Get Your Premium Membership

Best Famous Looped Poems

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

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

See Also:
12
Written by John Ashbery | Create an image from this poem

Just Walking Around

 What name do I have for you? 
Certainly there is not name for you
In the sense that the stars have names
That somehow fit them.
Just walking around, An object of curiosity to some, But you are too preoccupied By the secret smudge in the back of your soul To say much and wander around, Smiling to yourself and others.
It gets to be kind of lonely But at the same time off-putting.
Counterproductive, as you realize once again That the longest way is the most efficient way, The one that looped among islands, and You always seemed to be traveling in a circle.
And now that the end is near The segments of the trip swing open like an orange.
There is light in there and mystery and food.
Come see it.
Come not for me but it.
But if I am still there, grant that we may see each other.


Written by John Greenleaf Whittier | Create an image from this poem

The Barefoot Boy

 Blessings on thee, little man,
Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan!
With thy turned-up pantaloons,
And thy merry whistled tunes;
With thy red lip, redder still
Kissed by strawberries on the hill;
With the sunshine on thy face,
Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace;
From my heart I give thee joy, -
I was once a barefoot boy!
Prince thou art, - the grown-up man
Only is republican.
Let the million-dollared ride! Barefoot, trudging at his side, Thou hast more than he can buy In the reach of ear and eye, - Outward sunshine, inward joy: Blessings on thee, barefoot boy! Oh for boyhood's painless play, Sleep that wakes in laughing day, Health that mocks the doctor's rules, Knowledge never learned of schools, Of the wild bee's morning chase, Of the wild-flower's time and place, Flight of fowl and habitude Of the tenants of the wood; How the tortoise bears his shell, How the woodchuck digs his cell, And the ground-mole sinks his well; How the robin feeds her young, How the oriole's nest is hung; Where the whitest lilies blow, Where the freshest berries grow, Where the ground-nut trails its vine, Where the wood-grape's clusters shine; Of the black wasp's cunning way, Mason of his walls of clay, And the architectural plans Of gray hornet artisans! For, eschewing books and tasks, Nature answers all he asks; Hand in hand with her he walks, Face to face with her he talks, Part and parcel of her joy, - Blessings on the barefoot boy! Oh for boyhood's time of June, Crowding years in one brief moon, When all things I heard or saw, Me, their master, waited for.
I was rich in flowers and trees, Humming-birds and honey-bees; For my sport the squirrel played, Plied the snouted mole his spade; For my taste the blackberry cone Purpled over hedge and stone; Laughed the brook for my delight Through the day and through the night, Whispering at the garden wall, Talked with me from fall to fall; Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond, Mine the walnut slopes beyond, Mine, on bending orchard trees, Apples of Hesperides! Still as my horizon grew, Larger grew my riches too; All the world I saw or knew Seemed a complex Chinese toy, Fashioned for a barefoot boy! Oh for festal dainties spread, Like my bowl of milk and bread; Pewter spoon and bowl of wood, On the door-stone, gray and rude! O'er me, like a regal tent, Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent, Purple-curtained, fringed with gold, Looped in many a wind-swung fold; While for music came the play Of the pied frogs' orchestra; And, to light the noisy choir, Lit the fly his lamp of fire.
I was monarch: pomp and joy Waited on the barefoot boy! Cheerily, then, my little man, Live and laugh, as boyhood can! Though the flinty slopes be hard, Stubble-speared the new-mown sward, Every morn shall lead thee through Fresh baptisms of the dew; Every evening from thy feet Shall the cool wind kiss the heat: All too soon these feet must hide In the prison cells of pride, Lose the freedom of the sod, Like a colt's for work be shod, Made to tread the mills of toil, Up and down in ceaseless moil: Happy if their track be found Never on forbidden ground; Happy if they sink not in Quick and treacherous sands of sin.
Ah! that thou couldst know thy joy, Ere it passes, barefoot boy!
Written by Elizabeth Bishop | Create an image from this poem

