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Best Famous Make Up Poems

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

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12
Written by Vladimir Mayakovsky | Create an image from this poem

At the Top of My voice

 My most respected
 comrades of posterity!
Rummaging among
 these days’ 
 petrified crap,
exploring the twilight of our times,
you,
 possibly,
 will inquire about me too.
And, possibly, your scholars will declare, with their erudition overwhelming a swarm of problems; once there lived a certain champion of boiled water, and inveterate enemy of raw water.
Professor, take off your bicycle glasses! I myself will expound those times and myself.
I, a latrine cleaner and water carrier, by the revolution mobilized and drafted, went off to the front from the aristocratic gardens of poetry - the capricious wench She planted a delicious garden, the daughter, cottage, pond and meadow.
Myself a garden I did plant, myself with water sprinkled it.
some pour their verse from water cans; others spit water from their mouth - the curly Macks, the clever jacks - but what the hell’s it all about! There’s no damming al this up - beneath the walls they mandoline: “Tara-tina, tara-tine, tw-a-n-g.
.
.
” It’s no great honor, then, for my monuments to rise from such roses above the public squares, where consumption coughs, where whores, hooligans and syphilis walk.
Agitprop sticks in my teeth too, and I’d rather compose romances for you - more profit in it and more charm.
But I subdued myself, setting my heel on the throat of my own song.
Listen, comrades of posterity, to the agitator the rabble-rouser.
Stifling the torrents of poetry, I’ll skip the volumes of lyrics; as one alive, I’ll address the living.
I’ll join you in the far communist future, I who am no Esenin super-hero.
My verse will reach you across the peaks of ages, over the heads of governments and poets.
My verse will reach you not as an arrow in a cupid-lyred chase, not as worn penny Reaches a numismatist, not as the light of dead stars reaches you.
My verse by labor will break the mountain chain of years, and will present itself ponderous, crude, tangible, as an aqueduct, by slaves of Rome constructed, enters into our days.
When in mounds of books, where verse lies buried, you discover by chance the iron filings of lines, touch them with respect, as you would some antique yet awesome weapon.
It’s no habit of mine to caress the ear with words; a maiden’s ear curly-ringed will not crimson when flicked by smut.
In parade deploying the armies of my pages, I shall inspect the regiments in line.
Heavy as lead, my verses at attention stand, ready for death and for immortal fame.
The poems are rigid, pressing muzzle to muzzle their gaping pointed titles.
The favorite of all the armed forces the cavalry of witticisms ready to launch a wild hallooing charge, reins its chargers still, raising the pointed lances of the rhymes.
and all these troops armed to the teeth, which have flashed by victoriously for twenty years, all these, to their very last page, I present to you, the planet’s proletarian.
The enemy of the massed working class is my enemy too inveterate and of long standing.
Years of trial and days of hunger ordered us to march under the red flag.
We opened each volume of Marx as we would open the shutters in our own house; but we did not have to read to make up our minds which side to join, which side to fight on.
Our dialectics were not learned from Hegel.
In the roar of battle it erupted into verse, when, under fire, the bourgeois decamped as once we ourselves had fled from them.
Let fame trudge after genius like an inconsolable widow to a funeral march - die then, my verse, die like a common soldier, like our men who nameless died attacking! I don’t care a spit for tons of bronze; I don’t care a spit for slimy marble.
We’re men of kind, we’ll come to terms about our fame; let our common monument be socialism built in battle.
Men of posterity examine the flotsam of dictionaries: out of Lethe will bob up the debris of such words as “prostitution,” “tuberculosis,” “blockade.
” For you, who are now healthy and agile, the poet with the rough tongue of his posters, has licked away consumptives’ spittle.
With the tail of my years behind me, I begin to resemble those monsters, excavated dinosaurs.
Comrade life, let us march faster, march faster through what’s left of the five-year plan.
My verse has brought me no rubles to spare: no craftsmen have made mahogany chairs for my house.
In all conscience, I need nothing except a freshly laundered shirt.
When I appear before the CCC of the coming bright years, by way of my Bolshevik party card, I’ll raise above the heads of a gang of self-seeking poets and rogues, all the hundred volumes of my communist-committed books.
Transcribed: by Mitch Abidor.


