Best Famous Incipient Poems

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

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• All Famous Incipient Poems

Written by D. H. Lawrence | Craving for Spring I wish it were spring in the world. Let it be spring! Come, bubbling, surging tide of sap! Come, rush of creation! Come, life! surge through this mass of mortification! Come, sweep away these exquisite, ghastly first-flowers, which are rather last-flowers! Come, thaw down their cool portentousness, dissolve them: snowdrops, straight, death-veined exhalations of white and purple crocuses, flowers of the penumbra, issue of corruption, nourished in mortification, jets of exquisite finality; Come, spring, make havoc of them! I trample on the snowdrops, it gives me pleasure to tread down the jonquils, to destroy the chill Lent lilies; for I am sick of them, their faint-bloodedness, slow-blooded, icy-fleshed, portentous. I want the fine, kindling wine-sap of spring, gold, and of inconceivably fine, quintessential brightness, rare almost as beams, yet overwhelmingly potent, strong like the greatest force of world-balancing. This is the same that picks up the harvest of wheat and rocks it, tons of grain, on the ripening wind; the same that dangles the globe-shaped pleiads of fruit temptingly in mid-air, between a playful thumb and finger; oh, and suddenly, from out of nowhere, whirls the pear-bloom, upon us, and apple- and almond- and apricot- and quince-blossom, storms and cumulus clouds of all imaginable blossom about our bewildered faces, though we do not worship. I wish it were spring cunningly blowing on the fallen sparks, odds and ends of the old, scattered fire, and kindling shapely little conflagrations curious long-legged foals, and wide-eared calves, and naked sparrow-bubs. I wish that spring would start the thundering traffic of feet new feet on the earth, beating with impatience. I wish it were spring, thundering delicate, tender spring. I wish these brittle, frost-lovely flowers of passionate, mysterious corruption were not yet to come still more from the still-flickering discontent. Oh, in the spring, the bluebell bows him down for very exuberance, exulting with secret warm excess, bowed down with his inner magnificence! Oh, yes, the gush of spring is strong enough to toss the globe of earth like a ball on a water-jet dancing sportfully; as you see a tiny celluloid ball tossing on a squirt of water for men to shoot at, penny-a-time, in a booth at a fair. The gush of spring is strong enough to play with the globe of earth like a ball on a fountain; At the same time it opens the tiny hands of the hazel with such infinite patience. The power of the rising, golden, all-creative sap could take the earth and heave it off among the stars, into the invisible; the same sets the throstle at sunset on a bough singing against the blackbird; comes out in the hesitating tremor of the primrose, and betrays its candour in the round white strawberry flower, is dignified in the foxglove, like a Red-Indian brave. Ah come, come quickly, spring! come and lift us towards our culmination, we myriads; we who have never flowered, like patient cactuses. Come and lift us to our end, to blossom, bring us to our summer we who are winter-weary in the winter of the of the world. Come making the chaffinch nests hollow and cosy, come and soften the willow buds till they are puffed and furred, then blow them over with gold. Coma and cajole the gawky colt’s-foot flowers. Come quickly, and vindicate us. against too much death. Come quickly, and stir the rotten globe of the world from within, burst it with germination, with world anew. Come now, to us, your adherents, who cannot flower from the ice. All the world gleams with the lilies of death the Unconquerable, but come, give us our turn. Enough of the virgins and lilies, of passionate, suffocating perfume of corruption, no more narcissus perfume, lily harlots, the blades of sensation piercing the flesh to blossom of death. Have done, have done with this shuddering, delicious business of thrilling ruin in the flesh, of pungent passion, of rare, death-edged ecstasy. Give us our turn, give us a chance, let our hour strike, O soon, soon! Let the darkness turn violet with rich dawn. Let the darkness be warmed, warmed through to a ruddy violet, incipient purpling towards summer in the world of the heart of man. Are the violets already here! Show me! I tremble so much to hear it, that even now on the threshold of spring, I fear I shall die. Show me the violets that are out. Oh, if it be true, and the living darkness of the blood of man is purpling with violets, if the violets are coming out from under the rack of men, winter-rotten and fallen, we shall have spring. Pray not to die on this Pisgah blossoming with violets. Pray to live through. If you catch a whiff of violets from the darkness of the shadow of man it will be spring in the world, it will be spring in the world of the living; wonderment organising itself, heralding itself with the violets, stirring of new seasons. Ah, do not let me die on the brink of such anticipation! Worse, let me not deceive myself.

