and hoary Is weaving a mantle for both to wear. God! If I could by the soft deceiving Of forests of splendour and cheeks of bloom Lull my heart into sweet believing Just for a moment and drown my gloom; If I could forget for a second only And rest from the pain of this awful dread Of the days that are coming long and lonely When the Autumn goes and she is dead. But all the while the sun gilds wood and meadow And the fair cheeks, hectic glows and cheats, I know grim death sits veiled in shadow Weaving for both their winding sheets. I cannot help, and I cannot save her. My hands are as weak as a babe’s new-born; I must yield her up to One who gave her And wait for the resurrection morn.

Written by Robert William Service | The Twins Of Lucky Strike I've sung of Violet de Vere, that slinky, minky dame, Of Gertie of the Diamond Tooth, and Touch-the-Button Nell, And Maye Lamore,--at eighty-four I oughta blush wi' shame That in my wild and wooly youth I knew them ladies well. And Klondike Kit, and Gumboot Sue, and many I've forgot; They had their faults, as I recall, the same as you and me; But come to take them all in all, the daisy of the lot, The glamour queen of dance-hall dames was Montreal Maree. And yet her heart was bigger than a barn, the boys would say; Always the first to help the weak, and so with words of woe, She put me wise that Lipstick Lou was in the family way: "An' who ze baby's fazzaire ees, only ze bon Dieu know." Then on a black and bitter night passed on poor Lipstick Lou; And by her bedside, midwife wise, wi' tears aflowin' free, A holdin' out the newly born,--an' by gosh! there was two: "Helas! I am zere mossaire now," said Montreal Maree. Said One-eyed Mike: "In Lucky Strike we've never yet had twins," As darin' inundation he held one upon each knee. "Say, boys, ain't they a purty sight, as like's a pair o' pins-- We gotta hold a christinin' wi' Father Tim McGee." "I aim to be their Godpa," bellowed Black Moran from Nome. "The guy wot don't love childer is a blasted S.O.B.: So long as I can tot a gun them kids won't lack a home." "I sink zey creep into my heart," said Montreal Maree. 'Twas hectic in the Nugget Bar, the hooch was flowin' free, An' Lousetown Liz was singin' of how someone done her wrong, Wi' sixty seeded sourdoughs all ahollerin' their glee, When One-eyed Mike uprose an' called suspension of the song. Says he: "Aloodin' to them twins, their age in months is two, An' I propose wi' Christmas close, we offer them a tree. 'Twill sure be mighty pleasin' to the ghost o' Lipstick Lou . . ." "Zen you will be ze Père Noël," said Montreal Maree. The dance hall of the Nugget Bar erupted joy an' light, An' set upon the stage them twins was elegant to see, Like angel cherubs in their robes of pure baptismal white, Abaskin' in the sunny smile o' Father tim McGee. Then on the bar stood Santa Claus, says he: "We'll form a Trust; So all you sourdoughs heft your pokes an' hang 'em on the Tree. To give them kids a chance in life we'll raise enough or bust!" "For zem I pray ze Lord to bless," said Montreal Maree. You never saw a Christmas Tree so swell as that, I vow, Wi' sixty sweaty sourdoughs ringin' round them infants two; Their solid pokes o' virgin gold aweighin' down each bough, All singin' Christ Is Risen, for the soul o' Lipstick Lou, "Lo! Death is a deliverer, the purger of our sins, And Motherhood leads up to God," said Father Tim McGee. Then all the Ladies of the Line bent down to kiss them twins, Clasped to the breast, Madonna-like, of Montreal Maree. Sure 'tis the love of childer makes for savin' of the soul, And in Maternity the hope of humankind we see; So though she wears no halo, headin' out for Heaven's goal, Awheelin' of a double pram,--bless Montreal Maree!