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Best Famous Jeweled Poems

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

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Written by Robinson Jeffers | Create an image from this poem

The Deer Lay Down Their Bones

 I followed the narrow cliffside trail half way up the mountain
Above the deep river-canyon.
There was a little cataract crossed the path, flinging itself Over tree roots and rocks, shaking the jeweled fern-fronds, bright bubbling water Pure from the mountain, but a bad smell came up.
Wondering at it I clam- bered down the steep stream Some forty feet, and found in the midst of bush-oak and laurel, Hung like a bird's nest on the precipice brink a small hidden clearing, Grass and a shallow pool.
But all about there were bones Iying in the grass, clean bones and stinking bones, Antlers and bones: I understood that the place was a refuge for wounded deer; there are so many Hurt ones escape the hunters and limp away to lie hidden; here they have water for the awful thirst And peace to die in; dense green laurel and grim cliff Make sanctuary, and a sweet wind blows upward from the deep gorge.
--I wish my bones were with theirs.
But that's a foolish thing to confess, and a little cowardly.
We know that life Is on the whole quite equally good and bad, mostly gray neutral, and can be endured To the dim end, no matter what magic of grass, water and precipice, and pain of wounds, Makes death look dear.
We have been given life and have used it--not a great gift perhaps--but in honesty Should use it all.
Mine's empty since my love died--Empty? The flame- haired grandchild with great blue eyes That look like hers?--What can I do for the child? I gaze at her and wonder what sort of man In the fall of the world .
.
.
I am growing old, that is the trouble.
My chil- dren and little grandchildren Will find their way, and why should I wait ten years yet, having lived sixty- seven, ten years more or less, Before I crawl out on a ledge of rock and die snapping, like a wolf Who has lost his mate?--I am bound by my own thirty-year-old decision: who drinks the wine Should take the dregs; even in the bitter lees and sediment New discovery may lie.
The deer in that beautiful place lay down their bones: I must wear mine.


Written by Sylvia Plath | Create an image from this poem

An Appearance

 The smile of iceboxes annihilates me.
Such blue currents in the veins of my loved one! I hear her great heart purr.
From her lips ampersands and percent signs Exit like kisses.
It is Monday in her mind: morals Launder and present themselves.
What am I to make of these contradictions? I wear white cuffs, I bow.
Is this love then, this red material Issuing from the steele needle that flies so blindingly? It will make little dresses and coats, It will cover a dynasty.
How her body opens and shuts -- A Swiss watch, jeweled in the hinges! O heart, such disorganization! The stars are flashing like terrible numerals.
ABC, her eyelids say.
Written by William Carlos (WCW) Williams | Create an image from this poem

The Ivy Crown

 The whole process is a lie,
 unless,
 crowned by excess,
It break forcefully,
 one way or another,
 from its confinement—
or find a deeper well.
Antony and Cleopatra were right; they have shown the way.
I love you or I do not live at all.
Daffodil time is past.
This is summer, summer! the heart says, and not even the full of it.
No doubts are permitted— though they will come and may before our time overwhelm us.
We are only mortal but being mortal can defy our fate.
We may by an outside chance even win! We do not look to see jonquils and violets come again but there are, still, the roses! Romance has no part in it.
The business of love is cruelty which, by our wills, we transform to live together.
It has its seasons, for and against, whatever the heart fumbles in the dark to assert toward the end of May.
Just as the nature of briars is to tear flesh, I have proceeded through them.
Keep the briars out, they say.
You cannot live and keep free of briars.
Children pick flowers.
Let them.
Though having them in hand they have no further use for them but leave them crumpled at the curb's edge.
At our age the imagination across the sorry facts lifts us to make roses stand before thorns.
Sure love is cruel and selfish and totally obtuse— at least, blinded by the light, young love is.
But we are older, I to love and you to be loved, we have, no matter how, by our wills survived to keep the jeweled prize always at our finger tips.
We will it so and so it is past all accident.
Written by Quincy Troupe | Create an image from this poem

