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Best Famous Impose Poems

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

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Written by Adrienne Rich | Create an image from this poem

Stepping Backward

 Good-by to you whom I shall see tomorrow,
Next year and when I'm fifty; still good-by.
This is the leave we never really take.
If you were dead or gone to live in China The event might draw your stature in my mind.
I should be forced to look upon you whole The way we look upon the things we lose.
We see each other daily and in segments; Parting might make us meet anew, entire.
You asked me once, and I could give no answer, How far dare we throw off the daily ruse, Official treacheries of face and name, Have out our true identity? I could hazard An answer now, if you are asking still.
We are a small and lonely human race Showing no sign of mastering solitude Out on this stony planet that we farm.
The most that we can do for one another Is let our blunders and our blind mischances Argue a certain brusque abrupt compassion.
We might as well be truthful.
I should say They're luckiest who know they're not unique; But only art or common interchange Can teach that kindest truth.
And even art Can only hint at what disturbed a Melville Or calmed a Mahler's frenzy; you and I Still look from separate windows every morning Upon the same white daylight in the square.
And when we come into each other's rooms Once in awhile, encumbered and self-conscious, We hover awkwardly about the threshold And usually regret the visit later.
Perhaps the harshest fact is, only lovers-- And once in a while two with the grace of lovers-- Unlearn that clumsiness of rare intrusion And let each other freely come and go.
Most of us shut too quickly into cupboards The margin-scribbled books, the dried geranium, The penny horoscope, letters never mailed.
The door may open, but the room is altered; Not the same room we look from night and day.
It takes a late and slowly blooming wisdom To learn that those we marked infallible Are tragi-comic stumblers like ourselves.
The knowledge breeds reserve.
We walk on tiptoe, Demanding more than we know how to render.
Two-edged discovery hunts us finally down; The human act will make us real again, And then perhaps we come to know each other.
Let us return to imperfection's school.
No longer wandering after Plato's ghost, Seeking the garden where all fruit is flawless, We must at last renounce that ultimate blue And take a walk in other kinds of weather.
The sourest apple makes its wry announcement That imperfection has a certain tang.
Maybe we shouldn't turn our pockets out To the last crumb or lingering bit of fluff, But all we can confess of what we are Has in it the defeat of isolation-- If not our own, then someone's, anyway.
So I come back to saying this good-by, A sort of ceremony of my own, This stepping backward for another glance.
Perhaps you'll say we need no ceremony, Because we know each other, crack and flaw, Like two irregular stones that fit together.
Yet still good-by, because we live by inches And only sometimes see the full dimension.
Your stature's one I want to memorize-- Your whole level of being, to impose On any other comers, man or woman.
I'd ask them that they carry what they are With your particular bearing, as you wear The flaws that make you both yourself and human.


Written by Charles Baudelaire | Create an image from this poem

Benediction

 When, by decree of the supreme power,
The Poet appears in this annoyed world,
His mother, blasphemous out of horror
At God's pity, cries out with fists curled:

"Ah! I'd rather You'd will me a snake's skin
Than to keep feeding this monstrous slur!
I curse that night's ephemera are sins
To make my womb atone for pleasure.
"Since You have chosen me from all the brides To bear the disgust of my dolorous groom And since I can't throw back into the fires Like an old love letter this gaunt buffoon "I'll replace Your hate that overwhelms me On the instrument of Your wicked gloom And torture so well this miserable tree Its pestiferous buds will never bloom!" She chokes down the eucharist of venom, Not comprehending eternal designs, She prepares a Gehenna of her own, And consecrates a pyre of maternal crimes.
Yet, watched by an invisible seraph, The disinherited child is drunk on the sun And in all he devours and in all he quaffs Receives ambrosia, nectar and honey.
He plays with the wind, chats with the vapors, Deliriously sings the stations of the cross; And the Spirit who follows him in his capers Cries at his joy like a bird in the forest.
Those whom he longs to love look with disdain And dread, strengthened by his tranquillity, They seek to make him complain of his pain So they may try out their ferocity.
In the bread and wine destined for his lips, They mix in cinders and spit with their wrath, And throw out all he touches as he grasps it, And accuse him of putting his feet in their path.
His wife cries out so that everyone hears: "Since he finds me good enough to adore I'll weave as the idols of ancient years A corona of gold as a cover.
"I'll get drunk on nard, incense and myrrh, Get down on bent knee with meats and wines To see if in a heart that admires, My smile denies deference to the divine.
"And, when I tire of these impious farces, I'll arrange for him my frail and hard nails Sharpened just like the claws of a harpy That out of his heart will carve a trail.
"Like a baby bird trembling in the nest I'll dig out his heart all red from my breast To slake the thirst of my favorite pet, And will throw it on the ground with contempt!" Toward the sky, where he sees a great host, The poet, serene, lifts his pious arms high And the vast lightning of his lucid ghost Blinds him to the furious people nearby: "Glory to God, who leaves us to suffer To cure us of all our impurities And like the best, most rarefied buffer Prepares the strong for a saint's ecstasies! "I know that You hold a place for the Poet In the ranks of the blessed and the saint's legions, That You invite him to an eternal fete Of thrones, of virtues, of dominations.
"I know only sorrow is unequaled, It cannot be encroached on from Hell or Earth And if I am to braid my mystic wreath, May I impose it on the universe.
"But the ancient jewels of lost Palmyra, The unknown metals, pearls from the ocean By Your hand mounted, they do not suffice, They cannot dazzle as clearly as this crown "For it will not be made except from halos Drawn of pure light in a holy portal Whose entire splendor, in the eyes of mortals Is only a mirror, obscure and mournful.
"
Written by William Blake | Create an image from this poem

