10 Best Famous Martyred Poems

Here is a collection of the top 10 all-time best famous Martyred poems. This is a select list of the best famous Martyred poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Martyred poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of martyred poems.

• All Famous Martyred Poems

Always be drunk.
That's it!
The great imperative!
In order not to feel
Time's horrid fardel
bruise your shoulders,
grinding you into the earth,
get drunk and stay that way.
On what?
On wine, poetry, virtue, whatever.
But get drunk.
And if you sometimes happen to wake up
on the porches of a palace,
in the green grass of a ditch,
in the dismal loneliness
of your own room,
your drunkenness gone or disappearing,
ask the wind,
the wave,
the star,
the bird,
the clock,
ask everything that flees,
everything that groans
or rolls
or sings,
everything that speaks,
ask what time it is;
and the wind,
the wave,
the star,
the bird,
the clock
will answer you:
"Time to get drunk!
Don't be martyred slaves of Time,
Get drunk!
Stay drunk!
On wine, virtue, poetry, whatever!"

 This is a song to celebrate banks,
Because they are full of money and you go into them and all
you hear is clinks and clanks,
Or maybe a sound like the wind in the trees on the hills,
Which is the rustling of the thousand dollar bills.
Most bankers dwell in marble halls,
Which they get to dwell in because they encourage deposits
and discourage withdrawals,
And particularly because they all observe one rule which woe
betides the banker who fails to heed it,
Which is you must never lend any money to anybody unless
they don't need it.
I know you, you cautious conservative banks!
If people are worried about their rent it is your duty to deny
them the loan of one nickel, yes, even one copper engraving
of the martyred son of the late Nancy Hanks;
Yes, if they request fifty dollars to pay for a baby you must
look at them like Tarzan looking at an uppity ape in the
jungle,
And tell them what do they think a bank is, anyhow, they had
better go get the money from their wife's aunt or ungle.
But suppose people come in and they have a million and they
want another million to pile on top of it,
Why, you brim with the milk of human kindness and you
urge them to accept every drop of it,
And you lend them the million so then they have two million
and this gives them the idea that they would be better off
with four,
So they already have two million as security so you have no
hesitation in lending them two more,
And all the vice-presidents nod their heads in rhythm,
And the only question asked is do the borrowers want the
money sent or do they want to take it withm.
Because I think they deserve our appreciation and thanks,
the jackasses who go around saying that health and happi-
ness are everything and money isn't essential,
Because as soon as they have to borrow some unimportant
money to maintain their health and happiness they starve
to death so they can't go around any more sneering at good
old money, which is nothing short of providential.

 Oh, may I join the choir invisible 
Of those immortal dead who live again 
In minds made better by their presence; live 
In pulses stirred to generosity, 
In deeds of daring rectitude, in scorn 
For miserable aims that end with self, 
In thoughts sublime that pierce the night like stars, 
And with their mild persistence urge men's search 
To vaster issues. So to live is heaven: 
To make undying music in the world, 
Breathing a beauteous order that controls 
With growing sway the growing life of man. 
So we inherit that sweet purity 
For which we struggled, failed, and agonized 
With widening retrospect that bred despair. 
Rebellious flesh that would not be subdued, 
A vicious parent shaming still its child, 
Poor anxious penitence, is quick dissolved; 
Its discords, quenched by meeting harmonies, 
Die in the large and charitable air, 
And all our rarer, better, truer self 
That sobbed religiously in yearning song, 
That watched to ease the burden of the world, 
Laboriously tracing what must be, 
And what may yet be better, -- saw within 
A worthier image for the sanctuary, 
And shaped it forth before the multitude, 
Divinely human, raising worship so 
To higher reverence more mixed with love, -- 
That better self shall live till human Time 
Shall fold its eyelids, and the human sky 
Be gathered like a scroll within the tomb 
Unread forever. This is life to come, -- 
Which martyred men have made more glorious 
For us who strive to follow. May I reach 
That purest heaven, -- be to other souls 
The cup of strength in some great agony, 
Enkindle generous ardor, feed pure love, 
Beget the smiles that have no cruelty, 
Be the sweet presence of a good diffused, 
And in diffusion ever more intense! 
So shall I join the choir invisible 
Whose music is the gladness of the world.

  1

You, once a belle in Shreveport,
with henna-colored hair, skin like a peachbud,
still have your dresses copied from that time,
and play a Chopin prelude
called by Cortot: "Delicious recollections
float like perfume through the memory."

Your mind now, moldering like wedding-cake,
heavy with useless experience, rich
with suspicion, rumor, fantasy,
crumbling to pieces under the knife-edge
of mere fact. In the prime of your life.

