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Best Famous Leadership Poems

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

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Written by Henry Van Dyke | Create an image from this poem

The Vain King

 In robes of Tyrian blue the King was drest,
A jewelled collar shone upon his breast,
A giant ruby glittered in his crown -----
Lord of rich lands and many a splendid town.
In him the glories of an ancient line Of sober kings, who ruled by right divine, Were centred; and to him with loyal awe The people looked for leadership and law.
Ten thousand knights, the safeguard of the land, Lay like a single sword within his hand; A hundred courts, with power of life and death, Proclaimed decrees justice by his breath; And all the sacred growths that men had known Of order and of rule upheld his throne.
Proud was the King: yet not with such a heart As fits a man to play a royal part.
Not his the pride that honours as a trust The right to rule, the duty to be just: Not his the dignity that bends to bear The monarch's yoke, the master's load of care, And labours like the peasant at his gate, To serve the people and protect the State.
Another pride was his, and other joys: To him the crown and sceptre were but toys, With which he played at glory's idle game, To please himself and win the wreaths of fame.
The throne his fathers held from age to age Built for King Martin to diplay at will, His mighty strength and universal skill.
No conscious child, that, spoiled with praising, tries At every step to win admiring eyes, ---- No favourite mountebank, whose acting draws From gaping crowds loud thunder of applause, Was vainer than the King: his only thirst Was to be hailed, in every race, the first.
When tournament was held, in knightly guise The King would ride the lists and win the prize; When music charmed the court, with golden lyre The King would take the stage and lead the choir; In hunting, his the lance to slay the boar; In hawking, see his falcon highest soar; In painting, he would wield the master's brush; In high debate, -----"the King is speaking! Hush!" Thus, with a restless heart, in every field He sought renown, and found his subjects yield As if he were a demi-god revealed.
But while he played the petty games of life His kingdom fell a prey to inward strife; Corruption through the court unheeded crept, And on the seat of honour justice slept.
The strong trod down the weak; the helpless poor Groaned under burdens grievous to endure.
The nation's wealth was spent in vain display, And weakness wore the nation's heart away.
Yet think not Earth is blind to human woes --- Man has more friends and helpers than he knows; And when a patient people are oppressed, The land that bore them feels it in her breast.
Spirits of field and flood, of heath and hill, Are grieved and angry at the spreading ill; The trees complain together in the night, Voices of wrath are heard along the height, And secret vows are sworn, by stream and strand, To bring the tyrant low and liberate the land.
But little recked the pampered King of these; He heard no voice but such as praise and please.
Flattered and fooled, victor in every sport, One day he wandered idly with his court Beside the river, seeking to devise New ways to show his skill to wondering eyes.
There in the stream a patient fisher stood, And cast his line across the rippling flood.
His silver spoil lay near him on the green: "Such fish," the courtiers cried, "were never seen!" "Three salmon larger than a cloth-yard shaft--- "This man must be the master of his craft!" "An easy art!" the jealous King replied: "Myself could learn it better, if I tried, "And catch a hundred larger fish a week--- "Wilt thou accept the challenge, fellow? Speak!" The fisher turned, came near, and bent his knee: "'Tis not for kings to strive with such as me; "Yet if the King commands it, I obey.
"But one condition of the strife I pray: "The fisherman who brings the least to land "Shall do whate'er the other may command.
" Loud laughed the King: "A foolish fisher thou! "For I shall win and rule thee then as now.
" So to Prince John, a sober soul, sedate And slow, King Martin left the helm of state, While to the novel game with eager zest He all his time and all his powers addrest.
Sure such a sight was never seen before! For robed and crowned the monarch trod the shore; His golden hooks were decked with feathers fine, His jewelled reel ran out a silken line.
With kingly strokes he flogged the crystal stream, Far-off the salmon saw his tackle gleam; Careless of kings, they eyed with calm disdain The gaudy lure, and Martin fished in vain.
On Friday, when the week was almost spent, He scanned his empty creel with discontent, Called for a net, and cast it far and wide, And drew --- a thousand minnows from the tide! Then came the fisher to conclude the match, And at the monarch's feet spread out his catch --- A hundred salmon, greater than before --- "I win!" he cried: "the King must pay the score.
" Then Martin, angry, threw his tackle down: "Rather than lose this game I'd lose me crown!" "Nay, thou has lost them both," the fisher said; And as he spoke a wondrous light was shed Around his form; he dropped his garments mean, And in his place the River-god was seen.
"Thy vanity hast brought thee in my power, "And thou shalt pay the forfeit at this hour: "For thou hast shown thyself a royal fool, "Too proud to angle, and too vain to rule.
"Eager to win in every trivial strife, --- "Go! Thou shalt fish for minnows all thy life!" Wrathful, the King the scornful sentence heard; He strove to answer, but he only chirr-r-ed: His Tyrian robe was changed to wings of blue, His crown became a crest, --- away he flew! And still, along the reaches of the stream, The vain King-fisher flits, an azure gleam, --- You see his ruby crest, you hear his jealous scream.