Written by Robert Frost | Create an image from this poem

A Servant to Servants

 I didn't make you know how glad I was 
To have you come and camp here on our land.
I promised myself to get down some day And see the way you lived, but I don't know! With a houseful of hungry men to feed I guess you'd find.
.
.
.
It seems to me I can't express my feelings any more Than I can raise my voice or want to lift My hand (oh, I can lift it when I have to).
Did ever you feel so? I hope you never.
It's got so I don't even know for sure Whether I am glad, sorry, or anything.
There's nothing but a voice-like left inside That seems to tell me how I ought to feel, And would feel if I wasn't all gone wrong.
You take the lake.
I look and look at it.
I see it's a fair, pretty sheet of water.
I stand and make myself repeat out loud The advantages it has, so long and narrow, Like a deep piece of some old running river Cut short off at both ends.
It lies five miles Straight away through the mountain notch From the sink window where I wash the plates, And all our storms come up toward the house, Drawing the slow waves whiter and whiter and whiter.
It took my mind off doughnuts and soda biscuit To step outdoors and take the water dazzle A sunny morning, or take the rising wind About my face and body and through my wrapper, When a storm threatened from the Dragon's Den, And a cold chill shivered across the lake.
I see it's a fair, pretty sheet of water, Our Willoughby! How did you hear of it? I expect, though, everyone's heard of it.
In a book about ferns? Listen to that! You let things more like feathers regulate Your going and coming.
And you like it here? I can see how you might.
But I don't know! It would be different if more people came, For then there would be business.
As it is, The cottages Len built, sometimes we rent them, Sometimes we don't.
We've a good piece of shore That ought to be worth something, and may yet.
But I don't count on it as much as Len.
He looks on the bright side of everything, Including me.
He thinks I'll be all right With doctoring.
But it's not medicine-- Lowe is the only doctor's dared to say so-- It's rest I want--there, I have said it out-- From cooking meals for hungry hired men And washing dishes after them--from doing Things over and over that just won't stay done.
By good rights I ought not to have so much Put on me, but there seems no other way.
Len says one steady pull more ought to do it.
He says the best way out is always through.
And I agree to that, or in so far As that I can see no way out but through-- Leastways for me--and then they'll be convinced.
It's not that Len don't want the best for me.
It was his plan our moving over in Beside the lake from where that day I showed you We used to live--ten miles from anywhere.
We didn't change without some sacrifice, But Len went at it to make up the loss.
His work's a man's, of course, from sun to sun, But he works when he works as hard as I do-- Though there's small profit in comparisons.
(Women and men will make them all the same.
) But work ain't all.
Len undertakes too much.
He's into everything in town.
This year It's highways, and he's got too many men Around him to look after that make waste.
They take advantage of him shamefully, And proud, too, of themselves for doing so.
We have four here to board, great good-for-nothings, Sprawling about the kitchen with their talk While I fry their bacon.
Much they care! No more put out in what they do or say Than if I wasn't in the room at all.
Coming and going all the time, they are: I don't learn what their names are, let alone Their characters, or whether they are safe To have inside the house with doors unlocked.
I'm not afraid of them, though, if they're not Afraid of me.
There's two can play at that.
I have my fancies: it runs in the family.
My father's brother wasn't right.
They kept him Locked up for years back there at the old farm.
I've been away once--yes, I've been away.
The State Asylum.
I was prejudiced; I wouldn't have sent anyone of mine there; You know the old idea--the only asylum Was the poorhouse, and those who could afford, Rather than send their folks to such a place, Kept them at home; and it does seem more human.
But it's not so: the place is the asylum.
There they have every means proper to do with, And you aren't darkening other people's lives-- Worse than no good to them, and they no good To you in your condition; you can't know Affection or the want of it in that state.
I've heard too much of the old-fashioned way.
My father's brother, he went mad quite young.
Some thought he had been bitten by a dog, Because his violence took on the form Of carrying his pillow in his teeth; But it's more likely he was crossed in love, Or so the story goes.
It was some girl.
Anyway all he talked about was love.
They soon saw he would do someone a mischief If he wa'n't kept strict watch of, and it ended In father's building him a sort of cage, Or room within a room, of hickory poles, Like stanchions in the barn, from floor to ceiling,-- A narrow passage all the way around.
Anything they put in for furniture He'd tear to pieces, even a bed to lie on.
So they made the place comfortable with straw, Like a beast's stall, to ease their consciences.
Of course they had to feed him without dishes.
They tried to keep him clothed, but he paraded With his clothes on his arm--all of his clothes.
Cruel--it sounds.
I 'spose they did the best They knew.
And just when he was at the height, Father and mother married, and mother came, A bride, to help take care of such a creature, And accommodate her young life to his.
That was what marrying father meant to her.
She had to lie and hear love things made dreadful By his shouts in the night.
He'd shout and shout Until the strength was shouted out of him, And his voice died down slowly from exhaustion.
He'd pull his bars apart like bow and bow-string, And let them go and make them twang until His hands had worn them smooth as any ox-bow.
And then he'd crow as if he thought that child's play-- The only fun he had.
I've heard them say, though, They found a way to put a stop to it.
He was before my time--I never saw him; But the pen stayed exactly as it was There in the upper chamber in the ell, A sort of catch-all full of attic clutter.
I often think of the smooth hickory bars.
It got so I would say--you know, half fooling-- "It's time I took my turn upstairs in jail"-- Just as you will till it becomes a habit.
No wonder I was glad to get away.
Mind you, I waited till Len said the word.
I didn't want the blame if things went wrong.
I was glad though, no end, when we moved out, And I looked to be happy, and I was, As I said, for a while--but I don't know! Somehow the change wore out like a prescription.
And there's more to it than just window-views And living by a lake.
I'm past such help-- Unless Len took the notion, which he won't, And I won't ask him--it's not sure enough.
I 'spose I've got to go the road I'm going: Other folks have to, and why shouldn't I? I almost think if I could do like you, Drop everything and live out on the ground-- But it might be, come night, I shouldn't like it, Or a long rain.
I should soon get enough, And be glad of a good roof overhead.
I've lain awake thinking of you, I'll warrant, More than you have yourself, some of these nights.
The wonder was the tents weren't snatched away From over you as you lay in your beds.
I haven't courage for a risk like that.
Bless you, of course, you're keeping me from work, But the thing of it is, I need to be kept.
There's work enough to do--there's always that; But behind's behind.
The worst that you can do Is set me back a little more behind.
I sha'n't catch up in this world, anyway.
I'd rather you'd not go unless you must.
Written by Henry Van Dyke | Create an image from this poem