Blind Mans Buff

 When silver snow decks Susan's clothes,
And jewel hangs at th' shepherd's nose,
The blushing bank is all my care,
With hearth so red, and walls so fair;
`Heap the sea-coal, come, heap it higher,
The oaken log lay on the fire.
' The well-wash'd stools, a circling row, With lad and lass, how fair the show! The merry can of nut-brown ale, The laughing jest, the love-sick tale, Till, tir'd of chat, the game begins.
The lasses prick the lads with pins; Roger from Dolly twitch'd the stool, She, falling, kiss'd the ground, poor fool! She blush'd so red, with sidelong glance At hob-nail Dick, who griev'd the chance.
But now for Blind man's Buff they call; Of each encumbrance clear the hall-- Jenny her silken 'kerchief folds, And blear-eyed Will the black lot holds.
Now laughing stops, with `Silence! hush!' And Peggy Pout gives Sam a push.
The Blind man's arms, extended wide, Sam slips between:--`O woe betide Thee, clumsy Will!'--but titt'ring Kate Is penn'd up in the corner straight! And now Will's eyes beheld the play; He thought his face was t'other way.
`Now, Kitty, now! what chance hast thou, Roger so near thee!--Trips, I vow!' She catches him--then Roger ties His own head up--but not his eyes; For thro' the slender cloth he sees, And runs at Sam, who slips with ease His clumsy hold; and, dodging round, Sukey is tumbled on the ground!-- `See what it is to play unfair! Where cheating is, there's mischief there.
' But Roger still pursues the chase,-- `He sees! he sees!' cries, softly, Grace; `O Roger, thou, unskill'd in art, Must, surer bound, go thro' thy part!' Now Kitty, pert, repeats the rimes, And Roger turns him round three times, Then pauses ere he starts--but Dick Was mischief bent upon a trick; Down on his hands and knees he lay Directly in the Blind man's way, Then cries out `Hem!' Hodge heard, and ran With hood-wink'd chance--sure of his man; But down he came.
-- Alas, how frail Our best of hopes, how soon they fail! With crimson drops he stains the ground; Confusion startles all around.
Poor piteous Dick supports his head, And fain would cure the hurt he made.
But Kitty hasted with a key, And down his back they straight convey The cold relief; the blood is stay'd, And Hodge again holds up his head.
Such are the fortunes of the game, And those who play should stop the same By wholesome laws; such as all those Who on the blinded man impose Stand in his stead; as, long a-gone, When men were first a nation grown, Lawless they liv'd, till wantonness A 1000 nd liberty began t' increase, And one man lay in another's way; Then laws were made to keep fair play.
Written by Randall Jarrell | Create an image from this poem

The Refugees

 In the shabby train no seat is vacant.
The child in the ripped mask Sprawls undisturbed in the waste Of the smashed compartment.
Is their calm extravagant? They had faces and lives like you.
What was it they possessed That they were willing to trade for this? The dried blood sparkles along the mask Of the child who yesterday possessed A country welcomer than this.
Did he? All night into the waste The train moves silently.
The faces are vacant.
Have none of them found the cost extravagant? How could they? They gave what they possessed.
Here all the purses are vacant.
And what else could satisfy the extravagant Tears and wish of the child but this? Impose its canceling terrible mask On the days and faces and lives they waste? What else are their lives but a journey to the vacant Satisfaction of death? And the mask They wear tonight through their waste Is death's rehearsal.
Is it really extravagant To read in their faces: What is there we possessed That we were unwilling to trade for this?
Written by Sir Walter Raleigh | Create an image from this poem

