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Best Famous Investment Poems

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

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Written by Kahlil Gibran | Create an image from this poem

The Playground of Life XIX

 One hour devoted to the pursuit of Beauty 
And Love is worth a full century of glory 
Given by the frightened weak to the strong. 


From that hour comes man's Truth; and 
During that century Truth sleeps between 
The restless arms of disturbing dreams. 


In that hour the soul sees for herself 
The Natural Law, and for that century she 
Imprisons herself behind the law of man; 
And she is shackled with irons of oppression. 


That hour was the inspiration of the Songs 
Of Solomon, an that century was the blind 
Power which destroyed the temple of Baalbek. 


That hour was the birth of the Sermon on the 
Mount, and that century wrecked the castles of 
Palmyra and the Tower of Babylon. 


That hour was the Hegira of Mohammed and that 
Century forgot Allah, Golgotha, and Sinai. 


One hour devoted to mourning and lamenting the 
Stolen equality of the weak is nobler than a 
Century filled with greed and usurpation. 


It is at that hour when the heart is 
Purified by flaming sorrow and 
Illuminated by the torch of Love. 
And in that century, desires for Truth 
Are buried in the bosom of the earth. 
That hour is the root which must flourish. 
That hour of meditation, the hour of 
Prayer, and the hour of a new era of good. 


And that century is a life of Nero spent 
On self-investment taken solely from 
Earthly substance. 


This is life. 
Portrayed on the stage for ages; 
Recorded earthly for centuries; 
Lived in strangeness for years; 
Sung as a hymn for days; 
Exalted but for an hour, but the 
Hour is treasured by Eternity as a jewel.


Written by Allen Ginsberg | Create an image from this poem

War Profit Litany

 To Ezra Pound

These are the names of the companies that have made
 money from this war
nineteenhundredsixtyeight Annodomini fourthousand
 eighty Hebraic
These are the Corporations who have profited by merchan-
 dising skinburning phosphorous or shells fragmented
 to thousands of fleshpiercing needles
and here listed money millions gained by each combine for
 manufacture
and here are gains numbered, index'd swelling a decade, set
 in order,
here named the Fathers in office in these industries, tele-
 phones directing finance,
names of directors, makers of fates, and the names of the 
 stockholders of these destined Aggregates,
and here are the names of their ambassadors to the Capital,
 representatives to legislature, those who sit drinking
 in hotel lobbies to persuade,
and separate listed, those who drop Amphetamine with
 military, gossip, argue, and persuade
suggesting policy naming language proposing strategy, this
 done for fee as ambassadors to Pentagon, consul-
 tants to military, paid by their industry:
and these are the names of the generals & captains mili-
 tary, who know thus work for war goods manufactur-
 ers;
and above these, listed, the names of the banks, combines,
 investment trusts that control these industries:
and these are the names of the newspapers owned by these
 banks
and these are the names of the airstations owned by these
 combines;
and these are the numbers of thousands of citizens em-
 ployed by these businesses named;
and the beginning of this accounting is 1958 and the end
 1968, that static be contained in orderly mind,
 coherent and definite,
and the first form of this litany begun first day December
 1967 furthers this poem of these States.

 December 1, 1967
Written by Louise Gluck | Create an image from this poem

Vespers

 In your extended absence, you permit me
use of earth, anticipating
some return on investment. I must report
failure in my assignment, principally
regarding the tomato plants.
I think I should not be encouraged to grow
tomatoes. Or, if I am, you should withhold
the heavy rains, the cold nights that come
so often here, while other regions get
twelve weeks of summer. All this
belongs to you: on the other hand,
I planted the seeds, I watched the first shoots
like wings tearing the soil, and it was my heart
broken by the blight, the black spot so quickly
multiplying in the rows. I doubt
you have a heart, in our understanding of
that term. You who do not discriminate
between the dead and the living, who are, in consequence,
immune to foreshadowing, you may not know
how much terror we bear, the spotted leaf,
the red leaves of the maple falling
even in August, in early darkness: I am responsible
for these vines.
Written by Marriott Edgar | Create an image from this poem

Sams Racehorse

 When Sam Small retired from the Army 
He'd a pension of ninepence a day,
And seven pounds fourteen and twopence 
He'd saved from his rations and pay.

He knew this 'ere wasn't a fortune, 
But reckoned with prudence and care
He'd find some investment to save him 
From hard work and things like that there.

He thought he'd invest in a race orse, 
As apart from excitement and fun
He'd be able to sit down in comfort
And live on the money he won.

He knew buying 'orses was tricky, 
But that didn't daunt him at all;
He said "They must rise early 't mornin 
As wants to play tricks on Sam Small!"