Nervy, glowering, your daughter
wipes the teaspoons, grows another way.

 2

Banging the coffee-pot into the sink
she hears the angels chiding, and looks out
past the raked gardens to the sloppy sky.
Only a week since They said: Have no patience.

The next time it was: Be insatiable.
Then: Save yourself; others you cannot save.
Sometimes she's let the tapstream scald her arm,
a match burn to her thumbnail,

or held her hand above the kettle's snout
right inthe woolly steam. They are probably angels,
since nothing hurts her anymore, except
each morning's grit blowing into her eyes.

 3

A thinking woman sleeps with monsters.
The beak that grips her, she becomes. And Nature,
that sprung-lidded, still commodious
steamer-trunk of tempora and mores
gets stuffed with it all: the mildewed orange-flowers,
the female pills, the terrible breasts
of Boadicea beneath flat foxes' heads and orchids.
Two handsome women, gripped in argument,
each proud, acute, subtle, I hear scream
across the cut glass and majolica
like Furies cornered from their prey:
The argument ad feminam, all the old knives
that have rusted in my back, I drive in yours,
ma semblable, ma soeur!

 4

Knowing themselves too well in one another:
their gifts no pure fruition, but a thorn,
the prick filed sharp against a hint of scorn...
Reading while waiting
for the iron to heat,
writing, My Life had stood--a Loaded Gun--
in that Amherst pantry while the jellies boil and scum,
or, more often,
iron-eyed and beaked and purposed as a bird,
dusting everything on the whatnot every day of life.

 5

Dulce ridens, dulce loquens,
she shaves her legs until they gleam
like petrified mammoth-tusk.

 6

When to her lute Corinna sings
neither words nor music are her own;
only the long hair dipping 
over her cheek, only the song
of silk against her knees
and these 
adjusted in reflections of an eye.

Poised, trembling and unsatisfied, before
an unlocked door, that cage of cages,
tell us, you bird, you tragical machine--
is this fertillisante douleur? Pinned down
by love, for you the only natural action,
are you edged more keen
to prise the secrets of the vault? has Nature shown
her household books to you, daughter-in-law,
that her sons never saw?

 7

"To have in this uncertain world some stay
which cannot be undermined, is
of the utmost consequence."
 Thus wrote
a woman, partly brave and partly good,
who fought with what she partly understood.
Few men about her would or could do more,
hence she was labeled harpy, shrew and whore.

 8

"You all die at fifteen," said Diderot,
and turn part legend, part convention.
Still, eyes inaccurately dream
behind closed windows blankening with steam.
Deliciously, all that we might have been,
all that we were--fire, tears,
wit, taste, martyred ambition--
stirs like the memory of refused adultery
the drained and flagging bosom of our middle years.

 9

Not that it is done well, but
that it is done at all? Yes, think
of the odds! or shrug them off forever.
This luxury of the precocious child,
Time's precious chronic invalid,--
would we, darlings, resign it if we could?
Our blight has been our sinecure:
mere talent was enough for us--
glitter in fragments and rough drafts.

Sigh no more, ladies.
 Time is male
and in his cups drinks to the fair.
Bemused by gallantry, we hear
our mediocrities over-praised,
indolence read as abnegation,
slattern thought styled intuition,
every lapse forgiven, our crime
only to cast too bold a shadow
or smash the mold straight off.
For that, solitary confinement,
tear gas, attrition shelling.
Few applicants for that honor.

 10

 Well,
she's long about her coming, who must be
more merciless to herself than history.
Her mind full to the wind, I see her plunge
breasted and glancing through the currents,
taking the light upon her
at least as beautiful as any boy
or helicopter,
 poised, still coming,
her fine blades making the air wince

but her cargo
no promise then:
delivered
palpable
ours.

 Oft have I seen at some cathedral door 
.
A laborer, pausing in the dust and heat, 
.
Lay down his burden, and with reverent feet 
.
Enter, and cross himself, and on the floor 
.
Kneel to repeat his paternoster o'er; 
.
Far off the noises of the world retreat; 
.
The loud vociferations of the street 
.
Become an undistinguishable roar. 
.
So, as I enter here from day to day, 
.

And leave my burden at this minster gate, 
.

Kneeling in prayer, and not ashamed to pray, 
.

The tumult of the time disconsolate 
.

To inarticulate murmurs dies away, 
.

While the eternal ages watch and wait.II.2.
How strange the sculptures that adorn these towers! 
.
This crowd of statues, in whose folded sleeves 
.
Birds build their nests; while canopied with leaves 
.
Parvis and portal bloom like trellised bowers, 
.
And the vast minster seems a cross of flowers! 
.
But fiends and dragons on the gargoyled eaves 
.
Watch the dead Christ between the living thieves, 
.
And, underneath, the traitor Judas lowers! 
.
Ah! from what agonies of heart and brain, 
.