Untitled

 in brussels, eye sat in the grand place cafe & heard
duke's place, played after salsa
between the old majestic architecture, jazz bouncing off
all that gilded gold history snoring complacently there
flowers all over the ground, up inside the sound
the old white band jammin the music
tight & heavy, like some food
pushin pedal to the metal
gettin all the way down
under the scaffolding surrounding
l'hotel de ville, chattanooga choochoo
choo choing all the way home, upside walls, under gold eagles
& a gold vaulting girl, naked on a rooftop holding a flag over
her head, like skip rope, surrounded by all manner
of saints & gold madmen, riding emblazoned stallions
snorting like crazed demons at their nostrils
the music swirling like a dancing bear
a beautiful girl, flowers in her hair

the air woven with lilting voices in this grand place of parepets
& crowns, jewels & golden torches streaming
like a horse's mane, antiquity riding through in a wheel carriage
here, through gargoyles & gothic towers rocketing swordfish lanced crosses
pointing up at a God threatening rain
& it is stunning at this moment when raised beer steins cheer
the music on, hot & heavy, still humming & cooking
basic african-american rhythms alive here
in this ancient grand place of europe
this confluence point of nations & cultures
jumping off place for beer & cuisines
fused with music, poetry & stone
here in this blinding, beautiful square
sunlit now as the golden eye of God shoots through
flowers all over the cobbled ground, up in the music
the air brightly cool as light after jeweled rain
still, there are these hats slicing foreheads off in the middle
of crowds that need explaining, the calligraphy of this penumbra
slanting ace-deuce, cocked, carrying the perforated legacy of bebop
these bold, peccadillo, pirouetting pellagras
razor-sharp clean, they cut into our rip-tiding dreams carrying
their whirlpooling imaginations, their rivers of schemes
assaulted by pellets of raindrops
these broken mirrors catching fragments
of sonorous words, entrapping us between parentheses
two bat wings curved, imprisoning the world
Written by Conrad Aiken | Create an image from this poem

Nocturne Of Remembered Spring

 I.
Moonlight silvers the tops of trees, Moonlight whitens the lilac shadowed wall And through the evening fall, Clearly, as if through enchanted seas, Footsteps passing, an infinite distance away, In another world and another day.
Moonlight turns the purple lilacs blue, Moonlight leaves the fountain hoar and old, And the boughs of elms grow green and cold, Our footsteps echo on gleaming stones, The leaves are stirred to a jargon of muted tones.
This is the night we have kept, you say: This is the moonlit night that will never die.
Through the grey streets our memories retain Let us go back again.
II.
Mist goes up from the river to dim the stars, The river is black and cold; so let us dance To flare of horns, and clang of cymbals and drums; And strew the glimmering floor with roses, And remember, while the rich music yawns and closes, With a luxury of pain, how silence comes.
Yes, we loved each other, long ago; We moved like wind to a music's ebb and flow.
At a phrase from violins you closed your eyes, And smiled, and let me lead you how young we were! Your hair, upon that music, seemed to stir.
Let us return there, let us return, you and I; Through changeless streets our memories retain Let us go back again.
III.
Mist goes up from the rain steeped earth, and clings Ghostly with lamplight among drenched maple trees.
We walk in silence and see how the lamplight flings Fans of shadow upon it the music's mournful pleas Die out behind us, the door is closed at last, A net of silver silence is softly cast Over our thought slowly we walk, Quietly with delicious pause, we talk, Of foolish trivial things; of life and death, Time, and forgetfulness, and dust and truth; Lilacs and youth.
You laugh, I hear the after taken breath, You darken your eyes and turn away your head At something I have said Some intuition that flew too deep, And struck a plageant chord.
Tonight, tonight you will remember it as you fall asleep, Your dream will suddenly blossom with sharp delight, Goodnight! You say.
The leaves of the lilac dip and sway; The purple spikes of bloom Nod their sweetness upon us, lift again, Your white face turns, I am cought with pain And silence descends, and dripping of dew from eaves, And jeweled points of leaves.
IV.
I walk in a pleasure of sorrow along the street And try to remember you; slow drops patter; Water upon the lilacs has made them sweet; I brush them with my sleeve, the cool drops scatter; And suddenly I laugh and stand and listen As if another had laughed a gust Rustles the leaves, the wet spikes glisten; And it seems as though it were you who had shaken the bough, And spilled the fragrance I pursue your face again, It grows more vague and lovely, it eludes me now.
I remember that you are gone, and drown in pain.
Something there was I said to you I recall, Something just as the music seemed to fall That made you laugh, and burns me still with pleasure.
What were those words the words like dripping fire? I remember them now, and in sweet leisure Rehearse the scene, more exquisite than before, And you more beautiful, and I more wise.
Lilacs and spring, and night, and your clear eyes, And you, in white, by the darkness of a door: These things, like voices weaving to richest music, Flow and fall in the cool night of my mind, I pursue your ghost among green leaves that are ghostly, I pursue you, but cannot find.
And suddenly, with a pang that is sweetest of all, I become aware that I cannot remember you; The ghost I knew Has silently plunged in shadows, shadows that stream and fall.
V.
Let us go in and dance once more On the dream's glimmering floor, Beneath the balcony festooned with roses.
Let us go in and dance once more.
The door behind us closes Against an evening purple with stars and mist.
Let us go in and keep our tryst With music and white roses, and spin around In swirls of sound.
Do you forsee me, married and grown old? And you, who smile about you at this room, Is it foretold That you must step from tumult into gloom, Forget me, love another? No, you are Cleopatra, fiercely young, Laughing upon the topmost stair of night; Roses upon the desert must be flung; Above us, light by light, Weaves the delirious darkness, petal fall, And music breaks in waves on the pillared wall; And you are Cleopatra, and do not care.
And so, in memory, you will always be Young and foolish, a thing of dream and mist; And so, perhaps when all is disillusioned, And eternal spring returns once more, Bringing a ghost of lovelier springs remembered, You will remember me.
VI.
Yet when we meet we seem in silence to say, Pretending serene forgetfulness of our youth, "Do you remember but then why should you remember! Do you remember a certain day, Or evening rather, spring evening long ago, We talked of death, and love, and time, and truth, And said such wise things, things that amused us so How foolish we were, who thought ourselves so wise!" And then we laugh, with shadows in our eyes.


