Best Famous Hounded Poems

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

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• All Famous Hounded Poems

Written by Victor Hugo | Letter You can see it already: chalks and ochers; Country crossed with a thousand furrow-lines; Ground-level rooftops hidden by the shrubbery; Sporadic haystacks standing on the grass; Smoky old rooftops tarnishing the landscape; A river (not Cayster or Ganges, though: A feeble Norman salt-infested watercourse); On the right, to the north, bizarre terrain All angular--you'd think a shovel did it. So that's the foreground. An old chapel adds Its antique spire, and gathers alongside it A few gnarled elms with grumpy silhouettes; Seemingly tired of all the frisky breezes, They carp at every gust that stirs them up. At one side of my house a big wheelbarrow Is rusting; and before me lies the vast Horizon, all its notches filled with ocean blue; Cocks and hens spread their gildings, and converse Beneath my window; and the rooftop attics, Now and then, toss me songs in dialect. In my lane dwells a patriarchal rope-maker; The old man makes his wheel run loud, and goes Retrograde, hemp wreathed tightly round the midriff. I like these waters where the wild gale scuds; All day the country tempts me to go strolling; The little village urchins, book in hand, Envy me, at the schoolmaster's (my lodging), As a big schoolboy sneaking a day off. The air is pure, the sky smiles; there's a constant Soft noise of children spelling things aloud. The waters flow; a linnet flies; and I say: "Thank you! Thank you, Almighty God!"--So, then, I live: Peacefully, hour by hour, with little fuss, I shed My days, and think of you, my lady fair! I hear the children chattering; and I see, at times, Sailing across the high seas in its pride, Over the gables of the tranquil village, Some winged ship which is traveling far away, Flying across the ocean, hounded by all the winds. Lately it slept in port beside the quay. Nothing has kept it from the jealous sea-surge: No tears of relatives, nor fears of wives, Nor reefs dimly reflected in the waters, Nor importunity of sinister birds.

Written by Yevgeny Yevtushenko | Babi Yar No monument stands over Babi Yar. A drop sheer as a crude gravestone. I am afraid. Today I am as old in years as all the Jewish people. Now I seem to be a Jew. Here I plod through ancient Egypt. Here I perish crucified, on the cross, and to this day I bear the scars of nails. I seem to be Dreyfus. The Philistine is both informer and judge. I am behind bars. Beset on every side. Hounded, spat on, slandered. Squealing, dainty ladies in flounced Brussels lace stick their parasols into my face. I seem to be then a young boy in Byelostok. Blood runs, spilling over the floors. The barroom rabble-rousers give off a stench of vodka and onion. A boot kicks me aside, helpless. In vain I plead with these pogrom bullies. While they jeer and shout, "Beat the Yids. Save Russia!" some grain-marketeer beats up my mother. 0 my Russian people! I know you are international to the core. But those with unclean hands have often made a jingle of your purest name. I know the goodness of my land. How vile these anti-Semites- without a qualm they pompously called themselves the Union of the Russian People! I seem to be Anne Frank transparent as a branch in April. And I love. And have no need of phrases. My need is that we gaze into each other. How little we can see or smell! We are denied the leaves, we are denied the sky. Yet we can do so much -- tenderly embrace each other in a darkened room. They're coming here? Be not afraid. Those are the booming sounds of spring: spring is coming here. Come then to me. Quick, give me your lips. Are they smashing down the door? No, it's the ice breaking ... The wild grasses rustle over Babi Yar. The trees look ominous, like judges. Here all things scream silently, and, baring my head, slowly I feel myself turning gray. And I myself am one massive, soundless scream above the thousand thousand buried here. I am each old man here shot dead. I am every child here shot dead. Nothing in me shall ever forget! The "Internationale," let it thunder when the last anti-Semite on earth is buried forever. In my blood there is no Jewish blood. In their callous rage, all anti-Semites must hate me now as a Jew. For that reason I am a true Russian!

