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Best Famous Lights Out Poems

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

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Written by Edgar Allan Poe | Create an image from this poem

The Conqueror Worm

Lo! 't is a gala night

Within the lonesome latter years!
An angel throng bewinged bedight

In veils and drowned in tears 
Sit in a theatre to see

A play of hopes and fears 
While the orchestra breathes fitfully

The music of the spheres.
Mimes in the form of God on high Mutter and mumble low And hither and thither fly - Mere puppets they who come and go At bidding of vast formless things That shift the scenery to and fro Flapping from out their Condor wings Invisible Woe! That motley drama! - oh be sure It shall not be forgot! With its Phantom chased for evermore By a crowd that seize it not Through a circle that ever returneth in To the self-same spot And much of Madness and more of Sin And Horror the soul of the plot.
But see amid the mimic rout A crawling shape intrude! A blood-red thing that writhes from out The scenic solitude! It writhes! - it writhes! - with mortal pangs The mimes become its food And the seraphs sob at vermin fangs In human gore imbued.
Out - out are the lights - out all! And over each quivering form The curtain a funeral pall Comes down with the rush of a storm And the angels all pallid and wan Uprising unveiling affirm That the play is the tragedy "Man" And its hero the Conqueror Worm.


Written by Allen Ginsberg | Create an image from this poem

A Supermarket in California

What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whit- 
man, for I walked down the sidestreets under the trees 
with a headache self-conscious looking at the full moon.
In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went into the neon fruit supermarket, dreaming of your enumerations! What peaches and what penumbras! Whole fam- ilies shopping at night! Aisles full of husbands! Wives in the avocados, babies in the tomatoes!--and you, Garcia Lorca, what were you doing down by the watermelons? I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old grubber, poking among the meats in the refrigerator and eyeing the grocery boys.
I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed the pork chops? What price bananas? Are you my Angel? I wandered in and out of the brilliant stacks of cans following you, and followed in my imagination by the store detective.
We strode down the open corridors together in our solitary fancy tasting artichokes, possessing every frozen delicacy, and never passing the cashier.
Where are we going, Walt Whitman? The doors close in an hour.
Which way does your beard point tonight? (I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the supermarket and feel absurd.
) Will we walk all night through solitary streets? The trees add shade to shade, lights out in the houses, we'll both be lonely.
Will we stroll dreaming ofthe lost America of love past blue automobiles in driveways, home to our silent cottage? Ah, dear father, graybeard, lonely old courage- teacher, what America did you have when Charon quit poling his ferry and you got out on a smoking bank and stood watching the boat disappear on the black waters of Lethe?
Written by Henry Van Dyke | Create an image from this poem

Lights Out

 "Lights out" along the land,
"Lights out" upon the sea.
The night must put her hiding hand O'er peaceful towns where children sleep, And peaceful ships that darkly creep Across the waves, as if they were not free.
The dragons of the air, The hell-hounds of the deep, Lurking and prowling everywhere, Go forth to seek their helpless prey, Not knowing whom they maim or slay-- Mad harvesters, who care not what they reap.
Out with the tranquil lights, Out with the lights that burn For love and law and human rights! Set back the clock a thousand years: All they have gained now disappears, And the dark ages suddenly return.
Kaiser who loosed wild death, And terror in the night-- God grant you draw no quiet breath, Until the madness you began Is ended, and long-suffering man, Set free from war lords, cries, "Let there be Light.
"
Written by Robert Bly | Create an image from this poem

In Rainy September

In rainy September when leaves grow down to the dark 
I put my forehead down to the damp seaweed-smelling sand.
What can we do but choose? The only way for human beings is to choose.
The fern has no choice but to live; for this crime it receives earth water and night.
we close the door.
"I have no claim on you.
" Dusk comes.
"The love I have had with you is enough.
" We know we could live apart from the flock.
The sheldrake floats apart from the flock.
The oaktree puts out leaves alone on the lonely hillside.
Men and women before us have accomplished this.
I would see you and you me once a year.
We would be two kernels and not be planted.
We stay in the room door closed lights out.
I weep with you without shame and without honor.
Written by Charles Bukowski | Create an image from this poem

Young In New Orleans

 starving there, sitting around the bars,
and at night walking the streets for hours,
the moonlight always seemed fake
to me, mabye it was,
and in the French Quarter I watched
the horses and buggies going by,
everybody sitting high in the open
carriages, the black driver, and in
back the man and the woman,
usually young and always white.
and I was always white.
and hardly charmed by the world.
New Orleans was a place to hide.
I could piss away my life, unmolested.
except for the rats.
the rats in my small dark room very much resented sharing it with me.
they were large and fearless and stared at me with eyes that spoke an unblinking death.
women were beyond me.
they saw something depraved.
there was one waitress a little older than I, she rather smiled, lingered when she brought my coffee.
that was plenty for me, that was enough.
there was something about that city, though: it didn't let me feel guilty that I had no feeling for the things so many others needed.
it let me alone.
sitting up in my bed the lights out, hearing the outside sounds, lifting my cheap bottle of wine, letting the warmth of the grape enter ]me as I heard the rats moving about the room, I preferred them to humans.
being lost, being crazy mabye is not so bad if you can be that way: undisturbed.
New Orleans gave me that.
nobody ever called my name.
no telephone, no car, no job, no anything.
me and the rats and my youth, one time, that time I knew even through the nothingness, it was a celebration of something not to do but only know.
Written by Sylvia Plath | Create an image from this poem