The Foolish Fir-Tree

 A tale that the poet Rückert told
To German children, in days of old;
Disguised in a random, rollicking rhyme
Like a merry mummer of ancient time,
And sent, in its English dress, to please
The little folk of the Christmas trees.
A little fir grew in the midst of the wood Contented and happy, as young trees should.
His body was straight and his boughs were clean; And summer and winter the bountiful sheen Of his needles bedecked him, from top to root, In a beautiful, all-the-year, evergreen suit.
But a trouble came into his heart one day, When he saw that the other trees were gay In the wonderful raiment that summer weaves Of manifold shapes and kinds of leaves: He looked at his needles so stiff and small, And thought that his dress was the poorest of all.
Then jealousy clouded the little tree's mind, And he said to himself, "It was not very kind "To give such an ugly old dress to a tree! "If the fays of the forest would only ask me, "I'd tell them how I should like to be dressed,— "In a garment of gold, to bedazzle the rest!" So he fell asleep, but his dreams were bad.
When he woke in the morning, his heart was glad; For every leaf that his boughs could hold Was made of the brightest beaten gold.
I tell you, children, the tree was proud; He was something above the common crowd; And he tinkled his leaves, as if he would say To a pedlar who happened to pass that way, "Just look at me! don't you think I am fine? "And wouldn't you like such a dress as mine?" "Oh, yes!" said the man, "and I really guess I must fill my pack with your beautiful dress.
" So he picked the golden leaves with care, And left the little tree shivering there.
"Oh, why did I wish for golden leaves?" The fir-tree said, "I forgot that thieves "Would be sure to rob me in passing by.
"If the fairies would give me another try, "I'd wish for something that cost much less, "And be satisfied with glass for my dress!" Then he fell asleep; and, just as before, The fairies granted his wish once more.
When the night was gone, and the sun rose clear, The tree was a crystal chandelier; And it seemed, as he stood in the morning light, That his branches were covered with jewels bright.
"Aha!" said the tree.
"This is something great!" And he held himself up, very proud and straight; But a rude young wind through the forest dashed, In a reckless temper, and quickly smashed The delicate leaves.
With a clashing sound They broke into pieces and fell on the ground, Like a silvery, shimmering shower of hail, And the tree stood naked and bare to the gale.
Then his heart was sad; and he cried, "Alas "For my beautiful leaves of shining glass! "Perhaps I have made another mistake "In choosing a dress so easy to break.
"If the fairies only would hear me again "I'd ask them for something both pretty and plain: "It wouldn't cost much to grant my request,— "In leaves of green lettuce I'd like to be dressed!" By this time the fairies were laughing, I know; But they gave him his wish in a second; and so With leaves of green lettuce, all tender and sweet, The tree was arrayed, from his head to his feet.
"I knew it!" he cried, "I was sure I could find "The sort of a suit that would be to my mind.
"There's none of the trees has a prettier dress, "And none as attractive as I am, I guess.
" But a goat, who was taking an afternoon walk, By chance overheard the fir-tree's talk.
So he came up close for a nearer view;— "My salad!" he bleated, "I think so too! "You're the most attractive kind of a tree, "And I want your leaves for my five-o'clock tea.
" So he ate them all without saying grace, And walked away with a grin on his face; While the little tree stood in the twilight dim, With never a leaf on a single limb.
Then he sighed and groaned; but his voice was weak— He was so ashamed that he could not speak.
He knew at last that he had been a fool, To think of breaking the forest rule, And choosing a dress himself to please, Because he envied the other trees.
But it couldn't be helped, it was now too late, He must make up his mind to a leafless fate! So he let himself sink in a slumber deep, But he moaned and he tossed in his troubled sleep, Till the morning touched him with joyful beam, And he woke to find it was all a dream.
For there in his evergreen dress he stood, A pointed fir in the midst of the wood! His branches were sweet with the balsam smell, His needles were green when the white snow fell.
And always contented and happy was he,— The very best kind of a Christmas tree.
Written by Robert Frost | Create an image from this poem