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

Three Songs To The One Burden

 I

The Roaring Tinker if you like,
But Mannion is my name,
And I beat up the common sort
And think it is no shame.
The common breeds the common, A lout begets a lout, So when I take on half a score I knock their heads about.
From mountain to mountain ride the fierce horsemen.
All Mannions come from Manannan, Though rich on every shore He never lay behind four walls He had such character, Nor ever made an iron red Nor soldered pot or pan; His roaring and his ranting Best please a wandering man.
From mountain to mountain ride the fierce horsemen.
Could Crazy Jane put off old age And ranting time renew, Could that old god rise up again We'd drink a can or two, And out and lay our leadership On country and on town, Throw likely couples into bed And knock the others down.
From mountain to mountain ride the fierce horsemen.
II My name is Henry Middleton, I have a small demesne, A small forgotten house that's set On a storm-bitten green.
I scrub its floors and make my bed, I cook and change my plate, The post and garden-boy alone Have keys to my old gate.
From mountain to mountain ride the fierce horsemen.
Though I have locked my gate on them, I pity all the young, I know what devil's trade they learn From those they live among, Their drink, their pitch-and-toss by day, Their robbery by night; The wisdom of the people's gone, How can the young go straight? From mountain to mountain ride the fierce horsemen.
When every Sunday afternoon On the Green Lands I walk And wear a coat in fashion.
Memories of the talk Of henwives and of ***** old men Brace me and make me strong; There's not a pilot on the perch Knows I have lived so long.
From mountain to mountain ride the fierce horsemen.
III Come gather round me, players all: Come praise Nineteen-Sixteen, Those from the pit and gallery Or from the painted scene That fought in the Post Office Or round the City Hall, praise every man that came again, Praise every man that fell.
From mountain to mountain ride the fierce horsemen.
Who was the first man shot that day? The player Connolly, Close to the City Hall he died; Catriage and voice had he; He lacked those years that go with skill, But later might have been A famous, a brilliant figure Before the painted scene.
From mountain to mountain ride the fierce horsemen.
Some had no thought of victory But had gone out to die That Ireland's mind be greater, Her heart mount up on high; And yet who knows what's yet to come? For patrick pearse had said That in every generation Must Ireland's blood be shed.
From mountain to mountain ride the fierce horsemen.
Written by Andrew Barton Paterson | Create an image from this poem

Investigating Flora

 'Twas in scientific circles 
That the great Professor Brown 
Had a world-wide reputation 
As a writer of renown.
He had striven finer feelings In our natures to implant By his Treatise on the Morals Of the Red-eyed Bulldog Ant.
He had hoisted an opponent Who had trodden unawares On his "Reasons for Bare Patches On the Female Native Bears".
So they gave him an appointment As instructor to a band Of the most attractive females To be gathered in the land.
'Twas a "Ladies' Science Circle" -- Just the latest social fad For the Nicest People only, And to make their rivals mad.
They were fond of "science rambles" To the country from the town -- A parade of female beauty In the leadership of Brown.
They would pick a place for luncheon And catch beetles on their rugs; The Professor called 'em "optera" -- They calld 'em "nasty bugs".
Well, the thing was bound to perish For no lovely woman can Feel the slightest interest In a club without a Man -- The Professor hardly counted He was crazy as a loon, With a countenance suggestive Of an elderly baboon.
But the breath of Fate blew on it With a sharp and sudden blast, And the "Ladies' Science Circle" Is a memory of the past.
There were two-and-twenty members, Mostly young and mostly fair, Who had made a great excursion To a place called Dontknowwhere, At the crossing of Lost River, On the road to No Man's Land.
There they met an old selector, With a stockwhip in his hand, And the sight of so much beauty Sent him slightly "off his nut"; So he asked them, smiling blandly, "Would they come down to the hut?" "I am come," said the Professor, In his thin and reedy voice, "To investigate your flora, Which I feel is very choice.
" The selector stared dumbfounded, Till at last he found his tongue: "To investigate my Flora! Oh, you howlin' Brigham Young! Why, you've two-and-twenty wimmen -- Reg'lar slap-up wimmen, too! And you're after little Flora! And a crawlin' thing like you! Oh, you Mormonite gorilla! Well, I've heard it from the first That you wizened little fellers Is a hundred times the worst! But a dried-up ape like you are, To be marchin' through the land With a pack of lovely wimmen -- Well, I cannot understand!" "You mistake," said the Professor, In a most indignant tone -- While the ladies shrieked and jabbered In a fashion of their own -- "You mistake about these ladies, I'm a lecturer of theirs; I am Brown, who wrote the Treatise On the Female Native Bears! When I said we wanted flora, What I meant was native flowers.
" "Well, you said you wanted Flora, And I'll swear you don't get ours! But here's Flora's self a-comin', And it's time for you to skip, Or I'll write a treatise on you, And I'll write it with the whip! Now I want no explanations; Just you hook it out of sight, Or you'll charm the poor girl some'ow!" The Professor looked in fright: She was six feet high and freckled, And her hair was turkey-red.
The Professor gave a whimper, And threw down his bag and fled, And the Ladies' Science Circle, With a simultaneous rush, Travelled after its Professor, And went screaming through the bush! At the crossing of Lost River, On the road to No Man's Land, Where the grim and ghostly gumtrees Block the view on every hand, There they weep and wail and wander, Always seeking for the track, For the hapless old Professor Hasn't sense to guide 'em back; And they clutch at one another, And they yell and scream in fright As they see the gruesome creatures Of the grim Australian night; And they hear the mopoke's hooting, And the dingo's howl so dread, And the flying foxes jabber From the gum trees overhead; While the weird and wary wombats, In their subterranean caves, Are a-digging, always digging, At those wretched people's graves; And the pike-horned Queensland bullock, From his shelter in the scrub, Has his eye on the proceedings Of the Ladies' Science Club.