Florida

 The state with the prettiest name,
the state that floats in brackish water,
held together by mangrave roots
that bear while living oysters in clusters, 
and when dead strew white swamps with skeletons, 
dotted as if bombarded, with green hummocks
like ancient cannon-balls sprouting grass.
The state full of long S-shaped birds, blue and white, and unseen hysterical birds who rush up the scale every time in a tantrum.
Tanagers embarrassed by their flashiness, and pelicans whose delight it is to clown; who coast for fun on the strong tidal currents in and out among the mangrove islands and stand on the sand-bars drying their damp gold wings on sun-lit evenings.
Enormous turtles, helpless and mild, die and leave their barnacled shells on the beaches, and their large white skulls with round eye-sockets twice the size of a man's.
The palm trees clatter in the stiff breeze like the bills of the pelicans.
The tropical rain comes down to freshen the tide-looped strings of fading shells: Job's Tear, the Chinese Alphabet, the scarce Junonia, parti-colored pectins and Ladies' Ears, arranged as on a gray rag of rotted calico, the buried Indian Princess's skirt; with these the monotonous, endless, sagging coast-line is delicately ornamented.
Thirty or more buzzards are drifting down, down, down, over something they have spotted in the swamp, in circles like stirred-up flakes of sediment sinking through water.
Smoke from woods-fires filters fine blue solvents.
On stumps and dead trees the charring is like black velvet.
The mosquitoes go hunting to the tune of their ferocious obbligatos.
After dark, the fireflies map the heavens in the marsh until the moon rises.
Cold white, not bright, the moonlight is coarse-meshed, and the careless, corrupt state is all black specks too far apart, and ugly whites; the poorest post-card of itself.
After dark, the pools seem to have slipped away.
The alligator, who has five distinct calls: friendliness, love, mating, war, and a warning-- whimpers and speaks in the throat of the Indian Princess.
Written by Sidney Lanier | Create an image from this poem

June Dreams In January

 "So pulse, and pulse, thou rhythmic-hearted Noon
That liest, large-limbed, curved along the hills,
In languid palpitation, half a-swoon
With ardors and sun-loves and subtle thrills;

"Throb, Beautiful! while the fervent hours exhale
As kisses faint-blown from thy finger-tips
Up to the sun, that turn him passion-pale
And then as red as any virgin's lips.
"O tender Darkness, when June-day hath ceased, -- Faint Odor from the day-flower's crushing born, -- Dim, visible Sigh out of the mournful East That cannot see her lord again till morn: "And many leaves, broad-palmed towards the sky To catch the sacred raining of star-light: And pallid petals, fain, all fain to die, Soul-stung by too keen passion of the night: "And short-breath'd winds, under yon gracious moon Doing mild errands for mild violets, Or carrying sighs from the red lips of June What aimless way the odor-current sets: "And stars, ringed glittering in whorls and bells, Or bent along the sky in looped star-sprays, Or vine-wound, with bright grapes in panicles, Or bramble-tangled in a sweetest maze, "Or lying like young lilies in a lake About the great white Lotus of the moon, Or blown and drifted, as if winds should shake Star blossoms down from silver stems too soon, "Or budding thick about full open stars, Or clambering shyly up cloud-lattices, Or trampled pale in the red path of Mars, Or trim-set in quaint gardener's fantasies: "And long June night-sounds crooned among the leaves, And whispered confidence of dark and green, And murmurs in old moss about old eaves, And tinklings floating over water-sheen!" Then he that wrote laid down his pen and sighed; And straightway came old Scorn and Bitterness, Like Hunnish kings out of the barbarous land, And camped upon the transient Italy That he had dreamed to blossom in his soul.
"I'll date this dream," he said; "so: `Given, these, On this, the coldest night in all the year, From this, the meanest garret in the world, In this, the greatest city in the land, To you, the richest folk this side of death, By one, the hungriest poet under heaven, -- Writ while his candle sputtered in the gust, And while his last, last ember died of cold, And while the mortal ice i' the air made free Of all his bones and bit and shrunk his heart, And while soft Luxury made show to strike Her gloved hands together and to smile What time her weary feet unconsciously Trode wheels that lifted Avarice to power, -- And while, moreover, -- O thou God, thou God -- His worshipful sweet wife sat still, afar, Within the village whence she sent him forth Into the town to make his name and fame, Waiting, all confident and proud and calm, Till he should make for her his name and fame, Waiting -- O Christ, how keen this cuts! -- large-eyed, With Baby Charley till her husband make For her and him a poet's name and fame.
' -- Read me," he cried, and rose, and stamped his foot Impatiently at Heaven, "read me this," (Putting th' inquiry full in the face of God) "Why can we poets dream us beauty, so, But cannot dream us bread? Why, now, can I Make, aye, create this fervid throbbing June Out of the chill, chill matter of my soul, Yet cannot make a poorest penny-loaf Out of this same chill matter, no, not one For Mary though she starved upon my breast?" And then he fell upon his couch, and sobbed, And, late, just when his heart leaned o'er The very edge of breaking, fain to fall, God sent him sleep.
There came his room-fellow, Stout Dick, the painter, saw the written dream, Read, scratched his curly pate, smiled, winked, fell on The poem in big-hearted comic rage, Quick folded, thrust in envelope, addressed To him, the critic-god, that sitteth grim And giant-grisly on the stone causeway That leadeth to his magazine and fame.
Him, by due mail, the little Dream of June Encountered growling, and at unawares Stole in upon his poem-battered soul So that he smiled, -- then shook his head upon 't -- Then growled, then smiled again, till at the last, As one that deadly sinned against his will, He writ upon the margin of the Dream A wondrous, wondrous word that in a day Did turn the fleeting song to very bread, -- Whereat Dick Painter leapt, the poet wept, And Mary slept with happy drops a-gleam Upon long lashes of her serene eyes From twentieth reading of her poet's news Quick-sent, "O sweet my Sweet, to dream is power, And I can dream thee bread and dream thee wine, And I will dream thee robes and gems, dear Love, To clothe thy holy loveliness withal, And I will dream thee here to live by me, Thee and my little man thou hold'st at breast, -- Come, Name, come, Fame, and kiss my Sweetheart's feet!"
Written by Lewis Carroll | Create an image from this poem