Provide Provide

 The witch that came (the withered hag)
To wash the steps with pail and rag,
Was once the beauty Abishag,

The picture pride of Hollywood.
Too many fall from great and good For you to doubt the likelihood.
Die early and avoid the fate.
Or if predestined to die late, Make up your mind to die in state.
Make the whole stock exchange your own! If need be occupy a throne, Where nobody can call you crone.
Some have relied on what they knew; Others on simply being true.
What worked for them might work for you.
No memory of having starred Atones for later disregard, Or keeps the end from being hard.
Better to go down dignified With boughten friendship at your side Than none at all.
Provide, provide!
Written by Conrad Aiken | Create an image from this poem

Improvisations: Light And Snow

 I

The girl in the room beneath 
Before going to bed 
Strums on a mandolin 
The three simple tunes she knows.
How inadequate they are to tell how her heart feels! When she has finished them several times She thrums the strings aimlessly with her finger-nails And smiles, and thinks happily of many things.
II I stood for a long while before the shop window Looking at the blue butterflies embroidered on tawny silk.
The building was a tower before me, Time was loud behind me, Sun went over the housetops and dusty trees; And there they were, glistening, brilliant, motionless, Stitched in a golden sky By yellow patient fingers long since turned to dust.
III The first bell is silver, And breathing darkness I think only of the long scythe of time.
The second bell is crimson, And I think of a holiday night, with rockets Furrowing the sky with red, and a soft shatter of stars.
The third bell is saffron and slow, And I behold a long sunset over the sea With wall on wall of castled cloud and glittering balustrades.
The fourth bell is color of bronze, I walk by a frozen lake in the dun light of dusk: Muffled crackings run in the ice, Trees creak, birds fly.
The fifth bell is cold clear azure, Delicately tinged with green: One golden star hangs melting in it, And towards this, sleepily, I go.
The sixth bell is as if a pebble Had been dropped into a deep sea far above me .
.
.
Rings of sound ebb slowly into the silence.
IV On the day when my uncle and I drove to the cemetery, Rain rattled on the roof of the carriage; And talkng constrainedly of this and that We refrained from looking at the child's coffin on the seat before us.
When we reached the cemetery We found that the thin snow on the grass Was already transparent with rain; And boards had been laid upon it That we might walk without wetting our feet.
V When I was a boy, and saw bright rows of icicles In many lengths along a wall I was dissappointed to find That I could not play music upon them: I ran my hand lightly across them And they fell, tinkling.
I tell you this, young man, so that your expectations of life Will not be too great.
VI It is now two hours since I left you, And the perfume of your hands is still on my hands.
And though since then I have looked at the stars, walked in the cold blue streets, And heard the dead leaves blowing over the ground Under the trees, I still remember the sound of your laughter.
How will it be, lady, when there is none left to remember you Even as long as this? Will the dust braid your hair? VII The day opens with the brown light of snowfall And past the window snowflakes fall and fall.
I sit in my chair all day and work and work Measuring words against each other.
I open the piano and play a tune But find it does not say what I feel, I grow tired of measuring words against each other, I grow tired of these four walls, And I think of you, who write me that you have just had a daughter And named her after your first sweetheart, And you, who break your heart, far away, In the confusion and savagery of a long war, And you who, worn by the bitterness of winter, Will soon go south.
The snowflakes fall almost straight in the brown light Past my window, And a sparrow finds refuge on my window-ledge.
This alone comes to me out of the world outside As I measure word with word.
VIII Many things perplex me and leave me troubled, Many things are locked away in the white book of stars Never to be opened by me.
The starr'd leaves are silently turned, And the mooned leaves; And as they are turned, fall the shadows of life and death.
Perplexed and troubled, I light a small light in a small room, The lighted walls come closer to me, The familiar pictures are clear.
I sit in my favourite chair and turn in my mind The tiny pages of my own life, whereon so little is written, And hear at the eastern window the pressure of a long wind, coming From I know not where.
How many times have I sat here, How many times will I sit here again, Thinking these same things over and over in solitude As a child says over and over The first word he has learned to say.