Sestina Otiosa

 Our great work, the Otia Merseiana, 
Edited by learned Mister Sampson, 
And supported by Professor Woodward, 
Is financed by numerous Bogus Meetings
Hastily convened by Kuno Meyer 
To impose upon the Man of Business.
All in vain! The accomplished Man of Business Disapproves of Otia Merseiana, Turns his back on Doctor Kuno Meyer; Cannot be enticed by Mister Sampson, To be present at the Bogus Meetings, Though attended by Professor Woodward.
Little cares the staid Professor Woodward: He, being something of a man of business, Knows that not a hundred Bogus Meetings To discuss the Otia Merseiana Can involve himself and Mister Sampson In the debts of Doctor Kuno Meyer.
So the poor deluded Kuno Meyer, Unenlightened by Professor Woodward -- Whom, upon the word of Mister Sampson, He believes to be a man of business Fit to run the Otia Merseiana -- Keeps on calling endless Bogus Meetings.
Every week has now its Bogus Meetings, Punctually convened by Kuno Meyer In the name of Otia Merseiana: Every other week Professor Woodward Takes his place, and, as a man of business, Audits the accounts with Mister Sampson.
He and impecunious Mister Sampson Are the mainstay of the Bogus Meetings; But the alienated Man of Business Cannot be allured by Kuno Meyer To attend and meet Professor Woodward, Glory of the Otia Merseiana.
Kuno Meyer! Great Professor Woodward! Bogus Meetings damn, for men of business, Mister Sampson's Otia Merseiana.


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

An EPISTLE From A Gentleman To Madam Deshouliers

 URANIA, whom the Town admires, 
Whose Wit and Beauty share our Praise; 
This fair URANIA who inspires 
A thousand Joys a thousand ways, 
She, who cou'd with a Glance convey 
Favours, that had my Hopes outdone, 
Has lent me Money on that Day, 
Which our Acquaintance first begun.
Nor with the Happiness I taste, Let any jealous Doubts contend: Her Friendship is secure to last, Beginning where all others end.
And thou, known Cheat! upheld by Law, Thou Disappointer of the craving Mind, BASSETTE, who thy Original dost draw From Venice (by uncertain Seas confin'd); Author of Murmurs, and of Care, Of pleasing Hopes, concluding in Despair: To thee my strange Felicity I owe, From thy Oppression did this Succour flow.
Less had I gained, had'st thou propitious been, Who better by my Loss hast taught me how to Win.
Yet tell me, my transported Brain! (whose Pride this Benefit awakes) Know'st thou, what on this Chance depends? And are we not exalted thus in vain, Whilst we observe the Money which she lends, But not, alas! the Heart she takes, The fond Engagements, and the Ties Her fatal Bounty does impose, Who makes Reprisals, with her Eyes, For what her gen'rous Hand bestows? And tho' I quickly can return Those useful Pieces, which she gave; Can I again, or wou'd I have That which her Charms have from me borne? Yet let us quit th' obliging Score; And whilst we borrow'd Gold restore, Whilst readily we own the Debt, And Gratitude before her set In its approved and fairest Light; Let her effectually be taught By that instructive, harmless Slight, That also in her turn she ought (Repaying ev'ry tender Thought) Kindness with Kindness to requite.
Written by William Blake | Create an image from this poem

