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Best Famous Malingering Poems

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

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Written by Ted Hughes | Create an image from this poem

A Woman Unconscious

 Russia and America circle each other;
Threats nudge an act that were without doubt 
A melting of the mould in the mother,
Stones melting about the root.

The quick of the earth burned out:
The toil of all our ages a loss
With leaf and insect. Yet flitting thought
(Not to be thought ridiculous)

Shies from the world-cancelling black
Of its playing shadow: it has learned 
That there's no trusting (trusting to luck)
Dates when the world's due to be burned;

That the future's no calamitous change
But a malingering of now,
Histories, towns, faces that no
Malice or accident much derange.

And though bomb be matched against bomb,
Though all mankind wince out and nothing endure --
Earth gone in an instant flare --
Did a lesser death come 

Onto the white hospital bed
Where one, numb beyond her last of sense,
Closed her eyes on the world's evidence
And into pillows sunk her head.


Written by D. H. Lawrence | Create an image from this poem

A Love Song

 Reject me not if I should say to you 
I do forget the sounding of your voice, 
I do forget your eyes that searching through 
The mists perceive our marriage, and rejoice. 

Yet, when the apple-blossom opens wide 
Under the pallid moonlight's fingering, 
I see your blanched face at my breast, and hide 
My eyes from diligent work, malingering. 

Ah, then, upon my bedroom I do draw 
The blind to hide the garden, where the moon 
Enjoys the open blossoms as they straw 
Their beauty for his taking, boon for boon. 

And I do lift my aching arms to you, 
And I do lift my anguished, avid breast, 
And I do weep for very pain of you, 
And fling myself at the doors of sleep, for rest. 

And I do toss through the troubled night for you, 
Dreaming your yielded mouth is given to mine, 
Feeling your strong breast carry me on into 
The peace where sleep is stronger even than wine.
Written by Wilfred Owen | Create an image from this poem

The Dead-Beat

 He dropped, -- more sullenly than wearily,
Lay stupid like a cod, heavy like meat,
And none of us could kick him to his feet;
Just blinked at my revolver, blearily;
-- Didn't appear to know a war was on,
Or see the blasted trench at which he stared.
"I'll do 'em in," he whined, "If this hand's spared,
I'll murder them, I will."

 A low voice said,
"It's Blighty, p'raps, he sees; his pluck's all gone,
Dreaming of all the valiant, that AREN'T dead:
Bold uncles, smiling ministerially;
Maybe his brave young wife, getting her fun
In some new home, improved materially.
It's not these stiffs have crazed him; nor the Hun."

We sent him down at last, out of the way.
Unwounded; -- stout lad, too, before that strafe.
Malingering? Stretcher-bearers winked, "Not half!"

Next day I heard the Doc.'s well-whiskied laugh:
"That scum you sent last night soon died. Hooray!"

Book: Reflection on the Important Things