IX This girl gave her heart to me, And this, and this.
This one looked at me as if she loved me, And silently walked away.
This one I saw once and loved, and never saw her again.
Shall I count them for you upon my fingers? Or like a priest solemnly sliding beads? Or pretend they are roses, pale pink, yellow, and white, And arrange them for you in a wide bowl To be set in sunlight? See how nicely it sounds as I count them for you— 'This girl gave her heart to me And this, and this, .
.
.
! And nevertheless, my heart breaks when I think of them, When I think their names, And how, like leaves, they have changed and blown And will lie, at last, forgotten, Under the snow.
X It is night time, and cold, and snow is falling, And no wind grieves the walls.
In the small world of light around the arc-lamp A swarm of snowflakes falls and falls.
The street grows silent.
The last stranger passes.
The sound of his feet, in the snow, is indistinct.
What forgotten sadness is it, on a night like this, Takes possession of my heart? Why do I think of a camellia tree in a southern garden, With pink blossoms among dark leaves, Standing, surprised, in the snow? Why do I think of spring? The snowflakes, helplessly veering,, Fall silently past my window; They come from darkness and enter darkness.
What is it in my heart is surprised and bewildered Like that camellia tree, Beautiful still in its glittering anguish? And spring so far away! XI As I walked through the lamplit gardens, On the thin white crust of snow, So intensely was I thinking of my misfortune, So clearly were my eyes fixed On the face of this grief which has come to me, That I did not notice the beautiful pale colouring Of lamplight on the snow; Nor the interlaced long blue shadows of trees; And yet these things were there, And the white lamps, and the orange lamps, and the lamps of lilac were there, As I have seen them so often before; As they will be so often again Long after my grief is forgotten.
And still, though I know this, and say this, it cannot console me.
XII How many times have we been interrupted Just as I was about to make up a story for you! One time it was because we suddenly saw a firefly Lighting his green lantern among the boughs of a fir-tree.
Marvellous! Marvellous! He is making for himself A little tent of light in the darkness! And one time it was because we saw a lilac lightning flash Run wrinkling into the blue top of the mountain,— We heard boulders of thunder rolling down upon us And the plat-plat of drops on the window, And we ran to watch the rain Charging in wavering clouds across the long grass of the field! Or at other times it was because we saw a star Slipping easily out of the sky and falling, far off, Among pine-dark hills; Or because we found a crimson eft Darting in the cold grass! These things interrupted us and left us wondering; And the stories, whatever they might have been, Were never told.
A fairy, binding a daisy down and laughing? A golden-haired princess caught in a cobweb? A love-story of long ago? Some day, just as we are beginning again, Just as we blow the first sweet note, Death itself will interrupt us.
XIII My heart is an old house, and in that forlorn old house, In the very centre, dark and forgotten, Is a locked room where an enchanted princess Lies sleeping.
But sometimes, in that dark house, As if almost from the stars, far away, Sounds whisper in that secret room— Faint voices, music, a dying trill of laughter? And suddenly, from her long sleep, The beautiful princess awakes and dances.
Who is she? I do not know.
Why does she dance? Do not ask me!— Yet to-day, when I saw you, When I saw your eyes troubled with the trouble of happiness, And your mouth trembling into a smile, And your fingers pull shyly forward,— Softly, in that room, The little princess arose And danced; And as she danced the old house gravely trembled With its vague and delicious secret.
XIV Like an old tree uprooted by the wind And flung down cruelly With roots bared to the sun and stars And limp leaves brought to earth— Torn from its house— So do I seem to myself When you have left me.
XV The music of the morning is red and warm; Snow lies against the walls; And on the sloping roof in the yellow sunlight Pigeons huddle against the wind.
The music of evening is attenuated and thin— The moon seen through a wave by a mermaid; The crying of a violin.
Far down there, far down where the river turns to the west, The delicate lights begin to twinkle On the dusky arches of the bridge: In the green sky a long cloud, A smouldering wave of smoky crimson, Breaks in the freezing wind: and above it, unabashed, Remote, untouched, fierly palpitant, Sings the first star.
Written by Ralph Waldo Emerson | Create an image from this poem