The Other Two

 All summer we moved in a villa brimful of echos,
Cool as the pearled interior of a conch.
Bells, hooves, of the high-stipping black goats woke us.
Around our bed the baronial furniture Foundered through levels of light seagreen and strange.
Not one leaf wrinkled in the clearing air.
We dreamed how we were perfect, and we were.
Against bare, whitewashed walls, the furniture Anchored itself, griffin-legged and darkly grained.
Two of us in a place meant for ten more- Our footsteps multiplied in the shadowy chambers, Our voices fathomed a profounder sound: The walnut banquet table, the twelve chairs Mirrored the intricate gestures of two others.
Heavy as a statuary, shapes not ours Performed a dumbshow in the polished wood, That cabinet without windows or doors: He lifts an arm to bring her close, but she Shies from his touch: his is an iron mood.
Seeing her freeze, he turns his face away.
They poise and grieve as in some old tragedy.
Moon-blanched and implacable, he and she Would not be eased, released.
Our each example Of temderness dove through their purgatory Like a planet, a stone, swallowed in a great darkness, Leaving no sparky track, setting up no ripple.
Nightly we left them in their desert place.
Lights out, they dogged us, sleepless and envious: We dreamed their arguments, their stricken voices.
We might embrace, but those two never did, Come, so unlike us, to a stiff impasse, Burdened in such a way we seemed the lighter- Ourselves the haunters, and they, flesh and blood; As if, above love's ruinage, we were The heaven those two dreamed of, in despair.
Written by Carl Sandburg | Create an image from this poem

In the Shadow of the Palace

 LET us go out of the fog, John, out of the filmy persistent drizzle on the streets of Stockholm, let us put down the collars of our raincoats, take off our hats and sit in the newspapers office.
Let us sit among the telegrams—clickety-click—the kaiser’s crown goes into the gutter and the Hohenzollern throne of a thousand years falls to pieces a one-hoss shay.
It is a fog night out and the umbrellas are up and the collars of the raincoats—and all the steamboats up and down the Baltic sea have their lights out and the wheelsmen sober.
Here the telegrams come—one king goes and another—butter is costly: there is no butter to buy for our bread in Stockholm—and a little patty of butter costs more than all the crowns of Germany.
Let us go out in the fog, John, let us roll up our raincoat collars and go on the streets where men are sneering at the kings.


Written by Sir Henry Newbolt | Create an image from this poem

The Toy Band

 A Song of the Great Retreat

Dreary lay the long road, dreary lay the town, 
Lights out and never a glint o' moon: 
Weary lay the stragglers, half a thousand down, 
Sad sighed the weary big Dragoon.
"Oh! if I'd a drum here to make them take the road again, Oh! if I'd a fife to wheedle, Come, boys, come! You that mean to fight it out, wake and take your load again, Fall in! Fall in! Follow the fife and drum! "Hey, but here's a toy shop, here's a drum for me, Penny whistles too to play the tune! Half a thousand dead men soon shall hear and see We're a band!" said the weary big Dragoon.
Rubadub! Rubadub! Wake and take the road again, Wheedle-deedle-deedle-dee, Come, boys, come! You that mean to fight it out, wake and take your load again, Fall in! Fall in! Follow the fife and drum!" Cheerly goes the dark road, cheerly goes the night, Cheerly goes the blood to keep the beat; Half a thousand dead men marching on to fight With a little penny drum to lift their feet.
Rubadub! Rubadub! Wake, and take the raod again, Wheedle-deedle-deedle-dee, Come, boys, come! You that mean to fight it out, wake and take your load again, Fall in! Fall in! Follow the fife and drum! As long as there's an Englishman to ask a tale of me, As long as I can tell the tale aright, We'll not forget the penny whistle's wheedle-deedle-dee And the big Dragoon a-beating down the night, Rubadub! Rubadub! Wake and take the road again, Wheedle-deedle-deedle-dee, Come, boys, come! You that mean to fight it out, wake and take your load again, Fall in! Fall in! Follow the fife, and drum!
Written by Edward Thomas | Create an image from this poem

Lights Out

 I have come to the borders of sleep, 
The unfathomable deep 
Forest where all must lose 
Their way, however straight, 
Or winding, soon or late; 
They cannot choose.
Many a road and track That, since the dawn's first crack, Up to the forest brink, Deceived the travellers, Suddenly now blurs, And in they sink.
Here love ends, Despair, ambition ends, All pleasure and all trouble, Although most sweet or bitter, Here ends in sleep that is sweeter Than tasks most noble.
There is not any book Or face of dearest look That I would not turn from now To go into the unknown I must enter and leave alone I know not how.
The tall forest towers; Its cloudy foliage lowers Ahead, shelf above shelf; Its silence I hear and obey That I may lose my way And myself.
Written by Robert Graves | Create an image from this poem

The Last Post

 The bugler sent a call of high romance— 
“Lights out! Lights out!” to the deserted square.
On the thin brazen notes he threw a prayer, “God, if it’s this for me next time in France… O spare the phantom bugle as I lie Dead in the gas and smoke and roar of guns, Dead in a row with the other broken ones Lying so stiff and still under the sky, Jolly young Fusiliers too good to die.
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