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Best Famous Lapwing Poems

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

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Written by William Butler Yeats | Create an image from this poem

The Hour Before Dawn

 A cursing rogue with a merry face,
A bundle of rags upon a crutch,
Stumbled upon that windy place
Called Cruachan, and it was as much
As the one sturdy leg could do
To keep him upright while he cursed.
He had counted, where long years ago Queen Maeve's nine Maines had been nursed, A pair of lapwings, one old sheep, And not a house to the plain's edge, When close to his right hand a heap Of grey stones and a rocky ledge Reminded him that he could make.
If he but shifted a few stones, A shelter till the daylight broke.
But while he fumbled with the stones They toppled over; 'Were it not I have a lucky wooden shin I had been hurt'; and toppling brought Before his eyes, where stones had been, A dark deep hollow in the rock.
He gave a gasp and thought to have fled, Being certain it was no right rock Because an ancient history said Hell Mouth lay open near that place, And yet stood still, because inside A great lad with a beery face Had tucked himself away beside A ladle and a tub of beer, And snored, no phantom by his look.
So with a laugh at his own fear He crawled into that pleasant nook.
'Night grows uneasy near the dawn Till even I sleep light; but who Has tired of his own company? What one of Maeve's nine brawling sons Sick of his grave has wakened me? But let him keep his grave for once That I may find the sleep I have lost.
' What care I if you sleep or wake? But I'Il have no man call me ghost.
' Say what you please, but from daybreak I'll sleep another century.
' And I will talk before I sleep And drink before I talk.
' And he Had dipped the wooden ladle deep Into the sleeper's tub of beer Had not the sleeper started up.
Before you have dipped it in the beer I dragged from Goban's mountain-top I'll have assurance that you are able To value beer; no half-legged fool Shall dip his nose into my ladle Merely for stumbling on this hole In the bad hour before the dawn.
' 'Why beer is only beer.
' 'But say 'I'll sleep until the winter's gone, Or maybe to Midsummer Day,' And drink and you will sleep that length.
' 'I'd like to sleep till winter's gone Or till the sun is in his srrength.
This blast has chilled me to the bone.
' 'I had no better plan at first.
I thought to wait for that or this; Maybe the weather was accursed Or I had no woman there to kiss; So slept for half a year or so; But year by year I found that less Gave me such pleasure I'd forgo Even a half-hour's nothingness, And when at one year's end I found I had not waked a single minute, I chosc this burrow under ground.
I'll sleep away all time within it: My sleep were now nine centuries But for those mornings when I find The lapwing at their foolish dies And the sheep bleating at the wind As when I also played the fool.
' The beggar in a rage began Upon his hunkers in the hole, 'It's plain that you are no right man To mock at everything I love As if it were not worth, the doing.
I'd have a merry life enough If a good Easter wind were blowing, And though the winter wind is bad I should not be too down in the mouth For anything you did or said If but this wind were in the south.
' 'You cry aloud, O would 'twere spring Or that the wind would shift a point, And do not know that you would bring, If time were suppler in the joint, Neither the spring nor the south wind But the hour when you shall pass away And leave no smoking wick behind, For all life longs for the Last Day And there's no man but cocks his ear To know when Michael's trumpet cries 'That flesh and bone may disappear, And souls as if they were but sighs, And there be nothing but God left; But, I aone being blessed keep Like some old rabbit to my cleft And wait Him in a drunken sleep.
' He dipped his ladle in the tub And drank and yawned and stretched him out, The other shouted, 'You would rob My life of every pleasant thought And every comfortable thing, And so take that and that.
' Thereon He gave him a great pummelling, But might have pummelled at a stone For all the sleeper knew or cared; And after heaped up stone on stone, And then, grown weary, prayed and cursed And heaped up stone on stone again, And prayed and cursed and cursed and bed From Maeve and all that juggling plain, Nor gave God thanks till overhead The clouds were brightening with the dawn.

Written by Barry Tebb | Create an image from this poem



Living in a land

Where only the dying correspond

I am borne on the wings of love


I cannot join in a poem

The interstices of clouds

I watched a lapwing

Hover in the air

Glide in an arc

Veer from the sheer cliff


Who shall I meet

On this journey to eternity?

Alone and yet not alone

The dust of immortality

Lies in strangers’ eyes

Girls in all the beauty

Of their youth, old men with sticks

No one afraid of anyone

‘No strangers here

Just friends we have yet to meet


‘Angels Fine English Lace’

This was the post office

In the time of the Brontes

Here the famous manuscripts

Were posted.
V Perhaps I’ll meet on the pebbled road Michael Haslam in elfin form Shape-shifter or leprechaun VI One of a gang of Keighley girls Going clubbing in Leeds put her arms Round my neck and sang “Won’t you be my lover?” Eternities beyond Winnicott’s ‘spontaneous gesture’.
Written by Robert Burns | Create an image from this poem

342. Song—Sweet Afton

 FLOW gently, sweet Afton! amang thy green braes,
Flow gently, I’ll sing thee a song in thy praise;
My Mary’s asleep by thy murmuring stream,
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.
Thou stockdove whose echo resounds thro’ the glen, Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den, Thou green-crested lapwing thy screaming forbear, I charge you, disturb not my slumbering Fair.
How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring hills, Far mark’d with the courses of clear, winding rills; There daily I wander as noon rises high, My flocks and my Mary’s sweet cot in my eye.
How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below, Where, wild in the woodlands, the primroses blow; There oft, as mild Ev’ning weeps over the lea, The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me.
Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides, And winds by the cot where my Mary resides; How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave, As, gathering sweet flowerets, she stems thy clear wave.
Flow gently, sweet Afton, amang thy green braes, Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays; My Mary’s asleep by thy murmuring stream, Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.
Written by Paul Laurence Dunbar | Create an image from this poem


Oh, the day has set me dreaming
In a strange, half solemn way
Of the feelings I experienced
On another long past day,—
Of the way my heart made music
When the buds began to blow,
And o' little Lucy Landman
Whom I loved long years ago.
It 's in spring, the poet tells us,
That we turn to thoughts of love,
And our hearts go out a-wooing
With the lapwing and the dove.
But whene'er the soul goes seeking
Its twin-soul, upon the wing,
I 've a notion, backed by mem'ry,
That it's love that makes the spring.
I have heard a robin singing
When the boughs were brown and bare,
And the chilling hand of winter
Scattered jewels through the air.
And in spite of dates and seasons,
It was always spring, I know,
When I loved Lucy Landman
In the days of long ago.
Ah, my little Lucy Landman,
I remember you as well
As if 't were only yesterday
I strove your thoughts to tell,—
When I tilted back your bonnet,
Looked into your eyes so true,
Just to see if you were loving
Me as I was loving you.
Ah, my little Lucy Landman
It is true it was denied
You should see a fuller summer
And an autumn by my side.
But the glance of love's sweet sunlight
Which your eyes that morning gave
Has kept spring within my bosom,
Though you lie within the grave.