Written by Li Po | Create an image from this poem

On A Picture Screen

 Whence these twelve peaks of Wu-shan!
Have they flown into the gorgeous screen
From heaven's one corner?
Ah, those lonely pines murmuring in the wind!
Those palaces of Yang-tai, hovering yonder—
Oh, the melancholy of it!—
Where the jeweled couch of the king
With brocade covers is desolate,—
His elfin maid voluptuously fair
Still haunting them in vain!

Here a few feet
Seem a thousand miles.
The craggy walls glisten blue and red, A piece of dazzling embroidery.
How green those distant trees are Round the river strait of Ching-men! And those ships——they go on, Floating on the waters of Pa.
The water sings over the rocks Between countless hills Of shining mist and lustrous grass.
How many years since these valley flowers bloomed To smile in the sun ? And that man traveling on the river, Hears he not for ages the monkeys screaming? Whoever looks on this, Loses himself in eternity; And entering the sacred mountains of Sung, He will dream among the resplendent clouds.
Written by James Whitcomb Riley | Create an image from this poem

The Old Guitar

 Neglected now is the old guitar
And moldering into decay;
Fretted with many a rift and scar
That the dull dust hides away,
While the spider spins a silver star
In its silent lips to-day.
The keys hold only nerveless strings-- The sinews of brave old airs Are pulseless now; and the scarf that clings So closely here declares A sad regret in its ravelings And the faded hue it wears.
But the old guitar, with a lenient grace, Has cherished a smile for me; And its features hint of a fairer face That comes with a memory Of a flower-and-perfume-haunted place And a moonlit balcony.
Music sweeter than words confess, Or the minstrel's powers invent, Thrilled here once at the light caress Of the fairy hands that lent This excuse for the kiss I press On the dear old instrument.
The rose of pearl with the jeweled stem Still blooms; and the tiny sets In the circle all are here; the gem In the keys, and the silver frets; But the dainty fingers that danced o'er them-- Alas for the heart's regrets!-- Alas for the loosened strings to-day, And the wounds of rift and scar On a worn old heart, with its roundelay Enthralled with a stronger bar That Fate weaves on, through a dull decay Like that of the old guitar!
Written by Norman Dubie | Create an image from this poem

At Corfu

 In seventeen hundred, a much hated sultan
visited us twice, finally
dying of headaches in the south harbor.
Ever since, visitors have come to the island.
They bring their dogs and children.
The ferry boat with a red cross freshly painted on it lifts in uneven drafts of smoke and steam devising the mustard horizon that is grotesque with purple thunderheads.
In the rising winds the angry sea birds circle the trafficking winter ghosts who are electric like the locusts at Patmos.
They are gathering sage in improvised slings along the hillsides, they are the lightning strikes scattering wild cats from the bone yard: here, since the war, fertilizer trucks have idled much like the island itself.
We blame the wild cats who have eaten all the jeweled yellow snakes of the island.
When sufficiently distant, the outhouses have a sweetness like frankincense.
A darker congregation, we think the last days began when they stripped the postage stamps of their lies and romance.
The chaff of the hillsides rises like a cramp, defeating a paring of moon .
.
.
its hot, modest conjunction of planets .
.
.
And with this sudden hard rain the bells on the ferry boat begin a long elicit angelus.
Two small Turkish boys run out into the storm-- here, by superstition, they must laugh and sing--like condemned lovers, ashen and kneeling, who are being washed by their dead grandmothers' grandmothers.
Written by Kenneth Patchen | Create an image from this poem

