Get Your Premium Membership

Best Famous Locust Poems

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

Search and read the best famous Locust poems, articles about Locust poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Locust poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

See Also:
12
Written by Willa Cather | Create an image from this poem

LONDON ROSES

 "ROWSES, Rowses! Penny a bunch!" they tell you-- 
Slattern girls in Trafalgar, eager to sell you.
Roses, roses, red in the Kensington sun, Holland Road, High Street, Bayswater, see you and smell you-- Roses of London town, red till the summer is done.
Roses, roses, locust and lilac, perfuming West End, East End, wondrously budding and blooming Out of the black earth, rubbed in a million hands, Foot-trod, sweat-sour over and under, entombing Highways of darkness, deep gutted with iron bands.
"Rowses, rowses! Penny a bunch!" they tell you, Ruddy blooms of corruption, see you and smell you, Born of stale earth, fallowed with squalor and tears-- North shire, south shire, none are like these, I tell you, Roses of London perfumed with a thousand years.


Written by Randall Jarrell | Create an image from this poem

A Country Life

 A bird that I don't know,
Hunched on his light-pole like a scarecrow,
Looks sideways out into the wheat
The wind waves under the waves of heat.
The field is yellow as egg-bread dough Except where (just as though they'd let It live for looks) a locust billows In leaf-green and shade-violet, A standing mercy.
The bird calls twice, "Red clay, red clay"; Or else he's saying, "Directly, directly.
" If someone came by I could ask, Around here all of them must know -- And why they live so and die so -- Or why, for once, the lagging heron Flaps from the little creek's parched cresses Across the harsh-grassed, gullied meadow To the black, rowed evergreens below.
They know and they don't know.
To ask, a man must be a stranger -- And asking, much more answering, is dangerous; Asked about it, who would not repent Of all he ever did and never meant, And think a life and its distresses, Its random, clutched-for, homefelt blisses, The circumstances of an accident? The farthest farmer in a field, A gaunt plant grown, for seed, by farmers, Has felt a longing, lorn urbanity Jailed in his breast; and, just as I, Has grunted, in his old perplexity, A standing plea.
From the tar of the blazing square The eyes shift, in their taciturn And unavowing, unavailable sorrow.
Yet the intonation of a name confesses Some secrets that they never meant To let out to a soul; and what words would not dim The bowed and weathered heads above the denim Or the once-too-often washed wash dresses? They are subdued to their own element.
One day The red, clay face Is lowered to the naked clay; After some words, the body is forsaken The shadows lengthen, and a dreaming hope Breathes, from the vague mound, Life; From the grove under the spire Stars shine, and a wandering light Is kindled for the mourner, man.
The angel kneeling with the wreath Sees, in the moonlight, graves.
Written by William Stafford | Create an image from this poem

When I Met My Muse

 I glanced at her and took my glasses
off--they were still singing.
They buzzed like a locust on the coffee table and then ceased.
Her voice belled forth, and the sunlight bent.
I felt the ceiling arch, and knew that nails up there took a new grip on whatever they touched.
"I am your own way of looking at things," she said.
"When you allow me to live with you, every glance at the world around you will be a sort of salvation.
" And I took her hand.
Written by Walt Whitman | Create an image from this poem

We Two—How Long We were Fool'd

 WE two—how long we were fool’d! 
Now transmuted, we swiftly escape, as Nature escapes; 
We are Nature—long have we been absent, but now we return; 
We become plants, leaves, foliage, roots, bark; 
We are bedded in the ground—we are rocks;
We are oaks—we grow in the openings side by side; 
We browse—we are two among the wild herds, spontaneous as any; 
We are two fishes swimming in the sea together; 
We are what the locust blossoms are—we drop scent around the lanes, mornings and
 evenings; 
We are also the coarse smut of beasts, vegetables, minerals;
We are two predatory hawks—we soar above, and look down; 
We are two resplendent suns—we it is who balance ourselves, orbic and stellar—we
 are as two comets; 
We prowl fang’d and four-footed in the woods—we spring on prey; 
We are two clouds, forenoons and afternoons, driving overhead; 
We are seas mingling—we are two of those cheerful waves, rolling over each other, and
 interwetting each other;
We are what the atmosphere is, transparent, receptive, pervious, impervious: 
We are snow, rain, cold, darkness—we are each product and influence of the globe; 
We have circled and circled till we have arrived home again—we two have; 
We have voided all but freedom, and all but our own joy.
Written by Richard Wilbur | Create an image from this poem