Hiawathas Photographing

 From his shoulder Hiawatha
Took the camera of rosewood,
Made of sliding, folding rosewood;
Neatly put it all together.
In its case it lay compactly, Folded into nearly nothing; But he opened out the hinges, Pushed and pulled the joints and hinges, Till it looked all squares and oblongs, Like a complicated figure In the Second Book of Euclid.
This he perched upon a tripod - Crouched beneath its dusky cover - Stretched his hand, enforcing silence - Said, "Be motionless, I beg you!" Mystic, awful was the process.
All the family in order Sat before him for their pictures: Each in turn, as he was taken, Volunteered his own suggestions, His ingenious suggestions.
First the Governor, the Father: He suggested velvet curtains Looped about a massy pillar; And the corner of a table, Of a rosewood dining-table.
He would hold a scroll of something, Hold it firmly in his left-hand; He would keep his right-hand buried (Like Napoleon) in his waistcoat; He would contemplate the distance With a look of pensive meaning, As of ducks that die ill tempests.
Grand, heroic was the notion: Yet the picture failed entirely: Failed, because he moved a little, Moved, because he couldn't help it.
Next, his better half took courage; SHE would have her picture taken.
She came dressed beyond description, Dressed in jewels and in satin Far too gorgeous for an empress.
Gracefully she sat down sideways, With a simper scarcely human, Holding in her hand a bouquet Rather larger than a cabbage.
All the while that she was sitting, Still the lady chattered, chattered, Like a monkey in the forest.
"Am I sitting still?" she asked him.
"Is my face enough in profile? Shall I hold the bouquet higher? Will it came into the picture?" And the picture failed completely.
Next the Son, the Stunning-Cantab: He suggested curves of beauty, Curves pervading all his figure, Which the eye might follow onward, Till they centered in the breast-pin, Centered in the golden breast-pin.
He had learnt it all from Ruskin (Author of 'The Stones of Venice,' 'Seven Lamps of Architecture,' 'Modern Painters,' and some others); And perhaps he had not fully Understood his author's meaning; But, whatever was the reason, All was fruitless, as the picture Ended in an utter failure.
Next to him the eldest daughter: She suggested very little, Only asked if he would take her With her look of 'passive beauty.
' Her idea of passive beauty Was a squinting of the left-eye, Was a drooping of the right-eye, Was a smile that went up sideways To the corner of the nostrils.
Hiawatha, when she asked him, Took no notice of the question, Looked as if he hadn't heard it; But, when pointedly appealed to, Smiled in his peculiar manner, Coughed and said it 'didn't matter,' Bit his lip and changed the subject.
Nor in this was he mistaken, As the picture failed completely.
So in turn the other sisters.
Last, the youngest son was taken: Very rough and thick his hair was, Very round and red his face was, Very dusty was his jacket, Very fidgety his manner.
And his overbearing sisters Called him names he disapproved of: Called him Johnny, 'Daddy's Darling,' Called him Jacky, 'Scrubby School-boy.
' And, so awful was the picture, In comparison the others Seemed, to one's bewildered fancy, To have partially succeeded.
Finally my Hiawatha Tumbled all the tribe together, ('Grouped' is not the right expression), And, as happy chance would have it Did at last obtain a picture Where the faces all succeeded: Each came out a perfect likeness.
Then they joined and all abused it, Unrestrainedly abused it, As the worst and ugliest picture They could possibly have dreamed of.
'Giving one such strange expressions - Sullen, stupid, pert expressions.
Really any one would take us (Any one that did not know us) For the most unpleasant people!' (Hiawatha seemed to think so, Seemed to think it not unlikely).
All together rang their voices, Angry, loud, discordant voices, As of dogs that howl in concert, As of cats that wail in chorus.
But my Hiawatha's patience, His politeness and his patience, Unaccountably had vanished, And he left that happy party.
Neither did he leave them slowly, With the calm deliberation, The intense deliberation Of a photographic artist: But he left them in a hurry, Left them in a mighty hurry, Stating that he would not stand it, Stating in emphatic language What he'd be before he'd stand it.
Hurriedly he packed his boxes: Hurriedly the porter trundled On a barrow all his boxes: Hurriedly he took his ticket: Hurriedly the train received him: Thus departed Hiawatha.
Written by Yusef Komunyakaa | Create an image from this poem