Proverbs of Hell (Excerpt from The Marriage of Heaven and H

 In seed time learn, in harvest teach, in winter enjoy.
Drive your cart and your plow over the bones of the dead.
The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom.
Prudence is a rich, ugly old maid courted by Incapacity.
He who desires but acts not, breeds pestilence.
The cut worm forgives the plow.
Dip him in the river who loves water.
A fool sees not the same tree that a wise man sees.
He whose face gives no light, shall never become a star.
Eternity is in love with the productions of time.
The busy bee has no time for sorrow.
The hours of folly are measur'd by the clock; but of wisdom, no clock can measure.
All wholesome food is caught without a net or a trap.
Bring out number, weight and measure in a year of dearth.
No bird soars too high, if he soars with his own wings.
A dead body revenges not injuries.
The most sublime act is to set another before you.
If the fool would persist in his folly he would become wise.
Folly is the cloak of knavery.
Shame is Pride's cloke.
Prisons are built with stones of law, brothels with bricks of religion.
The pride of the peacock is the glory of God.
The lust of the goat is the bounty of God.
The wrath of the lion is the wisdom of God.
The nakedness of woman is the work of God.
Excess of sorrow laughs.
Excess of joy weeps.
The roaring of lions, the howling of wolves, the raging of the stormy sea, and the destructive sword, are portions of eternity, too great for the eye of man.
The fox condemns the trap, not himself.
Joys impregnate.
Sorrows bring forth.
Let man wear the fell of the lion, woman the fleece of the sheep.
The bird a nest, the spider a web, man friendship.
The selfish, smiling fool, and the sullen, frowning fool shall be both thought wise, that they may be a rod.
What is now proved was once only imagin'd.
The rat, the mouse, the fox, the rabbit watch the roots; the lion, the tyger, the horse, the elephant watch the fruits.
The cistern contains: the fountain overflows.
One thought fills immensity.
Always be ready to speak your mind, and a base man will avoid you.
Every thing possible to be believ'd is an image of truth.
The eagle never lost so much time as when he submitted to learn of the crow.
The fox provides for himself, but God provides for the lion.
Think in the morning.
Act in the noon.
Eat in the evening.
Sleep in the night.
He who has suffer'd you to impose on him, knows you.
As the plow follows words, so God rewards prayers.
The tygers of wrath are wiser than the horses of instruction.
Expect poison from the standing water.
You never know what is enough unless you know what is more than enough.
Listen to the fool's reproach! it is a kingly title! The eyes of fire, the nostrils of air, the mouth of water, the beard of earth.
The weak in courage is strong in cunning.
The apple tree never asks the beech how he shall grow; nor the lion, the horse, how he shall take his prey.
The thankful receiver bears a plentiful harvest.
If others had not been foolish, we should be so.
The soul of sweet delight can never be defil'd.
When thou seest an eagle, thou seest a portion of genius; lift up thy head! As the caterpiller chooses the fairest leaves to lay her eggs on, so the priest lays his curse on the fairest joys.
To create a little flower is the labour of ages.
Damn braces.
Bless relaxes.
The best wine is the oldest, the best water the newest.
Prayers plow not! Praises reap not! Joys laugh not! Sorrows weep not! The head Sublime, the heart Pathos, the genitals Beauty, the hands and feet Proportion.
As the air to a bird or the sea to a fish, so is contempt to the contemptible.
The crow wish'd every thing was black, the owl that every thing was white.
Exuberance is Beauty.
If the lion was advised by the fox, he would be cunning.
Improvement makes strait roads; but the crooked roads without improvement are roads of genius.
Sooner murder an infant in its cradle than nurse unacted desires.
Where man is not, nature is barren.
Truth can never be told so as to be understood, and not be believ'd.
Enough! or too much.
Written by William Blake | Create an image from this poem

The Marriage of Heaven and Hell (excerpt)

