Best Famous Lilly Poems

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

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• All Famous Lilly Poems

Written by Anne Killigrew | A Pastoral Dialogue Amintor. STay gentle Nymph, nor so solic'tous be, To fly his sight that still would gaze on thee. With other Swaines I see thee oft converse, Content to speak, and hear what they rehearse: But I unhappy, when I e're draw nigh, Thou streight do'st leave both Place, and Company. If this thy Flight, from fear of Harm doth flow, Ah, sure thou little of my Heart dost know. Alinda. What wonder, Swain, if the Pursu'd by Flight, Seeks to avoid the close Pursuers Sight ? And if no Cause I have to fly from thee, Then thou hast none, why thou dost follow me. Amin. If to the Cause thou wilt propitious prove, Take it at once, fair Nymph, and know 'tis Love. Alin. To my just Pray'r, ye favouring Gods attend, These Vows to Heaven with equal Zeal I send, My flocks from Wolves, my Heart from Love, defend. Amin. The Gods which did on thee such Charms bestow, Ne're meant thou shouldst to Love have prov'd a Foe, That so Divine a Power thou shouldst defy. Could there a Reason be, I'd ask thee, why ? Alin. Why does Licoris, once so bright and gay, Pale as a Lilly pine her self away ? Why does Elvira, ever sad, frequent The lonely shades ? Why does yon Monument Which we upon our Left Hand do behold, Hapless Amintas youthful Limbs enfold ? Say Shepherd, say: But if thou wilt not tell, Damon, Philisides, and Strephon well Can speak the Cause, whose Falshood each upbraids, And justly me from Cruel Love disswades. Amin. Hear me ye Gods. Me and my Flocks forsake, If e're like them my promis'd Faith I brake. Alin. By others sad Experience wise I'le be. Amin. But such thy Wisdom highly injures me: And nought but Death can give a Remedy. Yet Learn'd in Physick, what does it avail, That you by Art (wherein ye never fail) Present Relief have for the Mad-dogs Bite ? The Serpents sting ? The poisonous Achonite ? While helpless Love upbraids your baffl'd skill, And far more certain, than the rest, doth kill. Alin. Fond Swain, go dote upon the new blown Rose, Whose Beauty with the Morning did disclose, And e're Days King forsakes th'enlightened Earth, Wither'd, returns from whence it took its Birth. As much Excuse will there thy Love attend, As what thou dost on Womens Beauty spend. Amin. Ah Nymph, those Charms which I in thee admire, Can, nor before, nor with thy Life expire. From Heaven they are, and such as ne're can dye, But with thy Soul they will ascend the Sky ! For though my ravisht Eye beholds in Thee, Such beauty as I can in none else see; That Nature there alone is without blame, Yet did not this my faithful Heart enflame: Nor when in Dance thou mov'st upon the Plaine, Or other Sports pursu'st among the Train Of choicest Nymphs, where thy attractive Grace Shews thee alone, though thousands be in place ! Yet not for these do I Alinda love, Hear then what 'tis, that does my Passion move. That Thou still Earliest at the Temple art, And still the last that does from thence depart; Pans Altar is by thee the oftnest prest, Thine's still the fairest Offering and the Best; And all thy other Actions seem to be, The true Result of Unfeign'd Piety; Strict in thy self, to others Just and Mild; Careful, nor to Deceive, nor be Beguil'd; Wary, without the least Offence, to live, Yet none than thee more ready to forgive ! Even on thy Beauty thou dost Fetters lay, Least, unawares, it any should betray. Far unlike, sure, to many of thy Sex, Whose Pride it is, the doting World to vex; Spreading their Universal Nets to take Who e're their artifice can captive make. But thou command'st thy Sweet, but Modest Eye, That no Inviting Glance from thence should fly. Beholding with a Gen'rous Disdain, The lighter Courtships of each amorous Swain; Knowing, true Fame, Vertue alone can give: Nor dost thou greedily even that receive. And what 'bove this thy Character can raise ? Thirsty of Merit, yet neglecting Praise ! While daily these Perfections I discry, Matchless Alinda makes me daily dy. Thou absent, Flow'rs to me no Odours yield, Nor find I freshness in the dewy Field; Not Thyrsis Voice, nor Melibeus Lire, Can my Sad Heart with one Gay Thought inspire; My thriving Flock ('mong Shepherds Vows the Chief) I unconcern'd behold, as they my Grief. This I profess, if this thou not believe, A further proof I ready am to give, Command: there's nothing I'le not undertake, And, thy Injunctions, Love will easie make. Ah, if thou couldst incline a gentle Ear, Of plighted Faith, and hated Hymen hear; Thou hourly then my spotless Love should'st see, That all my Study, how to please, should be; How to protect thee from disturbing Care, And in thy Griefs to bear the greatest share; Nor should a Joy, my Warie Heart surprize, That first I read not in thy charming Eyes. Alin. If ever I to any do impart, My, till this present hour, well-guarded Heart, That Passion I have fear'd, I'le surely prove, For one that does, like to Amintor love. Amintor. Ye Gods – Alin. Shepherd, no more: enough it is that I, Thus long to Love, have listn'd patiently. Farewel: Pan keep thee, Swain. Amintor. And Blessings Thee, Rare as thy Vertues, still accompany.