My Fathers Love Letters

 On Fridays he'd open a can of Jax
After coming home from the mill,
& ask me to write a letter to my mother
Who sent postcards of desert flowers
Taller than men.
He would beg, Promising to never beat her Again.
Somehow I was happy She had gone, & sometimes wanted To slip in a reminder, how Mary Lou Williams' "Polka Dots & Moonbeams" Never made the swelling go down.
His carpenter's apron always bulged With old nails, a claw hammer Looped at his side & extension cords Coiled around his feet.
Words rolled from under the pressure Of my ballpoint: Love, Baby, Honey, Please.
We sat in the quiet brutality Of voltage meters & pipe threaders, Lost between sentences .
.
.
The gleam of a five-pound wedge On the concrete floor Pulled a sunset Through the doorway of his toolshed.
I wondered if she laughed & held them over a gas burner.
My father could only sign His name, but he'd look at blueprints & say how many bricks Formed each wall.
This man, Who stole roses & hyacinth For his yard, would stand there With eyes closed & fists balled, Laboring over a simple word, almost Redeemed by what he tried to say.
Written by Robert Frost | Create an image from this poem

The Wood-Pile

 Out walking in the frozen swamp one gray day
I paused and said, 'I will turn back from here.
No, I will go on farther- and we shall see'.
The hard snow held me, save where now and then One foot went through.
The view was all in lines Straight up and down of tail slim trees Too much alike to mark or name a place by So as to say for certain I was here Or somewhere else: I was just far from home.
A small bird flew before me.
He was careful To put a tree between us when he lighted, And say no word to tell me who he was Who was so foolish as to think what he thought.
He thought that I was after him for a feather- The white one in his tail; like one who takes Everything said as personal to himself.
One flight out sideways would have undeceived him.
And then there was a pile of wood for which I forgot him and let his little fear Carry him off the way I might have gone, Without so much as wishing him good-night.
He went behind it to make his last stand.
It was a cord of maple, cut and split And piled- and measured, four by four by eight.
And not another like it could I see.
No runner tracks in this year's snow looped near it.
And it was older sure than this year's cutting, Or even last year's or the year's before.
The wood was gray and the bark warping off it And the pile somewhat sunken.
Clematis Had wound strings round and round it like a bundle.
What held it though on one side was a tree Still growing, and on one a stake and prop, These latter about to fall.
I thought that only Someone who lived in turning to fresh tasks Could so forget his handiwork on which He spent himself the labour of his axe, And leave it there far from a useful fireplace · To warm the frozen swamp as best it could With the slow smokeless burning of decay.


Written by Lewis Carroll | Create an image from this poem

Hiawathas Photographing (complete)