Fable

THE MOUNTAIN and the squirrel 
Had a quarrel; 
And the former called the latter "Little Prig.
" Bun replied You are doubtless very big; 5 But all sorts of things and weather Must be taken in together, To make up a year And a sphere.
And I think it no disgrace 10 To occupy my place.
If I'm not as large as you, You are not so small as I, And not half so spry.
I'll not deny you make 15 A very pretty squirrel track; Talents differ; all is well and wisely put; If I cannot carry forests on my back, Neither can you crack a nut.
Written by Lewis Carroll | Create an image from this poem

Preface to Hunting of the Snark

 PREFACE

If---and the thing is wildly possible---the charge of writing 
nonsense were ever brought against the author of this brief but 
instructive poem, it would be based, I feel convinced, on the line 

``Then the bowsprit got mixed with the rudder sometimes'' 

In view of this painful possibility, I will not (as I might) appeal 
indignantly to my other writings as a proof that I am incapable of 
such a deed: I will not (as I might) point to the strong moral 
purpose of this poem itself, to the arithmetical principles so 
cautiously inculcated in it, or to its noble teachings in Natural 
History---I will take the more prosaic course of simply explaining 
how it happened.
The Bellman, who was almost morbidly sensitive about appearances, used to have the bowsprit unshipped once or twice a week to be revarnished, and it more than once happened, when the time came for replacing it, that no one on board could remember which end of the ship it belonged to.
They knew it was not of the slightest use to appeal to the Bellman about it---he would only refer to his Naval Code, and read out in pathetic tones Admiralty Instructions which none of them had ever been able to understand---so it generally ended in its being fastened on, anyhow, across the rudder.
The helmsman used to stand by with tears in his eyes: he knew it was all wrong, but alas! Rule 42 of the Code, ``No one shall speak to the Man at the Helm'', had been completed by the Bellman himself with the words ``and the Man at the Helm shall speak to no one''.
So remonstrance was impossible, and no steering could be done till the next varnishing day.
During these bewildering intervals the ship usually sailed backwards.
This office was usually undertaken by the Boots, who found in it a refuge from the Baker's constant complaints about the insufficient blacking of his three pairs of boots.
As this poem is to some extent connected with the lay of the Jabberwock, let me take this opportunity of answering a question that has often been asked me, how to pronounce ``slithy toves''.
The ``i'' in ``slithy'' is long, as in ``writhe''; and ``toves'' is pronounced so as to rhyme with ``groves''.
Again, the first ``o'' in ``borogoves'' is pronounced like the ``o'' in ``borrow''.
I have heard people try to give it the sound of the ``o'' in ``worry''.
Such is Human Perversity.
This also seems a fitting occasion to notice the other hard words in that poem.
Humpty-Dumpty's theory, of two meanings packed into one word like a portmanteau, seems to me the right explanation for all.
For instance, take the two words ``fuming'' and ``furious''.
Make up your mind that you will say both words, but leave it unsettled which you will say first.
Now open your mouth and speak.
If your thoughts incline ever so little towards ``fuming'', you will say ``fuming-furious''; if they turn, by even a hair's breadth, towards ``furious'', you will say ``furious-fuming''; but if you have that rarest of gifts, a perfectly balanced mind, you will say ``frumious''.
Supposing that, when Pistol uttered the well-known words--- ``Under which king, Bezonian? Speak or die!'' Justice Shallow had felt certain that it was either William or Richard, but had not been able to settle which, so that he could not possibly say either name before the other, can it be doubted that, rather than die, he would have gasped out ``Rilchiam!''.