Written by Robert Burns | 88. The Author's Earnest Cry and Prayer YE Irish lords, ye knights an’ squires, Wha represent our brughs an’ shires, An’ doucely manage our affairs In parliament, To you a simple poet’s pray’rs Are humbly sent. Alas! my roupit Muse is hearse! Your Honours’ hearts wi’ grief ’twad pierce, To see her sittin on her **** Low i’ the dust, And scriechinh out prosaic verse, An like to brust! Tell them wha hae the chief direction, Scotland an’ me’s in great affliction, E’er sin’ they laid that curst restriction On aqua-vit&æ; An’ rouse them up to strong conviction, An’ move their pity. Stand forth an’ tell yon Premier youth The honest, open, naked truth: Tell him o’ mine an’ Scotland’s drouth, His servants humble: The muckle deevil blaw you south If ye dissemble! Does ony great man glunch an’ gloom? Speak out, an’ never fash your thumb! Let posts an’ pensions sink or soom Wi’ them wha grant them; If honestly they canna come, Far better want them. In gath’rin votes you were na slack; Now stand as tightly by your tack: Ne’er claw your lug, an’ fidge your back, An’ hum an’ haw; But raise your arm, an’ tell your crack Before them a’. Paint Scotland greetin owre her thrissle; Her mutchkin stowp as toom’s a whissle; An’ d—mn’d excisemen in a bussle, Seizin a stell, Triumphant crushin’t like a mussel, Or limpet shell! Then, on the tither hand present her— A blackguard smuggler right behint her, An’ cheek-for-chow, a chuffie vintner Colleaguing join, Picking her pouch as bare as winter Of a’ kind coin. Is there, that bears the name o’ Scot, But feels his heart’s bluid rising hot, To see his poor auld mither’s pot Thus dung in staves, An’ plunder’d o’ her hindmost groat By gallows knaves? Alas! I’m but a nameless wight, Trode i’ the mire out o’ sight? But could I like Montgomeries fight, Or gab like Boswell, 2 There’s some sark-necks I wad draw tight, An’ tie some hose well. God bless your Honours! can ye see’t— The kind, auld cantie carlin greet, An’ no get warmly to your feet, An’ gar them hear it, An’ tell them wi’a patriot-heat Ye winna bear it? Some o’ you nicely ken the laws, To round the period an’ pause, An’ with rhetoric clause on clause To mak harangues; Then echo thro’ Saint Stephen’s wa’s Auld Scotland’s wrangs. Dempster, 3 a true blue Scot I’se warran’; Thee, aith-detesting, chaste Kilkerran; 4 An’ that glib-gabbit Highland baron, The Laird o’ Graham; 5 An’ ane, a chap that’s damn’d aulfarran’, Dundas his name: 6 Erskine, a spunkie Norland billie; 7 True Campbells, Frederick and Ilay; 8 An’ Livistone, the bauld Sir Willie; 9 An’ mony ithers, Whom auld Demosthenes or Tully Might own for brithers. See sodger Hugh, 10 my watchman stented, If poets e’er are represented; I ken if that your sword were wanted, Ye’d lend a hand; But when there’s ought to say anent it, Ye’re at a stand. Arouse, my boys! exert your mettle, To get auld Scotland back her kettle; Or faith! I’ll wad my new pleugh-pettle, Ye’ll see’t or lang, She’ll teach you, wi’ a reekin whittle, Anither sang. This while she’s been in crankous mood, Her lost Militia fir’d her bluid; (Deil na they never mair do guid, Play’d her that pliskie!) An’ now she’s like to rin red-wud About her whisky. An’ Lord! if ance they pit her till’t, Her tartan petticoat she’ll kilt, An’durk an’ pistol at her belt, She’ll tak the streets, An’ rin her whittle to the hilt, I’ the first she meets! For God sake, sirs! then speak her fair, An’ straik her cannie wi’ the hair, An’ to the muckle house repair, Wi’ instant speed, An’ strive, wi’ a’ your wit an’ lear, To get remead. Yon ill-tongu’d tinkler, Charlie Fox, May taunt you wi’ his jeers and mocks; But gie him’t het, my hearty cocks! E’en cowe the cadie! An’ send him to his dicing box An’ sportin’ lady. Tell you guid bluid o’ auld Boconnock’s, 11 I’ll be his debt twa mashlum bonnocks, An’ drink his health in auld Nance Tinnock’s 12 Nine times a-week, If he some scheme, like tea an’ winnocks, Was kindly seek. Could he some commutation broach, I’ll pledge my aith in guid braid Scotch, He needna fear their foul reproach Nor erudition, Yon mixtie-maxtie, ***** hotch-potch, The Coalition. Auld Scotland has a raucle tongue; She’s just a devil wi’ a rung; An’ if she promise auld or young To tak their part, Tho’ by the neck she should be strung, She’ll no desert. And now, ye chosen Five-and-Forty, May still you mither’s heart support ye; Then, tho’a minister grow dorty, An’ kick your place, Ye’ll snap your gingers, poor an’ hearty, Before his face. God bless your Honours, a’ your days, Wi’ sowps o’ kail and brats o’ claise, In spite o’ a’ the thievish kaes, That haunt St. Jamie’s! Your humble poet sings an’ prays, While Rab his name is. POSTSCRIPTLET half-starv’d slaves in warmer skies See future wines, rich-clust’ring, rise; Their lot auld Scotland ne’re envies, But, blythe and frisky, She eyes her freeborn, martial boys Tak aff their whisky. What tho’ their Phoebus kinder warms, While fragrance blooms and beauty charms, When wretches range, in famish’d swarms, The scented groves; Or, hounded forth, dishonour arms In hungry droves! Their gun’s a burden on their shouther; They downa bide the stink o’ powther; Their bauldest thought’s a hank’ring swither To stan’ or rin, Till skelp—a shot—they’re aff, a’throw’ther, To save their skin. But bring a Scotchman frae his hill, Clap in his cheek a Highland gill, Say, such is royal George’s will, An’ there’s the foe! He has nae thought but how to kill Twa at a blow. Nae cauld, faint-hearted doubtings tease him; Death comes, wi’ fearless eye he sees him; Wi’bluidy hand a welcome gies him; An’ when he fa’s, His latest draught o’ breathin lea’es him In faint huzzas. Sages their solemn een may steek, An’ raise a philosophic reek, An’ physically causes seek, In clime an’ season; But tell me whisky’s name in Greek I’ll tell the reason. Scotland, my auld, respected mither! Tho’ whiles ye moistify your leather, Till, whare ye sit on craps o’ heather, Ye tine your dam; Freedom an’ whisky gang thegither! Take aff your dram! Note 1. This was written before the Act anent the Scotch distilleries, of session 1786, for which Scotland and the author return their most grateful thanks.—R. B. [back] Note 2. James Boswell of Auchinleck, the biographer of Johnson. [back] Note 3. George Dempster of Dunnichen. [back] Note 4. Sir Adam Ferguson of Kilkerran, Bart. [back] Note 5. The Marquis of Graham, eldest son of the Duke of Montrose. [back] Note 6. Right Hon. Henry Dundas, M. P. [back] Note 7. Probably Thomas, afterward Lord Erskine. [back] Note 8. Lord Frederick Campbell, second brother of the Duke of Argyll, and Ilay Campbell, Lord Advocate for Scotland, afterward President of the Court of Session. [back] Note 9. Sir Wm. Augustus Cunningham, Baronet, of Livingstone. [back] Note 10. Col. Hugh Montgomery, afterward Earl of Eglinton. [back] Note 11. Pitt, whose grandfather was of Boconnock in Cornwall. [back] Note 12. A worthy old hostess of the author’s in Mauchline, where he sometimes studies politics over a glass of gude auld Scotch Drink.—R. B. [back]

