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Best Famous In The Pink Poems

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

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Written by Katherine Mansfield | Create an image from this poem

The Town Between the Hills

 The further the little girl leaped and ran,
The further she longed to be;
The white, white fields of jonquil flowers
Danced up as high as her knee
And flashed and sparkled before her eyes
Until she could hardly see.
So into the wood went she.
It was quiet in the wood, It was solemn and grave; A sound like a wave Sighed in the tree-tops And then sighed no more.
But she was brave, And the sky showed through A bird's-egg blue, And she saw A tiny path that was running away Over the hills to--who can say? She ran, too.
But then the path broke, Then the path ended And wouldn't be mended.
A little old man Sat on the edge, Hugging the hedge.
He had a fire And two eggs in a pan And a paper poke Of pepper and salt; So she came to a halt To watch and admire: Cunning and nimble was he! "May I help, if I can, little old man?" "Bravo!" he said, "You may dine with me.
I've two old eggs From two white hens and a loaf from a kind ladie: Some fresh nutmegs, Some cutlet ends In pink and white paper frills: And--I've--got A little hot-pot From the town between the hills.
" He nodded his head And made her a sign To sit under the spray Of a trailing vine.
But when the little girl joined her hands And said the grace she had learned to say, The little old man gave two dreadful squeals And she just saw the flash of his smoking heels As he tumbled, tumbled, With his two old eggs From two white hens, His loaf from a kind ladie, The fresh nutmegs, The cutlet-ends In the pink and white paper frills.
And away rumbled The little hot-pot, So much too hot, From the ton between the hills.

Written by Elizabeth Bishop | Create an image from this poem

Large Bad Picture

 Remembering the Strait of Belle Isle or
some northerly harbor of Labrador,
before he became a schoolteacher
a great-uncle painted a big picture.
Receding for miles on either side into a flushed, still sky are overhanging pale blue cliffs hundreds of feet high, their bases fretted by little arches, the entrances to caves running in along the level of a bay masked by perfect waves.
On the middle of that quiet floor sits a fleet of small black ships, square-rigged, sails furled, motionless, their spars like burnt match-sticks.
And high above them, over the tall cliffs' semi-translucent ranks, are scribbled hundreds of fine black birds hanging in n's in banks.
One can hear their crying, crying, the only sound there is except for occasional sizhine as a large aquatic animal breathes.
In the pink light the small red sun goes rolling, rolling, round and round and round at the same height in perpetual sunset, comprehensive, consoling, while the ships consider it.
Apparently they have reached their destination.
It would be hard to say what brought them there, commerce or contemplation.
Written by Siegfried Sassoon | Create an image from this poem

In the Pink

 So Davies wrote: ' This leaves me in the pink.
' Then scrawled his name: ' Your loving sweetheart Willie ' With crosses for a hug.
He'd had a drink Of rum and tea; and, though the barn was chilly, For once his blood ram warm; he had pay to spend, Winter was passing; soon the year would mend.
He couldn't sleep that night.
Stiff in the dark He groaned and thought of Sundays at the farm, When he'd go out as cheerful as a lark In his best suit to wander arm-in-arm With brown-eyed Gwen, and whisper in her ear The simple, silly things she liked to hear.
And then he thought: to-morrow night we trudge Up to the trenches, and my boots are rotten.
Five miles of stodgy clay and freezing sludge, And everything but wretchedness forgotten.
To-night he's in the pink; but soon he'll die.
And still the war goes on; he don't know why.
Written by Carl Sandburg | Create an image from this poem

Peach Blossoms

 WHAT cry of peach blossoms
 let loose on the air today
I heard with my face thrown
 in the pink-white of it all?
 in the red whisper of it all?

What man I heard saying:
 Christ, these are beautiful!

And Christ and Christ was in his mouth,
 over these peach blossoms?