Written by Jenny Joseph | Create an image from this poem

Warning

 When I am an old woman I shall wear purple
With a red hat which doesn't go, and doesn't suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves And satin sandles, and say we've no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I'm tired And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells And run my stick along the public railings And make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain And pick flowers in other people's gardens And learn to spit.
You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat And eat three pounds of sausages at a go Or only bread and pickle for a week And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.
But now we must have clothes that keep us dry And pay our rent and not swear in the street And set a good example for the children.
We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.
But maybe I ought to practice a little now? So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.
Written by Denise Duhamel | Create an image from this poem

Crater Face

 is what we called her.
The story was that her father had thrown Drano at her which was probably true, given the way she slouched through fifth grade, afraid of the world, recess especially.
She had acne scars before she had acne—poxs and dips and bright red patches.
I don't remember any report in the papers.
I don't remember my father telling me her father had gone to jail.
I never looked close to see the particulars of Crater Face's scars.
She was a blur, a cartoon melting.
Then, when she healed—her face, a million pebbles set in cement.
Even Comet Boy, who got his name by being so abrasive, who made fun of everyone, didn't make fun of her.
She walked over the bridge with the one other white girl who lived in her neighborhood.
Smoke curled like Slinkies from the factory stacks above them.
I liked to imagine that Crater Face went straight home, like I did, to watch Shirley Temple on channel 56.
I liked to imagine that she slipped into the screen, bumping Shirley with her hip so that child actress slid out of frame, into the tubes and wires that made the TV sputter when I turned it on.
Sometimes when I watched, I'd see Crater Face tap-dancing with tall black men whose eyes looked shiny, like the whites of hard-boiled eggs.
I'd try to imagine that her block was full of friendly folk, with a lighthouse or goats running in the street.
It was my way of praying, my way of un-imagining the Drano pellets that must have smacked against her like a round of mini-bullets, her whole face as vulnerable as a tongue wrapped in sizzling pizza cheese.
How she'd come home with homework, the weight of her books bending her into a wilting plant.
How her father called her ****, *****, big baby, slob.
The hospital where she was forced to say it was an accident.
Her face palpable as something glowing in a Petri dish.
The bandages over her eyes.
In black and white, with all that make-up, Crater Face almost looked pretty sure her MGM father was coming back soon from the war, seeing whole zoos in her thin orphanage soup.
She looked happiest when she was filmed from the back, sprinting into the future, fading into tiny gray dots on UHF.
Written by John Milton | Create an image from this poem