Saturday Night in the Parthenon

 Tiny green birds skate over the surface of the room.
A naked girl prepares a basin with steaming water, And in the corner away from the hearth, the red wheels Of an up-ended chariot slowly turn.
After a long moment, the door to the other world opens And the golden figure of a man appears.
He stands Ruddy as a salmon beside the niche where are kept The keepsakes of the Prince of Earth; then sadly, drawing A hammer out of his side, he advances to an oaken desk, And being careful to strike in exact fury, pounds it to bits.
Another woman has by now taken her station Beside the bubbling tub.
Her legs are covered with a silken blue fur, Which in places above the knees Grows to the thickness of a lion's mane.
The upper sphere of her chest Is gathered into huge creases by two jeweled pins.
Transparent little boots reveal toes Which an angel could want.
Beneath her on the floor a beautiful cinnamon cat Plays with a bunch of yellow grapes, running Its paws in and out like a boy being a silly king.
Her voice is round and white as she says: 'Your bath is ready, darling.
Don't wait too long.
' But he has already drawn away to the window And through its circular opening looks, As a man into the pages of his death.
'Terrible horsemen are setting fire to the earth.
Houses are burning .
.
.
the people fly before The red spears of a speckled madness .
.
.
' 'Please, dear,' interrupts the original woman, 'We cannot help them .
.
.
Under the cancerous foot Of their hatred, they were born to perish - Like beasts in a well of spiders .
.
.
Come now, sweet; the water will get cold.
' A little wagon pulled by foxes lowers from the ceiling.
Three men are seated on its cushions which breathe Like purple breasts.
The head of one is tipped To the right, where on a bed of snails, a radiant child Is crowing sleepily; the heads of the other two are turned Upward, as though in contemplation Of an authority which is not easily apprehended.
Yet they act as one, lifting the baby from its rosy perch, And depositing it gently in the tub.
The water hisses over its scream .
.
.
a faint smell Of horror floats up.
Then the three withdraw With their hapless burden, and the tinny bark Of the foxes dies on the air.
'It hasn't grown cold yet,' the golden figure says, And he strokes the belly of the second woman, Running his hands over her fur like someone asleep.
They lie together under the shadow of a giant crab Which polishes its thousand vises beside the fire.
Farther back, nearly obscured by kettles and chairs, A second landscape can be seen; then a third, fourth, Fifth .
.
.
until the whole, fluted like a rose, And webbed in a miraculous workmanship, Ascends unto the seven thrones Where Tomorrow sits.
Slowly advancing down these shifting levels, The white Queen of Heaven approaches.
Stars glitter in her hair.
A tree grows Out of her side, and gazing through the foliage The eyes of the Beautiful gleam - 'Hurry, darling,' The first woman calls.
'The water is getting cold.
' But he does not hear.
The hilt of the knife is carved like a scepter And like a scepter gently sways Above his mutilated throat .
.
.
Smiling like a fashionable hat, the furry girl Walks quickly to the tub, and throwing off Her stained gown, eels into the water.
The other watches her sorrowfully; then, Without haste, as one would strangle an owl, She flicks the wheel of the chariot - around Which the black world bends .
.
.
without thrones or gates, without faith, warmth or light for any of its creatures; where even the children go mad - and As though unwound on a scroll, the picture Of Everyman's murder winks back at God.
Farther away now, nearly hidden by the human, Another landscape can be seen .
.
.
And the wan, smiling Queen of Heaven appears For a moment on the balconies of my chosen sleep.
Written by Sylvia Plath | Create an image from this poem

Purdah

 Jade --
Stone of the side,
The antagonized

Side of green Adam, I
Smile, cross-legged,
Enigmatical,

Shifting my clarities.
So valuable! How the sun polishes this shoulder! And should The moon, my Indefatigable cousin Rise, with her cancerous pallors, Dragging trees -- Little bushy polyps, Little nets, My visibilities hide.
I gleam like a mirror.
At this facet the bridegroom arrives Lord of the mirrors! It is himself he guides In among these silk Screens, these rustling appurtenances.
I breathe, and the mouth Veil stirs its curtain My eye Veil is A concatenation of rainbows.
I am his.
Even in his Absence, I Revolve in my Sheath of impossibles, Priceless and quiet Among these parrakeets, macaws! O chatterers Attendants of the eyelash! I shall unloose One feather, like the peacock.
Attendants of the lip! I shall unloose One note Shattering The chandelier Of air that all day flies Its crystals A million ignorants.
Attendants! Attendants! And at his next step I shall unloose I shall unloose -- From the small jeweled Doll he guards like a heart -- The lioness, The shriek in the bath, The cloak of holes.