Written by Amy Clampitt | A Silence past parentage or gender beyond sung vocables the slipped-between the so infinitesimal fault line a limitless interiority beyond the woven unicorn the maiden (man-carved worm-eaten) God at her hip incipient the untransfigured cottontail bluebell and primrose growing wild a strawberry chagrin night terrors past the earthlit unearthly masquerade (we shall be changed) a silence opens * the larval feeder naked hairy ravenous inventing from within itself its own raw stuffs' hooked silk-hung relinquishment behind the mask the milkfat shivering sinew isinglass uncrumpling transient greed to reinvest * names have been given (revelation kif nirvana syncope) for whatever gift unasked gives birth to torrents fixities reincarnations of the angels Joseph Smith enduring martyrdom a cavernous compunction driving founder-charlatans who saw in it the infinite love of God and had (George Fox was one) great openings

Written by Stanley Kunitz | First Love At his incipient sun The ice of twenty winters broke, Crackling, in her eyes. Her mirroring, still mind, That held the world (made double) calm, Went fluid, and it ran. There was a stir of music, Mixed with flowers, in her blood; A swift impulsive balm From obscure roots; Gold bees of clinging light Swarmed in her brow. Her throat is full of songs, She hums, she is sensible of wings Growing on her heart. She is a tree in spring Trembling with the hope of leaves, Of which the leaves are tongues.

Written by Barry Tebb | Wyther Park School Leeds Five I stood there in front of forty-five faces The first day of term, not especially fancying "Exercises in Mechanical Arithmetic" and so instead I read a poem from Kirkup in Japan, about Nijinsky, Hand-written on a fan of rice-paper. Thirty years later, taking a Sri Lankan girl In search of her first job around London schools, A Head-of-English announced "You wouldn’t get away With that now!" as though I had committed A crime-against-society. I remember sending the boys out to change for P.T. While the girls changed in front of me, Was it some kind of incipient voyeurism? And Sheila, my genius-child-poet, about whom Redgrove said, "Of course you are in love!" Or was it the poetry, some kind of anarchy, "He’s quite mad about it and teaches nothing else", The barely literate student teacher said. Wittgenstein alternated between junior school teaching And philosophy Leavis ranted but read poetry inspirationally; Twenty years later a stranger on a bus tapped my shoulder, "What you taught me at nine got me two O'Levels, That was all I ever got."

Written by Francesco Petrarch | Sonnet LXXXII SONNET LXXXII. Dicemi spesso il mio fidato speglio. HE AWAKES TO A CONVICTION OF THE NEAR APPROACH OF DEATH. My faithful mirror oft to me has told—My weary spirit and my shrivell'd skinMy failing powers to prove it all begin—"Deceive thyself no longer, thou art old."Man is in all by Nature best controll'd,And if with her we struggle, time creeps in;At the sad truth, on fire as waters win,A long and heavy sleep is off me roll'd;And I see clearly our vain life depart,That more than once our being cannot be:Her voice sounds ever in my inmost heart.Who now from her fair earthly frame is free:[Pg 313]She walk'd the world so peerless and alone,Its fame and lustre all with her are flown. Macgregor. The mirror'd friend—my changing form hath read.My every power's incipient decay—My wearied soul—alike, in warning say"Thyself no more deceive, thy youth hath fled."'Tis ever best to be by Nature led,We strive with her, and Death makes us his prey;At that dread thought, as flames the waters stay,The dream is gone my life hath sadly fed.I wake to feel how soon existence flies:Once known, 'tis gone, and never to return.Still vibrates in my heart the thrilling toneOf her, who now her beauteous shrine defies:But she, who here to rival, none could learn,Hath robb'd her sex, and with its fame hath flown. Wollaston.

Written by Edward Lear | There was an Old Man in a casement There was an Old Man in a casement,Who held up his hands in amazement;When they said, "Sir, you'll fall!" he replied, "Not at all!"That incipient Old Man in a casement.