What exultations trampling on despair, 
.

What tenderness, what tears, what hate of wrong, 
.

What passionate outcry of a soul in pain, 
.

Uprose this poem of the earth and air, 
.

This medi?val miracle of song!
III.Written December 22, 1865.3.
I enter, and I see thee in the gloom 
.
Of the long aisles, O poet saturnine! 
.
And strive to make my steps keep pace with thine. 
.
The air is filled with some unknown perfume; 
.
The congregation of the dead make room 
.
For thee to pass; the votive tapers shine; 
.
Like rooks that haunt Ravenna's groves of pine 
.
The hovering echoes fly from tomb to tomb. 
.
From the confessionals I hear arise 
.

Rehearsals of forgotten tragedies, 
.

And lamentations from the crypts below; 
.

And then a voice celestial that begins 
.

With the pathetic words, "Although your sins 
.

As scarlet be," and ends with "as the snow." 
IV.Written May 5, 1867.4.
With snow-white veil and garments as of flame, 
.
She stands before thee, who so long ago 
.
Filled thy young heart with passion and the woe 
.
From which thy song and all its splendors came; 
.
And while with stern rebuke she speaks thy name, 
.
The ice about thy heart melts as the snow 
.
On mountain heights, and in swift overflow 
.
Comes gushing from thy lips in sobs of shame. 
.
Thou makest full confession; and a gleam, 
.

As of the dawn on some dark forest cast, 
.

Seems on thy lifted forehead to increase; 
.

Lethe and Euno? -- the remembered dream 
.

And the forgotten sorrow -- bring at last 
.

That perfect pardon which is perfect peace.
V.Written January 16, 1866.5.
I lift mine eyes, and all the windows blaze 
.
With forms of Saints and holy men who died, 
.
Here martyred and hereafter glorified; 
.
And the great Rose upon its leaves displays 
.
Christ's Triumph, and the angelic roundelays, 
.
With splendor upon splendor multiplied; 
.
And Beatrice again at Dante's side 
.
No more rebukes, but smiles her words of praise. 
.
And then the organ sounds, and unseen choirs 
.

Sing the old Latin hymns of peace and love 
.

And benedictions of the Holy Ghost; 
.

And the melodious bells among the spires 
.

O'er all the house-tops and through heaven above 
.

Proclaim the elevation of the Host! 
VI.Written March 7, 1866.6.
O star of morning and of liberty! 
.
O bringer of the light, whose splendor shines 
.
Above the darkness of the Apennines, 
.
Forerunner of the day that is to be! 
.
The voices of the city and the sea, 
.
The voices of the mountains and the pines, 
.
Repeat thy song, till the familiar lines 
.
Are footpaths for the thought of Italy! 
.
Thy fame is blown abroad from all the heights, 
.

Through all the nations, and a sound is heard, 
.

As of a mighty wind, and men devout, 
.

Strangers of Rome, and the new proselytes, 
.

In their own language hear thy wondrous word, 
.

And many are amazed and many doubt.

 I.

Let them fight it out, friend! things have gone too far.
God must judge the couple: leave them as they are
---Whichever one's the guiltless, to his glory,
And whichever one the guilt's with, to my story!

II.

Why, you would not bid men, sunk in such a slough,
Strike no arm out further, stick and stink as now,
Leaving right and wrong to settle the embroilment,
Heaven with snaky hell, in torture and entoilment?

III.

Who's the culprit of them? How must he conceive
God---the queen he caps to, laughing in his sleeve,
`` 'Tis but decent to profess oneself beneath her:
``Still, one must not be too much in earnest, either!''

IV.

Better sin the whole sin, sure that God observes;
Then go live his life out! Life will try his nerves,
When the sky, which noticed all, makes no disclosure,
And the earth keeps up her terrible composure.

V.

Let him pace at pleasure, past the walls of rose,
Pluck their fruits when grape-trees graze him as he goes!
For he 'gins to guess the purpose of the garden,
With the sly mute thing, beside there, for a warden.

VI.

What's the leopard-dog-thing, constant at his side,
A leer and lie in every eye of its obsequious hide?
When will come an end to all the mock obeisance,
And the price appear that pays for the misfeasance?

VII.

So much for the culprit. Who's the martyred man?
Let him bear one stroke more, for be sure he can!
He that strove thus evil's lump with good to leaven,
Let him give his blood at last and get his heaven!

VIII.

All or nothing, stake it! Trust she God or no?
Thus far and no farther? farther? be it so!
Now, enough of your chicane of prudent pauses,
Sage provisos, sub-intents and saving-clauses!