 In seed time learn, in harvest teach, in winter enjoy.
Drive your cart and your plow over the bones of the dead.
The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom.
Prudence is a rich, ugly old maid courted by Incapacity.
He who desires but acts not, breeds pestilence.
The cut worm forgives the plow.
Dip him in the river who loves water.
A fool sees not the same tree that a wise man sees.
He whose face gives no light, shall never become a star.
Eternity is in love with the productions of time.
The busy bee has no time for sorrow.
The hours of folly are measur'd by the clock; but of wisdom, no clock can measure.
All wholesome food is caught without a net or a trap.
Bring out number, weight and measure in a year of dearth.
No bird soars too high, if he soars with his own wings.
A dead body revenges not injuries.
The most sublime act is to set another before you.
If the fool would persist in his folly he would become wise.
Folly is the cloak of knavery.
Shame is Pride's cloke.
Prisons are built with stones of law, brothels with bricks of religion.
The pride of the peacock is the glory of God.
The lust of the goat is the bounty of God.
The wrath of the lion is the wisdom of God.
The nakedness of woman is the work of God.
Excess of sorrow laughs.
Excess of joy weeps.
The roaring of lions, the howling of wolves, the raging of the stormy sea, and the destructive sword, are portions of eternity, too great for the eye of man.
The fox condemns the trap, not himself.
Joys impregnate.
Sorrows bring forth.
Let man wear the fell of the lion, woman the fleece of the sheep.
The bird a nest, the spider a web, man friendship.
The selfish, smiling fool, and the sullen, frowning fool shall be both thought wise, that they may be a rod.
What is now proved was once only imagin'd.
The rat, the mouse, the fox, the rabbit watch the roots; the lion, the tyger, the horse, the elephant watch the fruits.
The cistern contains: the fountain overflows.
One thought fills immensity.
Always be ready to speak your mind, and a base man will avoid you.
Every thing possible to be believ'd is an image of truth.
The eagle never lost so much time as when he submitted to learn of the crow.
The fox provides for himself, but God provides for the lion.
Think in the morning.
Act in the noon.
Eat in the evening.
Sleep in the night.
He who has suffer'd you to impose on him, knows you.
As the plow follows words, so God rewards prayers.
The tygers of wrath are wiser than the horses of instruction.
Expect poison from the standing water.
You never know what is enough unless you know what is more than enough.
Listen to the fool's reproach! it is a kingly title! The eyes of fire, the nostrils of air, the mouth of water, the beard of earth.
The weak in courage is strong in cunning.
The apple tree never asks the beech how he shall grow; nor the lion, the horse, how he shall take his prey.
The thankful receiver bears a plentiful harvest.
If others had not been foolish, we should be so.
The soul of sweet delight can never be defil'd.
When thou seest an eagle, thou seest a portion of genius; lift up thy head! As the caterpiller chooses the fairest leaves to lay her eggs on, so the priest lays his curse on the fairest joys.
To create a little flower is the labour of ages.
Damn braces.
Bless relaxes.
The best wine is the oldest, the best water the newest.
Prayers plow not! Praises reap not! Joys laugh not! Sorrows weep not! The head Sublime, the heart Pathos, the genitals Beauty, the hands and feet Proportion.
As the air to a bird or the sea to a fish, so is contempt to the contemptible.
The crow wish'd every thing was black, the owl that every thing was white.
Exuberance is Beauty.
If the lion was advised by the fox, he would be cunning.
Improvement makes strait roads; but the crooked roads without improvement are roads of genius.
Sooner murder an infant in its cradle than nurse unacted desires.
Where man is not, nature is barren.
Truth can never be told so as to be understood, and not be believ'd.
Enough! or too much.
Written by Sylvia Plath | Create an image from this poem

Night Shift

 It was not a heart, beating.
That muted boom, that clangor Far off, not blood in the ears Drumming up and fever To impose on the evening.
The noise came from outside: A metal detonating Native, evidently, to These stilled suburbs nobody Startled at it, though the sound Shook the ground with its pounding.
It took a root at my coming Till the thudding shource, exposed, Counfounded in wept guesswork: Framed in windows of Main Street's Silver factory, immense Hammers hoisted, wheels turning, Stalled, let fall their vertical Tonnage of metal and wood; Stunned in marrow.
Men in white Undershirts circled, tending Without stop those greased machines, Tending, without stop, the blunt Indefatigable fact.
Written by John Wilmot | Create an image from this poem

The Disabled Debauchee

 As some brave admiral, in former war,
Deprived of force, but pressed with courage still,
Two rival fleets appearing from afar,
Crawls to the top of an adjacent hill;

From whence (with thoughts full of concern) he views
The wise and daring conduct of the fight,
And each bold action to his mind renews
His present glory, and his past delight;

From his fierce eyes, flashes of rage he throws,
As from black clouds when lightning breaks away,
Transported, thinks himself amidst his foes,
And absent yet enjoys the bloody day;

So when my days of impotence approach,
And I'm by pox and wine's unlucky chance,
Driven from the pleasing billows of debauch,
On the dull shore of lazy temperance,

My pains at last some respite shall afford,
Whilst I behold the battles you maintain,
When fleets of glasses sail about the board,
From whose broadsides volleys of wit shall rain.
Nor shall the sight of honourable scars, Which my too-forward valour did procure, Frighten new-listed soldiers from the wars.
Past joys have more than paid what I endure.
Should hopeful youths (worth being drunk) prove nice, And from their fair inviters meanly shrink, 'Twould please the ghost of my departed vice, If at my counsel they repent and drink.
Or should some cold-complexioned set forbid, With his dull morals, our night's brisk alarms, I'll fire his blood by telling what I did, When I was strong and able to bear arms.
I'll tell of whores attacked, their lords at home, Bawds' quarters beaten up, and fortress won, Windows demolished, watches overcome, And handsome ills by my contrivance done.
Nor shall our love-fits, Cloris, be forgot, When each the well-looked link-boy strove t'enjoy, And the best kiss was the deciding lot: Whether the boy fucked you, or I the boy.
With tales like these I will such heat inspire, As to important mischief shall incline.
I'll make them long some ancient church to fire, And fear no lewdness they're called to by wine.
Thus statesman-like, I'll saucily impose, And safe from danger valiantly advise, Sheltered in impotence, urge you to blows, And being good for nothing else, be wise.

Book: Reflection on the Important Things