Written by John Keats | Ode to Fanny Physician Nature! Let my spirit blood! O ease my heart of verse and let me rest; Throw me upon thy Tripod, till the flood Of stifling numbers ebbs from my full breast. A theme! a theme! great nature! give a theme; Let me begin my dream. I come -- I see thee, as thou standest there, Beckon me not into the wintry air. Ah! dearest love, sweet home of all my fears, And hopes, and joys, and panting miseries, -- To-night, if I may guess, thy beauty wears A smile of such delight, As brilliant and as bright, As when with ravished, aching, vassal eyes, Lost in soft amaze, I gaze, I gaze! Who now, with greedy looks, eats up my feast? What stare outfaces now my silver moon! Ah! keep that hand unravished at the least; Let, let, the amorous burn -- But pr'ythee, do not turn The current of your heart from me so soon. O! save, in charity, The quickest pulse for me. Save it for me, sweet love! though music breathe Voluptuous visions into the warm air; Though swimming through the dance's dangerous wreath, Be like an April day, Smiling and cold and gay, A temperate lilly, temperate as fair; Then, Heaven! there will be A warmer June for me. Why, this, you'll say, my Fanny! is not true: Put your soft hand upon your snowy side, Where the heart beats: confess -- 'tis nothing new -- Must not a woman be A feather on the sea, Sway'd to and fro by every wind and tide? Of as uncertain speed As blow-ball from the mead? I know it -- and to know it is despair To one who loves you as I love, sweet Fanny! Whose heart goes fluttering for you every where, Nor, when away you roam, Dare keep its wretched home, Love, love alone, his pains severe and many: Then, loveliest! keep me free, From torturing jealousy. Ah! if you prize my subdued soul above The poor, the fading, brief, pride of an hour; Let none profane my Holy See of love, Or with a rude hand break The sacramental cake: Let none else touch the just new-budded flower; If not -- may my eyes close, Love! on their lost repose.

Written by Helen Hunt Jackson | Where? My snowy eupatorium has dropped Its silver threads of petals in the night; No signal told its blossoming had stopped; Its seed-films flutter silent, ghostly white: No answer stirs the shining air, As I ask, "Where?" Beneath the glossy leaves of winter-green Dead lilly-bells lie low, and in their place A rounded disk of pearly pink is seen, Which tells not of the lily's fragrant grace: No answer stirs the shining air, As I ask, "Where?" This morning's sunrise does not show to me Seed-film or fruit of my sweet yesterday; Like falling flowers, to realms I cannot see Its moments floated silently away: No answer stirs the shining air, As I ask, "Where?"

Written by Joyce Kilmer | Dave Lilly There's a brook on the side of Greylock that used to be full of trout, But there's nothing there now but minnows; they say it is all fished out. I fished there many a Summer day some twenty years ago, And I never quit without getting a mess of a dozen or so. There was a man, Dave Lilly, who lived on the North Adams road, And he spent all his time fishing, while his neighbors reaped and sowed. He was the luckiest fisherman in the Berkshire hills, I think. And when he didn't go fishing he'd sit in the tavern and drink. Well, Dave is dead and buried and nobody cares very much; They have no use in Greylock for drunkards and loafers and such. But I always liked Dave Lilly, he was pleasant as you could wish; He was shiftless and good-for-nothing, but he certainly could fish. The other night I was walking up the hill from Williamstown And I came to the brook I mentioned, and I stopped on the bridge and sat down. I looked at the blackened water with its little flecks of white And I heard it ripple and whisper in the still of the Summer night. And after I'd been there a minute it seemed to me I could feel The presence of someone near me, and I heard the hum of a reel. And the water was churned and broken, and something was brought to land By a twist and flirt of a shadowy rod in a deft and shadowy hand. I scrambled down to the brookside and hunted all about; There wasn't a sign of a fisherman; there wasn't a sign of a trout. But I heard somebody chuckle behind the hollow oak And I got a whiff of tobacco like Lilly used to smoke. It's fifteen years, they tell me, since anyone fished that brook; And there's nothing in it but minnows that nibble the bait off your hook. But before the sun has risen and after the moon has set I know that it's full of ghostly trout for Lilly's ghost to get. I guess I'll go to the tavern and get a bottle of rye And leave it down by the hollow oak, where Lilly's ghost went by. I meant to go up on the hillside and try to find his grave And put some flowers on it -- but this will be better for Dave.

