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Best Famous Inexperienced Poems

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

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Written by The Bible | Create an image from this poem

Gods Law

“The law of Jehovah is perfect, bringing back the soul.
The reminder of Jehovah is trustworthy, making the inexperienced one wise.”—Ps. 19:7.


Written by Andrew Barton Paterson | Create an image from this poem

The Premier and the Socialist

 The Premier and the Socialist 
Were walking through the State: 
They wept to see the Savings Bank 
Such funds accumulate. 
"If these were only cleared away," 
They said, "it would be great." 
"If three financial amateurs 
Controlled them for a year, 
Do you suppose," the Premier said, 
"That they would get them clear?" 
"I think so," said the Socialist; 
"They would -- or very near!" 

"If we should try to raise some cash 
On assets of our own, 
Do you suppose," the Premier said, 
"That we could float a loan?" 
"I doubt it," said the Socialist, 
And groaned a doleful groan. 

"Oh, Savings, come and walk with us!" 
The Premier did entreat; 
"A little walk, a little talk, 
Away from Barrack Street; 
My Socialistic friend will guide 
Your inexperienced feet." 

"We do not think," the Savings said, 
"A socialistic crank, 
Although he chance just now to hold 
A legislative rank, 
Can teach experienced Banking men 
The way to run a Bank." 

The Premier and the Socialist 
They passed an Act or so 
To take the little Savings out 
And let them have a blow. 
"We'll teach the Banks," the Premier said, 
"The way to run the show. 

"There's Tom Waddell -- in Bank finance 
Can show them what is what. 
I used to prove not long ago 
His Estimates were rot. 
But that -- like many other things -- 
I've recently forgot. 

"Advances on a dried-out farm 
Are what we chiefly need, 
And loaned to friends of Ms.L.A. 
Are very good, indeed, 
See how the back-block Cockatoos 
Are rolling up to feed." 

"But not on us," the Savings cried, 
Falling a little flat, 
"We didn't think a man like you 
Would do a thing like that; 
For most of us are very small, 
And none of us are fat." 

"This haughty tone," the Premier said, 
"Is not the proper line; 
Before I'd be dictated to 
My billet I'd resign!" 
"How brightly," said the Socialist, 
"Those little sovereigns shine." 

The Premier and the Socialist 
They had their bit of fun; 
They tried to call the Savings back 
But answer came there none, 
Because the back-block Cockatoos 
Had eaten every one.
Written by Rabindranath Tagore | Create an image from this poem

Lovers Gifts XIX: It Is Written in the Book

 It is written in the book that Man, when fifty, must leave the
noisy world, to go to the forest seclusion. But the poet proclaims
that the forest hermitage is only for the young. For it is the
birthplace of flowers and the haunt of birds and bees; and hidden
hooks are waiting there for the thrill of lovers' whispers. There
the moon-light, that is all one kiss for the malati flowers, has
its deep message, but those who understand it are far below fifty.
And alas, youth is inexperienced and wilful, therefore it is
but meet that the old should take charge of the household, and the
young take to the seclusion of forest shades and the severe
discipline of courting.
Written by Dejan Stojanovic | Create an image from this poem

The Strange Love Song of T. S. Eliot

At twenty-six, I was inexperienced; 
Still, I knew much about love 
In the waste land, reasoning, 
It's not important when you start 
Practicing, rather when you start searching; 
And I committed myself to finding 
It before others even knew it existed, 'breeding 

Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing' 
My thoughts, my longings, my love 
For something that didn't need naming 
In the misty mornings, recognizing 
The dew on the petal, alive yet sleepy; 
I was a dreamer, I admit, thinking, 
April is the cruelest month, flying 

Thoughts about some distant teaching, 
Seeing invisible in the visible, loving 
Wild thoughts making love, searching 
To find it; love was a secret hard to decode— 
Sacred to me. Students talking 
Of business, Dante and Michelangelo; 
That was important, yet not so important 

In the land where death died long ago, blooming 
Roses taught me a lesson, doing 
My search for me, wakening 
The land where human measures are important 
Yet not so important; so I stayed, deserving 
A degree from real roses, forgetting 
The Ph.D. at Harvard, which for me was waiting 

Of course it was not about Michelangelo, 
But does it really matter? I saw paintings 
And landscapes, dead lands and lands 
Alive, knowing it's more important 
To feel than to know. I had it all in my head; 
And I stayed where dreaming 
Was more important than competing 