Written by Emma Lazarus | 1492 Thou two-faced year, Mother of Change and Fate, Didst weep when Spain cast forth with flaming sword, The children of the prophets of the Lord, Prince, priest, and people, spurned by zealot hate. Hounded from sea to sea, from state to state, The West refused them, and the East abhorred. No anchorage the known world could afford, Close-locked was every port, barred every gate. Then smiling, thou unveil'dst, O two-faced year, A virgin world where doors of sunset part, Saying, "Ho, all who weary, enter here! There falls each ancient barrier that the art Of race or creed or rank devised, to rear Grim bulwarked hatred between heart and heart!"

Written by Rudyard Kipling | The Sea And the Hills 1902 Who hath desired the Sea? -- the sight of salt wind-hounded -- The heave and the halt and the hurl and the crash of the comber win hounded? The sleek-barrelled swell before storm, grey, foamless, enormous, and growing -- Stark calm on the lap of the Line or the crazy-eyed hurricane blowing -- His Sea in no showing the same his Sea and the same 'neath each showing: His Sea as she slackens or thrills? So and no otherwise -- so and no otherwise -- hillmen desire their Hills! Who hath desired the Sea? -- the immense and contemptuous surges? The shudder, the stumble, the swerve, as the star-stabbing bow-sprit emerges? The orderly clouds of the Trades, the ridged, roaring sapphire thereunder -- Unheralded cliff-haunting flaws and the headsail's low-volleying thunder -- His Sea in no wonder the same his Sea and the same through each wonder: His Sea as she rages or stills? So and no otherwise -- so and no otherwise -- hillmen desire their Hills. Who hath desired the Sea? Her menaces swift as her mercies? The in-rolling walls of the fog and the silver-winged breeze that disperses? The unstable mined berg going South and the calvings and groans that de clare it -- White water half-guessed overside and the moon breaking timely to bare it -- His Sea as his fathers have dared -- his Sea as his children shall dare it: His Sea as she serves him or kills? So and no otherwise -- so and no otherwisc -- hillmen desire their Hills. Who hath desired the Sea? Her excellent loneliness rather Than forecourts of kings, and her outermost pits than the streets where men gather Inland, among dust, under trees -- inland where the slayer may slay him -- Inland, out of reach of her arms, and the bosom whereon he must lay him His Sea from the first that betrayed -- at the last that shall never betray him: His Sea that his being fulfils? So and no otherwise -- so and no otherwise -- hillmen desire their Hills.

Written by Edgar Lee Masters | Nicholas Bindle Were you not ashamed, fellow citizens, When my estate was probated and everyone knew How small a fortune I left?-- You who hounded me in life, To give, give, give to the churches, to the poor, To the village!--me who had already given much. And think you not I did not know That the pipe-organ, which I gave to the church, Played its christening songs when Deacon Rhodes, Who broke and all but ruined me, Worshipped for the first time after his acquittal?

Written by Robert Louis Stevenson | I Now O Friend Whom Noiselessly The Snows I NOW, O friend, whom noiselessly the snows Settle around, and whose small chamber grows Dusk as the sloping window takes its load: * * * * * The kindly hill, as to complete our hap, Has ta'en us in the shelter of her lap; Well sheltered in our slender grove of trees And ring of walls, we sit between her knees; A disused quarry, paved with rose plots, hung With clematis, the barren womb whence sprung The crow-stepped house itself, that now far seen Stands, like a bather, to the neck in green. A disused quarry, furnished with a seat Sacred to pipes and meditation meet For such a sunny and retired nook. There in the clear, warm mornings many a book Has vied with the fair prospect of the hills That, vale on vale, rough brae on brae, upfills Halfway to the zenith all the vacant sky To keep my loose attention. . . . Horace has sat with me whole mornings through: And Montaigne gossiped, fairly false and true; And chattering Pepys, and a few beside That suit the easy vein, the quiet tide, The calm and certain stay of garden-life, Far sunk from all the thunderous roar of strife. There is about the small secluded place A garnish of old times; a certain grace Of pensive memories lays about the braes: The old chestnuts gossip tales of bygone days. Here, where some wandering preacher, blest Lazil, Perhaps, or Peden, on the middle hill Had made his secret church, in rain or snow, He cheers the chosen residue from woe. All night the doors stood open, come who might, The hounded kebbock mat the mud all night. Nor are there wanting later tales; of how Prince Charlie's Highlanders . . . * * * * * I have had talents, too. In life's first hour God crowned with benefits my childish head. Flower after flower, I plucked them; flower by flower Cast them behind me, ruined, withered, dead. Full many a shining godhead disappeared. From the bright rank that once adorned her brow The old child's Olympus * * * * * Gone are the fair old dreams, and one by one, As, one by one, the means to reach them went, As, one by one, the stars in riot and disgrace, I squandered what . . . There shut the door, alas! on many a hope Too many; My face is set to the autumnal slope, Where the loud winds shall . . . There shut the door, alas! on many a hope, And yet some hopes remain that shall decide My rest of years and down the autumnal slope. * * * * * Gone are the quiet twilight dreams that I Loved, as all men have loved them; gone! I have great dreams, and still they stir my soul on high - Dreams of the knight's stout heart and tempered will. Not in Elysian lands they take their way; Not as of yore across the gay champaign, Towards some dream city, towered . . . and my . . . The path winds forth before me, sweet and plain, Not now; but though beneath a stone-grey sky November's russet woodlands toss and wail, Still the white road goes thro' them, still may I, Strong in new purpose, God, may still prevail. * * * * * I and my like, improvident sailors! * * * * * At whose light fall awaking, all my heart Grew populous with gracious, favoured thought, And all night long thereafter, hour by hour, The pageant of dead love before my eyes Went proudly, and old hopes with downcast head Followed like Kings, subdued in Rome's imperial hour, Followed the car; and I . . .