Advice to a Prophet

 When you come, as you soon must, to the streets of our city,
Mad-eyed from stating the obvious,
Not proclaiming our fall but begging us
In God's name to have self-pity,

Spare us all word of the weapons, their force and range,
The long numbers that rocket the mind;
Our slow, unreckoning hearts will be left behind,
Unable to fear what is too strange.
Nor shall you scare us with talk of the death of the race.
How should we dream of this place without us?-- The sun mere fire, the leaves untroubled about us, A stone look on the stone's face? Speak of the world's own change.
Though we cannot conceive Of an undreamt thing, we know to our cost How the dreamt cloud crumbles, the vines are blackened by frost, How the view alters.
We could believe, If you told us so, that the white-tailed deer will slip Into perfect shade, grown perfectly shy, The lark avoid the reaches of our eye, The jack-pine lose its knuckled grip On the cold ledge, and every torrent burn As Xanthus once, its gliding trout Stunned in a twinkling.
What should we be without The dolphin's arc, the dove's return, These things in which we have seen ourselves and spoken? Ask us, prophet, how we shall call Our natures forth when that live tongue is all Dispelled, that glass obscured or broken In which we have said the rose of our love and the clean Horse of our courage, in which beheld The singing locust of the soul unshelled, And all we mean or wish to mean.
Ask us, ask us whether with the worldless rose Our hearts shall fail us; come demanding Whether there shall be lofty or long standing When the bronze annals of the oak-tree close.
Written by Richard Wilbur | Create an image from this poem

A World Without Objects is a Sensible Emptiness

 The tall camels of the spirit
Steer for their deserts, passing the last groves loud
With the sawmill shrill of the locust, to the whole honey of the 
arid
Sun.
They are slow, proud, And move with a stilted stride To the land of sheer horizon, hunting Traherne's Sensible emptiness, there where the brain's lantern-slide Revels in vast returns.
O connoisseurs of thirst, Beasts of my soul who long to learn to drink Of pure mirage, those prosperous islands are accurst That shimmer on the brink Of absence; auras, lustres, And all shinings need to be shaped and borne.
Think of those painted saints, capped by the early masters With bright, jauntily-worn Aureate plates, or even Merry-go-round rings.
Turn, O turn From the fine sleights of the sand, from the long empty oven Where flames in flamings burn Back to the trees arrayed In bursts of glare, to the halo-dialing run Of the country creeks, and the hills' bracken tiaras made Gold in the sunken sun, Wisely watch for the sight Of the supernova burgeoning over the barn, Lampshine blurred in the steam of beasts, the spirit's right Oasis, light incarnate.
Written by James Whitcomb Riley | Create an image from this poem

Ike Waltons Prayer

 I crave, dear Lord, 
No boundless hoard 
Of gold and gear, 
Nor jewels fine, 
Nor lands, nor kine, 
Nor treasure-heaps of anything.
- Let but a little hut be mine Where at the hearthstore I may hear The cricket sing, And have the shine Of one glad woman's eyes to make, For my poor sake, Our simple home a place divine;- Just the wee cot-the cricket's chirr- Love, and the smiling face of her.
I pray not for Great riches, nor For vast estates, and castle-halls,- Give me to hear the bare footfalls Of children o’er An oaken floor, New-risen with sunshine, or bespread With but the tiny coverlet And pillow for the baby’s head; And pray Thou, may The door stand open and the day Send ever in a gentle breeze, With fragrance from the locust-trees, And drowsy moan of doves, and blur Of robin-chirps, and drove of bees, With afterhushes of the stir Of intermingling sounds, and then The good-wife and the smile of her Filling the silences again- The cricket’s call, And the wee cot, Dear Lord of all, Deny me not! I pray not that Men tremble at My power of place And lordly sway, - I only pray for simple grace To look my neighbor in the face Full honestly from day to day- Yield me this horny palm to hold, And I’ll not pray For gold;- The tanned face, garlanded with mirth, It hath the kingliest smile on earth- The swart brow, diamonded with sweat, Hath never need of coronet.
And so I reach, Dear Lord, to Thee, And do beseech Thou givest me The wee cot, and the cricket’s chirr, Love, and the glad sweet face of her.