 From his shoulder Hiawatha
Took the camera of rosewood,
Made of sliding, folding rosewood;
Neatly put it all together.
In its case it lay compactly, Folded into nearly nothing; But he opened out the hinges, Pushed and pulled the joints and hinges, Till it looked all squares and oblongs, Like a complicated figure In the Second Book of Euclid.
This he perched upon a tripod - Crouched beneath its dusky cover - Stretched his hand, enforcing silence - Said, "Be motionless, I beg you!" Mystic, awful was the process.
All the family in order Sat before him for their pictures: Each in turn, as he was taken, Volunteered his own suggestions, His ingenious suggestions.
First the Governor, the Father: He suggested velvet curtains Looped about a massy pillar; And the corner of a table, Of a rosewood dining-table.
He would hold a scroll of something, Hold it firmly in his left-hand; He would keep his right-hand buried (Like Napoleon) in his waistcoat; He would contemplate the distance With a look of pensive meaning, As of ducks that die ill tempests.
Grand, heroic was the notion: Yet the picture failed entirely: Failed, because he moved a little, Moved, because he couldn't help it.
Next, his better half took courage; SHE would have her picture taken.
She came dressed beyond description, Dressed in jewels and in satin Far too gorgeous for an empress.
Gracefully she sat down sideways, With a simper scarcely human, Holding in her hand a bouquet Rather larger than a cabbage.
All the while that she was sitting, Still the lady chattered, chattered, Like a monkey in the forest.
"Am I sitting still?" she asked him.
"Is my face enough in profile? Shall I hold the bouquet higher? Will it came into the picture?" And the picture failed completely.
Next the Son, the Stunning-Cantab: He suggested curves of beauty, Curves pervading all his figure, Which the eye might follow onward, Till they centered in the breast-pin, Centered in the golden breast-pin.
He had learnt it all from Ruskin (Author of 'The Stones of Venice,' 'Seven Lamps of Architecture,' 'Modern Painters,' and some others); And perhaps he had not fully Understood his author's meaning; But, whatever was the reason, All was fruitless, as the picture Ended in an utter failure.
Next to him the eldest daughter: She suggested very little, Only asked if he would take her With her look of 'passive beauty.
' Her idea of passive beauty Was a squinting of the left-eye, Was a drooping of the right-eye, Was a smile that went up sideways To the corner of the nostrils.
Hiawatha, when she asked him, Took no notice of the question, Looked as if he hadn't heard it; But, when pointedly appealed to, Smiled in his peculiar manner, Coughed and said it 'didn't matter,' Bit his lip and changed the subject.
Nor in this was he mistaken, As the picture failed completely.
So in turn the other sisters.
Last, the youngest son was taken: Very rough and thick his hair was, Very round and red his face was, Very dusty was his jacket, Very fidgety his manner.
And his overbearing sisters Called him names he disapproved of: Called him Johnny, 'Daddy's Darling,' Called him Jacky, 'Scrubby School-boy.
' And, so awful was the picture, In comparison the others Seemed, to one's bewildered fancy, To have partially succeeded.
Finally my Hiawatha Tumbled all the tribe together, ('Grouped' is not the right expression), And, as happy chance would have it Did at last obtain a picture Where the faces all succeeded: Each came out a perfect likeness.
Then they joined and all abused it, Unrestrainedly abused it, As the worst and ugliest picture They could possibly have dreamed of.
'Giving one such strange expressions - Sullen, stupid, pert expressions.
Really any one would take us (Any one that did not know us) For the most unpleasant people!' (Hiawatha seemed to think so, Seemed to think it not unlikely).
All together rang their voices, Angry, loud, discordant voices, As of dogs that howl in concert, As of cats that wail in chorus.
But my Hiawatha's patience, His politeness and his patience, Unaccountably had vanished, And he left that happy party.
Neither did he leave them slowly, With the calm deliberation, The intense deliberation Of a photographic artist: But he left them in a hurry, Left them in a mighty hurry, Stating that he would not stand it, Stating in emphatic language What he'd be before he'd stand it.
Hurriedly he packed his boxes: Hurriedly the porter trundled On a barrow all his boxes: Hurriedly he took his ticket: Hurriedly the train received him: Thus departed Hiawatha.
Written by Lewis Carroll | Create an image from this poem

Hiawathas photographing ( Part II )

 First the Governor, the Father: 
He suggested velvet curtains 
looped about a massy pillar; 
And the corner of a table, 
Of a rosewood dining-table.
He would hold a scroll of something, Hold it firmly in his left-hand; He would keep his right-hand buried (Like Napoleon) in his waistcoat; He would contemplate the distance With a look of pensive meaning, As of ducks that die in tempests.
Grand, heroic was the notion: Yet the picture failed entirely: Failed, because he moved a little, Moved, because he couldn't help it.
Next, his better half took courage; She would have her picture taken.
She came dressed beyond description, Dressed in jewels and in satin Far too gorgeous for an empress.
Gracefully she sat down sideways, With a simper scarcely human, Holding in her hand a bouquet Rather larger than a cabbage.
All the while that she was sitting, Still the lady chattered, chattered, Like a monkey in the forest.
"Am I sitting still ?" she asked him.
"Is my face enough in profile? Shall I hold the bouquet higher? Will it come into the picture?" And the picture failed completely.
Written by William Butler Yeats | Create an image from this poem

Brown Penny

 I whispered, 'I am too young,'
And then, 'I am old enough';
Wherefore I threw a penny
To find out if I might love.
'Go and love, go and love, young man, If the lady be young and fair.
' Ah, penny, brown penny, brown penny, I am looped in the loops of her hair.
O love is the crooked thing, There is nobody wise enough To find out all that is in it, For he would be thinking of love Till the stars had run away And the shadows eaten the moon.
Ah, penny, brown penny, brown penny, One cannot begin it too soon.
12