In the land where the women come and go, talking 
Of Sara Bernhardt and Coco Chanel in the Sistine Chapel 
And men come and go, talking 
Of wars, children come and go, talking 
Of chocolate, and they all go, leaving 
Not much to think about exchanging 
Experiences with feelings, transforming 

Experiences into meanings, mixing 
Thoughts about love evaporating 
Into 'the yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window panes, 
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window panes.' 
And in the end I understood April, learning 
That April seemed cruel only in the dead land, knowing 
That every month is equally paradisiacal and hellish, 

Equally paradoxical. 
Written by Adela Florence Cory Nicolson | Create an image from this poem

"Love Lightly"

   Rose-colour
   Rose Pink am I, the colour gleams and glows
     In many a flower; her lips, those tender doors
   By which, in time of love, love's essence flows
     From him to her, are dyed in delicate Rose.
   Mine is the earliest Ruby light that pours
     Out of the East, when day's white gates unclose.

   On downy peach, and maiden's downier cheek
     I, in a flush of radiant bloom, alight,
   Clinging, at sunset, to the shimmering peak
     I veil its snow in floods of Roseate light.

   Azure
   Mine is the heavenly hue of Azure skies,
     Where the white clouds lie soft as seraphs' wings,
   Mine the sweet, shadowed light in innocent eyes,
     Whose lovely looks light only on lovely things.

   Mine the Blue Distance, delicate and clear,
     Mine the Blue Glory of the morning sea,
   All that the soul so longs for, finds not here,
     Fond eyes deceive themselves, and find in me.

   Scarlet
   Hail! to the Royal Red of living Blood,
     Let loose by steel in spirit-freeing flood,
   Forced from faint forms, by toil or torture torn
     Staining the patient gates of life new born.

   Colour of War and Rage, of Pomp and Show,
     Banners that flash, red flags that flaunt and glow,
   Colour of Carnage, Glory, also Shame,
     Raiment of women women may not name.

   I hide in mines, where unborn Rubies dwell,
     Flicker and flare in fitful fire in Hell,
   The outpressed life-blood of the grape is mine,
     Hail! to the Royal Purple Red of Wine.

   Strong am I, over strong, to eyes that tire,
     In the hot hue of Rapine, Riot, Flame.
   Death and Despair are black, War and Desire,
     The two red cards in Life's unequal game.

   Green
   I am the Life of Forests, and Wandering Streams,
     Green as the feathery reeds the Florican love,
   Young as a maiden, who of her marriage dreams,
     Still sweetly inexperienced in ways of Love.

   Colour of Youth and Hope, some waves are mine,
     Some emerald reaches of the evening sky.
   See, in the Spring, my sweet green Promise shine,
     Never to be fulfilled, of by and by.

   Never to be fulfilled; leaves bud, and ever
     Something is wanting, something falls behind;
   The flowered Solstice comes indeed, but never
     That light and lovely summer men divined.

   Violet
   I were the colour of Things, (if hue they had)
         That are hard to name.
   Of curious, twisted thoughts that men call "mad"
         Or oftener "shame."
   Of that delicate vice, that is hardly vice,
         So reticent, rare,
   Ethereal, as the scent of buds and spice,
         In this Eastern air.

   On palm-fringed shores I colour the Cowrie shell,
         With its edges curled;
   And, deep in Datura poison buds, I dwell
         In a perfumed world.
   My lilac tinges the edge of the evening sky
         Where the sunset clings.
   My purple lends an Imperial Majesty
         To the robes of kings.

   Yellow
   Gold am I, and for me, ever men curse and pray,
     Selling their souls and each other, by night and day.
   A sordid colour, and yet, I make some things fair,
     Dying sunsets, fields of corn, and a maiden's hair.

   Thus they discoursed in the daytime,—Violet, Yellow, and Blue,
     Emerald, Scarlet, and Rose-colour, the pink and perfect hue.
   Thus they spoke in the sunshine, when their beauty was manifest,
     Till the Night came, and the Silence, and gave them an equal rest.


Written by Constantine P Cavafy | Create an image from this poem

Interruption

 We interrupt the work of the gods,
hasty and inexperienced beings of the moment.
In the palaces of Eleusis and Phthia
Demeter and Thetis start good works
amid high flames and dense smoke. But
always Metaneira rushes from the king's
chambers, disheveled and scared,
and always Peleus is fearful and interferes.

Book: Radiant Verses: A Journey Through Inspiring Poetry