Written by Vachel Lindsay | Create an image from this poem

The Ghosts of the Buffaloes

 Last night at black midnight I woke with a cry,
The windows were shaking, there was thunder on high,
The floor was a-tremble, the door was a-jar,
White fires, crimson fires, shone from afar.
I rushed to the door yard.
The city was gone.
My home was a hut without orchard or lawn.
It was mud-smear and logs near a whispering stream, Nothing else built by man could I see in my dream.
.
.
Then.
.
.
Ghost-kings came headlong, row upon row, Gods of the Indians, torches aglow.
They mounted the bear and the elk and the deer, And eagles gigantic, aged and sere, They rode long-horn cattle, they cried "A-la-la.
" They lifted the knife, the bow, and the spear, They lifted ghost-torches from dead fires below, The midnight made grand with the cry "A-la-la.
" The midnight made grand with a red-god charge, A red-god show, A red-god show, "A-la-la, a-la-la, a-la-la, a-la-la.
" With bodies like bronze, and terrible eyes Came the rank and the file, with catamount cries, Gibbering, yipping, with hollow-skull clacks, Riding white bronchos with skeleton backs, Scalp-hunters, beaded and spangled and bad, Naked and lustful and foaming and mad, Flashing primeval demoniac scorn, Blood-thirst and pomp amid darkness reborn, Power and glory that sleep in the grass While the winds and the snows and the great rains pass.
They crossed the gray river, thousands abreast, They rode in infinite lines to the west, Tide upon tide of strange fury and foam, Spirits and wraiths, the blue was their home, The sky was their goal where the star-flags are furled, And on past those far golden splendors they whirled.
They burned to dim meteors, lost in the deep.
And I turned in dazed wonder, thinking of sleep.
And the wind crept by Alone, unkempt, unsatisfied, The wind cried and cried — Muttered of massacres long past, Buffaloes in shambles vast.
.
.
An owl said: "Hark, what is a-wing?" I heard a cricket carolling, I heard a cricket carolling, I heard a cricket carolling.
Then.
.
.
Snuffing the lightning that crashed from on high Rose royal old buffaloes, row upon row.
The lords of the prairie came galloping by.
And I cried in my heart "A-la-la, a-la-la, A red-god show, A red-god show, A-la-la, a-la-la, a-la-la, a-la-la.
" Buffaloes, buffaloes, thousands abreast, A scourge and amazement, they swept to the west.
With black bobbing noses, with red rolling tongues, Coughing forth steam from their leather-wrapped lungs, Cows with their calves, bulls big and vain, Goring the laggards, shaking the mane, Stamping flint feet, flashing moon eyes, Pompous and owlish, shaggy and wise.
Like sea-cliffs and caves resounded their ranks With shoulders like waves, and undulant flanks.
Tide upon tide of strange fury and foam, Spirits and wraiths, the blue was their home, The sky was their goal where the star-flags are furled, And on past those far golden splendors they whirled.
They burned to dim meteors, lost in the deep, And I turned in dazed wonder, thinking of sleep.
I heard a cricket's cymbals play, A scarecrow lightly flapped his rags, And a pan that hung by his shoulder rang, Rattled and thumped in a listless way, And now the wind in the chimney sang, The wind in the chimney, The wind in the chimney, The wind in the chimney, Seemed to say: — "Dream, boy, dream, If you anywise can.
To dream is the work Of beast or man.
Life is the west-going dream-storm's breath, Life is a dream, the sigh of the skies, The breath of the stars, that nod on their pillows With their golden hair mussed over their eyes.
" The locust played on his musical wing, Sang to his mate of love's delight.
I heard the whippoorwill's soft fret.
I heard a cricket carolling, I heard a cricket carolling, I heard a cricket say: "Good-night, good-night, Good-night, good-night,.
.
.
good-night.
"
Written by Wang Wei | Create an image from this poem

Temple Tree Path

 Narrow path sunless temple locust tree 
Deep dark much green moss 
Should gate except meet sweep 
In case have hill monk come 


A narrow, sunless path to the temple tree, 
Deep and dark; abundant green moss.
Wait by the gate when finished sweeping the yard, In case a monk should come down from the hill.
Written by Vachel Lindsay | Create an image from this poem

The Fairy Bridal-Hymn

 [This is the hymn to Eleanor, daughter of Mab and a golden drone, sung by the Locust choir when the fairy child marries her God, the yellow rose]


This is a song to the white-armed one
Cold in the breast as the frost-wrapped Spring, 
Whose feet are slow on the hills of life, 
Whose round mouth rules by whispering.
This is a song to the white-armed one Whose breast shall burn as a Summer field, Whose wings shall rise to the doors of gold, Whose poppy lips to the God shall yield.
This is a song to the white-armed one When the closing rose shall bind her fast, And a song of the song their blood shall sing, When the Rose-God drinks her soul at last.
12