Written by William Blake | The Lilly The modest Rose puts forth a thorn: The humble Sheep. a threatning horn: While the Lily white, shall in Love delight, Nor a thorn nor a threat stain her beauty bright

Written by Algernon Charles Swinburne | The Many Greene, garlanded with February's few flowers Ere March came in with Marlowe's rapturous rage; Peele, from whose hand the sweet white locks of age Took the mild chaplet woven of honored hours; Nash, laughing hard; Lodge, flushed from lyric bowers; And Lilly, a goldfinch in a twisted cage Fed by some gay great lady's pettish page Till short sweet songs gush clear like short spring showers; Kid, whose grim sport still gamboled over graves; And Chettle, in whose fresh funereal verse Weeps Marian yet on Robin's wildwood hearse; Cooke, whose light boat of song one soft breath saves, Sighed from a maiden's amorous mouth averse; Live likewise ye--Time takes not you for slaves.

Written by William Strode | A Lover To His Mistress Ile tell you how the Rose did first grow redde, And whence the Lilly whitenesse borrowed: You blusht, and then the Rose with redde was dight: The Lillies kissde your hands, and so came white: Before that time each Rose had but a stayne, The Lilly nought but palenesse did containe: You have the native colour, these the dye; They flourish only in your livery

Written by Rudyard Kipling | The Mares Nest Jane Austen Beecher Stowe de Rouse Was good beyond all earthly need; But, on the other hand, her spouse Was very, very bad indeed. He smoked cigars, called churches slow, And raced -- but this she did not know. For Belial Machiavelli kept The little fact a secret, and, Though o'er his minor sins she wept, Jane Austen did not understand That Lilly -- thirteen-two and bay Absorbed one-half her husband's pay. She was so good, she made hime worse; (Some women are like this, I think;) He taught her parrot how to curse, Her Assam monkey how to drink. He vexed her righteous soul until She went up, and he went down hill. Then came the crisis, strange to say, Which turned a good wife to a better. A telegraphic peon, one day, Brought her -- now, had it been a letter For Belial Machiavelli, I Know Jane would just have let it lie. But 'twas a telegram instead, Marked "urgent," and her duty plain To open it. Jane Austen read: "Your Lilly's got a cough again. Can't understand why she is kept At your expense. " Jane Austen wept. It was a misdirected wire. Her husband was at Shaitanpore. She spread her anger, hot as fire, Through six thin foreign sheets or more. Sent off that letter, wrote another To her solicitor -- and mother. Then Belial Machiavelli saw Her error and, I trust, his own, Wired to the minion of the Law, And traveled wifeward -- not alone. For Lilly -- thirteen-two and bay -- Came in a horse-box all the way. There was a scene -- a weep or two -- With many kisses. Austen Jane Rode Lilly all the season through, And never opened wires again. She races now with Belial. This Is very sad, but so it is.

Written by Robert Southey | To Mary Wollstonecraft The lilly cheek, the "purple light of love," The liquid lustre of the melting eye,-- Mary! of these the Poet sung, for these Did Woman triumph! with no angry frown View this degrading conquest. At that age No MAID OF ARC had snatch'd from coward man The heaven-blest sword of Liberty; thy sex Could boast no female ROLAND'S martyrdom; No CORDE'S angel and avenging arm Had sanctified again the Murderer's name As erst when Caesar perish'd: yet some strains May even adorn this theme, befitting me To offer, nor unworthy thy regard.

Written by William Strode | To A Gentlewoman For A Friend No marvell if the Sunne's bright eye Shower downe hott flames; that qualitie Still waytes on light; but when wee see Those sparkling balles of ebony Distil such heat, the gazer straight Stands so amazed at the sight As when the lightning makes a breach Through pitchie clouds: can lightning reach The marrowe hurting not the skynne? Your eyes to me the same have byn; Can jett invite the loving strawe With secrett fire? so those can draw, And can, where ere they glance a dart, Make stubble of the strongest hart. Oft when I looke I may descry A little face peep through your eye; Sure 'tis the boy, who wisely chose His throne among such rayes as those, Which, if his quiver chance to fail, May serve for darts to kill withal: If to such powerful shafts I yeild, If with so many wounds I bleed, Think me noe coward, though I lye Thus prostrate with your charming eye: Did I say but your eye? I sweare Death's in your beauty everywhere. Your waxen hands when I recall, Your lily breasts, their melting vale, Your damaske cheeks, your lilly skynne, Your corral lipp and dainty chynne, Your shining locks and amber breath, All pleasing instruments of death, Your eye may spare itselfe: mine owne When all your parts are duly knowne From any part may fetch a dart To wound itselfe. Kill not my hart, By saying that I will dispise The parentage from which you rise: I know it well, and likewise knowe That I my myselfe my breath doe owe To Woolsey's roofe, and can it bee I should disdayne your pedigree? Or is your Sire a butcher found? The fitter you to make a wound; Wound mee againe and more and more, So you againe will mee restore, But if resemblance tell the father I think hee was an Angell rather.