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Best Famous Himalayan Poems

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

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Written by Rudyard Kipling | Create an image from this poem

The Female of the Species


When the Himalayan peasant meets the he-bear in his pride,
He shouts to scare the monster, who will often turn aside.
But the she-bear thus accosted rends the peasant tooth and nail.
For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.
When Nag the basking cobra hears the careless foot of man, He will sometimes wriggle sideways and avoid it if he can.
But his mate makes no such motion where she camps beside the trail.
For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.
When the early Jesuit fathers preached to Hurons and Choctaws, They prayed to be delivered from the vengeance of the squaws.
'Twas the women, not the warriors, turned those stark enthusiasts pale.
For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.
Man's timid heart is bursting with the things he must not say, For the Woman that God gave him isn't his to give away; But when hunter meets with husbands, each confirms the other's tale -- The female of the species is more deadly than the male.
Man, a bear in most relations-worm and savage otherwise, -- Man propounds negotiations, Man accepts the compromise.
Very rarely will he squarely push the logic of a fact To its ultimate conclusion in unmitigated act.
Fear, or foolishness, impels him, ere he lay the wicked low, To concede some form of trial even to his fiercest foe.
Mirth obscene diverts his anger --- Doubt and Pity oft perplex Him in dealing with an issue -- to the scandal of The Sex! But the Woman that God gave him, every fibre of her frame Proves her launched for one sole issue, armed and engined for the same, And to serve that single issue, lest the generations fail, The female of the species must be deadlier than the male.
She who faces Death by torture for each life beneath her breast May not deal in doubt or pity -- must not swerve for fact or jest.
These be purely male diversions -- not in these her honour dwells.
She the Other Law we live by, is that Law and nothing else.
She can bring no more to living than the powers that make her great As the Mother of the Infant and the Mistress of the Mate.
And when Babe and Man are lacking and she strides unchained to claim Her right as femme (and baron), her equipment is the same.
She is wedded to convictions -- in default of grosser ties; Her contentions are her children, Heaven help him who denies! -- He will meet no suave discussion, but the instant, white-hot, wild, Wakened female of the species warring as for spouse and child.
Unprovoked and awful charges -- even so the she-bear fights, Speech that drips, corrodes, and poisons -- even so the cobra bites, Scientific vivisection of one nerve till it is raw And the victim writhes in anguish -- like the Jesuit with the squaw! So it cames that Man, the coward, when he gathers to confer With his fellow-braves in council, dare nat leave a place for her Where, at war with Life and Conscience, he uplifts his erring hands To some God of Abstract Justice -- which no woman understands.
And Man knows it! Knows, moreover, that the Woman that God gave him Must command but may not govern -- shall enthral but not enslave him.
And She knows, because She warns him, and Her instincts never fail, That the Female of Her Species is more deadly than the Male.

Written by Oscar Wilde | Create an image from this poem

Ave Imperatrix

 Set in this stormy Northern sea,
Queen of these restless fields of tide,
England! what shall men say of thee,
Before whose feet the worlds divide?

The earth, a brittle globe of glass,
Lies in the hollow of thy hand,
And through its heart of crystal pass,
Like shadows through a twilight land,