When he called on the local 'Orse-dealer 
Surprise rooted him to the spot,
For he found 'twere his old Comp'ny Sergeant, 
Whose kindness he'd never forgot.

'Twere a happy reunion on both sides, 
Their pleasure at meeting was great,
For each hoped to diddle the other 
And wipe a few grudges off slate.

The Sergeant brought out his race 'orses, 
For which he asked various sums;
They hadn't a tooth left between them,
But Sam knew their age by their gums.

Sam studied their lines and deportment 
As Sergeant were trotting them round, 
And told him he reckoned their value 
Were fourpence, per race 'orse, per pound. 

Now the Sarg. had a filly called Buster 
As he hadn't said nothing about, 
But when Sam turned his nose up at t'others 
He thought as he'd best trot her out. 

Sam were struck with her youthful appearance,
Though there wasn't much light in the place,
For her teeth were all pearly and even 
And there wasn't a line on her face.

The Sergeant asked Sam twenty guineas, 
But Sam, who were up to his tricks,
Pretended he thought he'd said shillings 
And offered him eighteen and six.

In the end he paid eight guineas for her, 
And when he'd got home with the goods
He reckoned he'd not done so badly, 
For three of the guineas was duds.

But later, when he thought it over, 
A doubt through his mind seemed to creep,
If Buster were all she were painted, 
Why the Sergeant had sold her so cheap.

He very soon found out the answer 
When he looked at her close in her stall,
She'd the marks where her face had been lifted 
And a mouth full of false teeth an' all.

The little walk home had fatigued her 
And the cold air had started her cough;
Sam reckoned he'd best see the Sergeant 
And tell him the bargain was off.

The place were locked up when he got there,
And he realized Sergeant had bunked,
So back he went home in a dudgeon 
And found Buster lying-defunct.

Sam knew if he wanted to sell her 
He mustn't let on she were dead,
So he raffled her down at the Darts Club- 
Forty members at five bob a head.

The raffle were highly successful, 
They all came in every man jack 
And so's winner'd have no cause to grumble
Sam gave him his five shillings back.
Written by Robert Frost | Create an image from this poem

The Investment

 Over back where they speak of life as staying
('You couldn't call it living, for it ain't'),
There was an old, old house renewed with paint,
And in it a piano loudly playing.

Out in the plowed ground in the cold a digger,
Among unearthed potatoes standing still,
Was counting winter dinners, one a hill,
With half an ear to the piano's vigor.

All that piano and new paint back there,
Was it some money suddenly come into?
Or some extravagance young love had been to?
Or old love on an impulse not to care--

Not to sink under being man and wife,
But get some color and music out of life?


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

Reconstruction

 So, the bank has bust it's boiler! And in six or seven year 
It will pay me all my money back -- of course! 
But the horse will perish waiting while the grass is germinating, 
And I reckon I'll be something like the horse. 

There's the ploughing to be finished and the ploughmen want their pay, 
And I'd like to wire the fence and sink a tank; 
But I own I'm fairly beat how I'm going to make ends meet 
With my money in a reconstructed bank. 

"It's a safe and sure investment!" But it's one I can't afford, 
For I've got to meet my bills and bay the rent, 
And the cash I had provided (so these meetings have decided) 
Shall be collared by the bank at three per cent. 

I can draw out half my money, so they tell me, from the Crown; 
But -- it's just enough to drive a fellow daft -- 
My landlord's quite distressed, by this very bank he's pressed, 
And he'll sell me up, to pay his overdraft. 

There's my nearest neighbour, Johnson, owed this self-same bank a debt, 
Every feather off his poor old back they pluck't, 
For they set to work to shove him, and they sold his house above him, 
Lord! They never gave him time to reconstruct. 

And their profits from the business have been twenty-five per cent, 
Which, I reckon, is a pretty tidy whack, 
And I think it's only proper, now the thing has come a cropper, 
That they ought to pay a little of it back. 

I have read about "reserve funds", "banking freeholds", and the like, 
Till I thought the bank had thousands of assets, 
And it strikes me very funny that they take a fellow's money 
When they haven't got enough to pay their debts. 

And they say they've lent my money, and they can't get paid it back. 
I know their rates per cent were tens and twelves; 
And if they've made a blunder after scooping all this plunder, 
Why, they ought to fork the money out themselves. 

So all you bank shareholders, if you won't pay what you owe, 
You will find that on your bank will fall a blight; 
And the reason is because it's simply certain that deposits 
Will be stopped, the bank will bust, and serve you right!

Book: Radiant Verses: A Journey Through Inspiring Poetry