The Hymn

 I

It was the Winter wilde,
While the Heav'n-born-childe, 
All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies;
Nature in aw to him
Had doff't her gawdy trim,
With her great Master so to sympathize:
It was no season then for her
To wanton with the Sun her lusty Paramour.
II Only with speeches fair She woo'd the gentle Air To hide her guilty front with innocent Snow, And on her naked shame, Pollute with sinfull blame, The Saintly Vail of Maiden white to throw, Confounded, that her Makers eyes Should look so near upon her foul deformities.
III But he her fears to cease, Sent down the meek-eyd Peace, She crown'd with Olive green, came softly sliding Down through the turning sphear His ready Harbinger, With Turtle wing the amorous clouds dividing, And waving wide her mirtle wand, She strikes a universall Peace through Sea and Land.
IV No War, or Battails sound Was heard the World around, The idle spear and shield were high up hung; The hooked Chariot stood Unstain'd with hostile blood, The Trumpet spake not to the armed throng, And Kings sate still with awfull eye, As if they surely knew their sovran Lord was by.
V But peacefull was the night Wherin the Prince of light His raign of peace upon the earth began: The Windes with wonder whist, Smoothly the waters kist, Whispering new joyes to the milde Ocean, Who now hath quite forgot to rave, While Birds of Calm sit brooding on the charmed wave.
VI The Stars with deep amaze Stand fit in steadfast gaze, Bending one way their pretious influence, And will not take their flight, For all the morning light, Or Lucifer that often warned them thence; But in their glimmering Orbs did glow, Until their Lord himself bespake, and bid them go.
VII And though the shady gloom Had given day her room, The Sun himself with-held his wonted speed, And hid his head for shame, As his inferior flame, The new enlightened world no more should need; He saw a greater Sun appear Then his bright Throne, or burning Axletree could bear.
VIII The Shepherds on the Lawn, Or ere the point of dawn, Sate simply chatting in a rustic row; Full little thought they than, That the mighty Pan Was kindly com to live with them below; Perhaps their loves, or els their sheep, Was all that did their silly thoughts so busie keep.
IX When such Musick sweet Their hearts and ears did greet, As never was by mortal finger strook, Divinely-warbled voice Answering the stringed noise, As all their souls in blisfull rapture took: The Air such pleasure loth to lose, With thousand echo's still prolongs each heav'nly close.
X Nature that heard such sound Beneath the hollow round of Cynthia's seat the Airy region thrilling, Now was almost won To think her part was don And that her raign had here its last fulfilling; She knew such harmony alone Could hold all Heav'n and Earth in happier union.
XI At last surrounds their sight A globe of circular light, That with long beams the shame faced night arrayed The helmed Cherubim And sworded Seraphim, Are seen in glittering ranks with wings displaid, Harping in loud and solemn quire, With unexpressive notes to Heav'ns new-born Heir.
XII Such Musick (as 'tis said) Before was never made, But when of old the sons of morning sung, While the Creator Great His constellations set, And the well-ballanc't world on hinges hung, And cast the dark foundations deep, And bid the weltring waves their oozy channel keep.
XIII Ring out ye Crystall sphears, Once bless our human ears, (If ye have power to touch our senses so) And let your silver chime Move in melodious time; And let the Base of Heav'ns deep Organ blow, And with your ninefold harmony Make up full consort to th'Angelike symphony.
XIV For if such holy Song Enwrap our fancy long, Time will run back, and fetch the age of gold, And speckl'd vanity Will sicken soon and die, And leprous sin will melt from earthly mould, And Hell it self will pass away And leave her dolorous mansions to the peering day.
XV Yea Truth, and Justice then Will down return to men, Th'enameld Arras of the Rain-bow wearing, And Mercy set between Thron'd in Celestiall sheen, With radiant feet the tissued clouds down stearing, And Heav'n as at som festivall, Will open wide the gates of her high Palace Hall.
XVI But wisest Fate sayes no, This must not yet be so, The Babe lies yet in smiling Infancy, That on the bitter cross Must redeem our loss; So both himself and us to glorifie: Yet first to those ychain'd in sleep, The Wakeful trump of doom must thunder through the deep, XVII With such a horrid clang As on Mount Sinai rang While the red fire, and smouldring clouds out brake: The aged Earth agast With terrour of that blast, Shall from the surface to the center shake; When at the worlds last session, The dreadfull Judge in middle Air shall spread his throne.
XVIII And then at last our bliss Full and perfect is, But now begins; for from this happy day Th'old Dragon under ground In straiter limits bound, Not half so far casts his usurped sway, And wrath to see his Kingdom fail, Swindges the scaly Horrour of his foulded tail.
XIX The Oracles are dumm, No voice or hideous humm Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving.
Apollo from his shrine Can no more divine, With hollow shreik the steep of Delphos leaving.
No nightly trance, or breathed spell, Inspire's the pale-ey'd Priest from the prophetic cell.
XX The lonely mountains o're, And the resounding shore, A voice of weeping heard, and loud lament; From haunted spring, and dale Edg'd with poplar pale The parting Genius is with sighing sent, With flowre-inwov'n tresses torn The Nimphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn.
XXI In consecrated Earth, And on the holy Hearth, The Lars, and Lemures moan with midnight plaint, In Urns, and Altars round, A drear, and dying sound Affrights the Flamins at their service quaint; And the chill Marble seems to sweat, While each peculiar power forgoes his wonted seat.
XXII Peor, and Baalim, Forsake their Temples dim, With that twise-batter'd god of Palestine, And mooned Ashtaroth, Heav'ns Queen and Mother both, Now sits not girt with Tapers holy shine, The Libyc Hammon shrinks his horn, In vain the Tyrian Maids their wounded Thamuz mourn.
XXIII And sullen Moloch fled, Hath left in shadows dred, His burning Idol all of blackest hue, In vain with Cymbals ring, They call the grisly king, In dismall dance about the furnace Blue; And Brutish gods of Nile as fast, lsis and Orus, and the Dog Anubis hast.
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