IX.

Ah, ``forgive'' you bid him? While God's champion lives,
Wrong shall be resisted: dead, why, he forgives.
But you must not end my friend ere you begin him;
Evil stands not crowned on earth, while breath is in him.

X.

Once more---Will the wronger, at this last of all,
Dare to say, ``I did wrong,'' rising in his fall?
No?---Let go then! Both the fighters to their places!
While I count three, step you back as many paces!

 October's bellowing anger breaks and cleaves 
The bronzed battalions of the stricken wood 
In whose lament I hear a voice that grieves 
For battle’s fruitless harvest, and the feud 
Of outraged men. Their lives are like the leaves
Scattered in flocks of ruin, tossed and blown 
Along the westering furnace flaring red. 
O martyred youth and manhood overthrown, 
The burden of your wrongs is on my head.

 OVER all the dream-built margin, flushed with grey and hoary light,
Glint the bubble planets tossing in the dead black sea of night.
Immemorial face, how many faces look from out thy skies,
Now with ghostly eyes of wonder rimmed around with rainbow dyes:
Now the secrets of the future trail along the silent spheres:
Ah, how often have I followed filled with phantom hopes and fears,
Where my star that rose dream-laden, moving to the mystic crown,
On the yellow moon-rock foundered and my joy and dreams went down.
As a child with hands uplifted peering through the cloudless miles
Bent the Mighty Mother o’er me shining all with eyes and smiles:
“Come up hither, child, my darling”: waving to the habitations,
Thrones, and starry kings around her, dark embattled planet nations.
There the mighty rose in greeting, as their child from exile turning
Smiled upon the awful faces o’er the throne supernal burning.
As with sudden sweetness melting, shone the eyes, the hearts of home,
Changed the vision, and the Mother vanished in the vasty dome.
So from marvel unto marvel turned the face I gazed upon,
Till its fading majesty grew tender as a child at dawn,
And the heaven of heavens departed and the visions passed away
With the seraph of the darkness martyred in the fires of day.

 AN we suppress the old Remorse 
Who bends our heart beneath his stroke, 
Who feeds, as worms feed on the corse, 
Or as the acorn on the oak? 
Can we suppress the old Remorse? 

Ah, in what philtre, wine, or spell, 
May we drown this our ancient foe, 
Destructive glutton, gorging well, 
Patient as the ants, and slow? 
What wine, what philtre, or what spell? 

Tell it, enchantress, if you can, 
Tell me, with anguish overcast, 
Wounded, as a dying man, 
Beneath the swift hoofs hurrying past. 
Tell it, enchantress, if you can, 

To him the wolf already tears 
Who sees the carrion pinions wave, 
This broken warrior who despairs 
To have a cross above his grave-- 
This wretch the wolf already tears. 

Can one illume a leaden sky, 
Or tear apart the shadowy veil 
Thicker than pitch, no star on high, 
Not one funereal glimmer pale 
Can one illume a leaden sky? 

Hope lit the windows of the Inn, 
But now that shining flame is dead; 
And how shall martyred pilgrims win 
Along the moonless road they tread? 
Satan has darkened all the Inn! 

Witch, do you love accurs?d hearts? 
Say, do you know, the reprobate? 
Know you Remorse, whose venomed darts 
Make souls the targets of their hate? 
Witch, do you know accurs?d hearts? 

The Might-have-been with tooth accursed 
Gnaws at the piteous souls of men, 
The deep foundations suffer first, 
And all the structure crumbles then 
Beneath the bitter tooth accursed. 

II.

Often, when seated at the play, 
And sonorous music lights the stage, 
I see the frail hand of a Fay 
With magic dawn illume the rage 
Of the dark sky. Oft at the play 

A being made of gauze and fire 
Casts to the earth a Demon great. 
And my heart, whence all hopes expire, 
Is like a stage where I await, 
In vain, the Fay with wings of fire!

 When Father Time swings round his scythe,
Entomb me 'neath the bounteous vine,
So that its juices, red and blithe,
May cheer these thirsty bones of mine.

"Elsewise with tears and bated breath
Should I survey the life to be.
But oh! How should I hail the death
That brings that--vinous grace to me!"

So sung the dauntless Saracen,
Whereat the Prophet-Chief ordains
That, curst of Allah, loathed of men,
The faithless one shall die in chains.

But one vile Christian slave that lay
A prisoner near that prisoner saith:
"God willing, I will plant some day
A vine where liest thou in death."

Lo, over Abu Midjan's grave
With purpling fruit a vine-tree grows;
Where rots the martyred Christian slave
Allah, and only Allah, knows!