The spears of crimson-suited war,
The long white-crested waves of fight,
And all the deadly fires which are
The torches of the lords of Night.
The yellow leopards, strained and lean, The treacherous Russian knows so well, With gaping blackened jaws are seen Leap through the hail of screaming shell.
The strong sea-lion of England's wars Hath left his sapphire cave of sea, To battle with the storm that mars The stars of England's chivalry.
The brazen-throated clarion blows Across the Pathan's reedy fen, And the high steeps of Indian snows Shake to the tread of armed men.
And many an Afghan chief, who lies Beneath his cool pomegranate-trees, Clutches his sword in fierce surmise When on the mountain-side he sees The fleet-foot Marri scout, who comes To tell how he hath heard afar The measured roll of English drums Beat at the gates of Kandahar.
For southern wind and east wind meet Where, girt and crowned by sword and fire, England with bare and bloody feet Climbs the steep road of wide empire.
O lonely Himalayan height, Grey pillar of the Indian sky, Where saw'st thou last in clanging flight Our winged dogs of Victory? The almond-groves of Samarcand, Bokhara, where red lilies blow, And Oxus, by whose yellow sand The grave white-turbaned merchants go: And on from thence to Ispahan, The gilded garden of the sun, Whence the long dusty caravan Brings cedar wood and vermilion; And that dread city of Cabool Set at the mountain's scarped feet, Whose marble tanks are ever full With water for the noonday heat: Where through the narrow straight Bazaar A little maid Circassian Is led, a present from the Czar Unto some old and bearded khan, - Here have our wild war-eagles flown, And flapped wide wings in fiery fight; But the sad dove, that sits alone In England - she hath no delight.
In vain the laughing girl will lean To greet her love with love-lit eyes: Down in some treacherous black ravine, Clutching his flag, the dead boy lies.
And many a moon and sun will see The lingering wistful children wait To climb upon their father's knee; And in each house made desolate Pale women who have lost their lord Will kiss the relics of the slain - Some tarnished epaulette - some sword - Poor toys to soothe such anguished pain.
For not in quiet English fields Are these, our brothers, lain to rest, Where we might deck their broken shields With all the flowers the dead love best.
For some are by the Delhi walls, And many in the Afghan land, And many where the Ganges falls Through seven mouths of shifting sand.
And some in Russian waters lie, And others in the seas which are The portals to the East, or by The wind-swept heights of Trafalgar.
O wandering graves! O restless sleep! O silence of the sunless day! O still ravine! O stormy deep! Give up your prey! Give up your prey! And thou whose wounds are never healed, Whose weary race is never won, O Cromwell's England! must thou yield For every inch of ground a son? Go! crown with thorns thy gold-crowned head, Change thy glad song to song of pain; Wind and wild wave have got thy dead, And will not yield them back again.
Wave and wild wind and foreign shore Possess the flower of English land - Lips that thy lips shall kiss no more, Hands that shall never clasp thy hand.
What profit now that we have bound The whole round world with nets of gold, If hidden in our heart is found The care that groweth never old? What profit that our galleys ride, Pine-forest-like, on every main? Ruin and wreck are at our side, Grim warders of the House of Pain.
Where are the brave, the strong, the fleet? Where is our English chivalry? Wild grasses are their burial-sheet, And sobbing waves their threnody.
O loved ones lying far away, What word of love can dead lips send! O wasted dust! O senseless clay! Is this the end! is this the end! Peace, peace! we wrong the noble dead To vex their solemn slumber so; Though childless, and with thorn-crowned head, Up the steep road must England go, Yet when this fiery web is spun, Her watchmen shall descry from far The young Republic like a sun Rise from these crimson seas of war.
Written by Rudyard Kipling | Create an image from this poem

The Story of Uriah

 Jack Barrett went to Quetta
 Because they told him to.
He left his wife at Simla On three-fourths his monthly screw.
Jack Barrett died at Quetta Ere the next month's pay he drew.
Jack Barrett went to Quetta.
He didn't understand The reason of his transfer From the pleasant mountain-land.
The season was September, And it killed him out of hand.
Jack Barrett went to Quetta And there gave up the ghost, Attempting two men's duty In that very healthy post; And Mrs.
Barrett mourned for him Five lively months at most.
Jack Barrett's bones at Quetta Enjoy profound repose; But I shouldn't be astonished If now his spirit knows The reason of his transfer From the Himalayan snows.
And, when the Last Great Bugle Call Adown the Hurnai throbs, And the last grim joke is entered In the big black Book of Jobs.
And Quetta graveyards give again Their victims to the air, I shouldn't like to be the man Who sent Jack Barrett there.
Written by Omer Tarin | Create an image from this poem

For Tahira Mazhar Ali Khan , RIP (5th January 1925-23rd March 2015)

Some souls pass away so quietly that not even the suspiration of their fleeting wings
is heard, or known, to us, among so many other activities, so many other things; 

so, this was one such soul, that breathed its last, effortlessly and without pain, 
melting away into the unknown, rising to the snowy Himalayan heights, shining forth beyond these dusty plains; 

only now, people seem to have woken up to her plaudits, her praise, 
something she never sought in her long and eventful life, through years of joy and strife

yet all this is somehow her due, more than many who falsely claim it 
and its no small achievement, hers, at so many levels, when we think of it- 

personal and national-- daughter, wife, mother; and an inspiring enabling guide
to millions, who flounder in the shallows, or sink with each fickle tide; 

for these, the poor, the helpless, the friendless, the outcast, 
she brought hope and comfort and a vision eternal, one that will last 
and outlive us all.

(BR magazine 25th March 2015)