Best Famous Meadow Grass Poems

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

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• All Famous Meadow Grass Poems

Written by Robert Frost | A Brook in the City The firm house lingers, though averse to square With the new city street it has to wear A number in. But what about the brook That held the house as in an elbow-crook? I ask as one who knew the brook, its strength And impulse, having dipped a finger length And made it leap my knuckle, having tossed A flower to try its currents where they crossed. The meadow grass could be cemented down From growing under pavements of a town; The apple trees be sent to hearth-stone flame. Is water wood to serve a brook the same? How else dispose of an immortal force No longer needed? Staunch it at its source With cinder loads dumped down? The brook was thrown Deep in a sewer dungeon under stone In fetid darkness still to live and run - And all for nothing it hd ever done Except forget to go in fear perhaps. No one would know except for ancient maps That such a brook ran water. But I wonder If from its being kept forever under The thoughts may not have risen that so keep This new-built city from both work and sleep.

Written by Robert Louis Stevenson | The Cow The friendly cow all red and white, I love with all my heart: She gives me cream with all her might, To eat with apple-tart. She wanders lowing here and there, And yet she cannot stray, All in the pleasant open air, The pleasant light of day; And blown by all the winds that pass And wet with all the showers, She walks among the meadow grass And eats the meadow flowers.

Written by Claude McKay | French Leave No servile little fear shall daunt my will This morning. I have courage steeled to say I will be lazy, conqueringly still, I will not lose the hours in toil this day. The roaring world without, careless of souls, Shall leave me to my placid dream of rest, My four walls shield me from its shouting ghouls, And all its hates have fled my quiet breast. And I will loll here resting, wide awake, Dead to the world of work, the world of love, I laze contented just for dreaming's sake With not the slightest urge to think or move. How tired unto death, how tired I was! Now for a day I put my burdens by, And like a child amidst the meadow grass Under the southern sun, I languid lie And feel the bed about me kindly deep, My strength ooze gently from my hollow bones, My worried brain drift aimlessly to sleep, Like softening to a song of tuneful tones.

Written by Henry Van Dyke | Fire-Fly City Like a long arrow through the dark the train is darting, Bearing me far away, after a perfect day of love's delight: Wakeful with all the sad-sweet memories of parting, I lift the narrow window-shade and look out on the night. Lonely the land unknown, and like a river flowing, Forest and field and hill are gliding backward still athwart my dream; Till in that country strange, and ever stranger growing, A magic city full of lights begins to glow and gleam. Wide through the landscape dim the lamps are lit in millions; Long avenues unfold clear-shining lines of gold across the green; Clusters and rings of light, and luminous pavilions, -- Oh, who will tell the city's name, and what these wonders mean? Why do they beckon me, and what have they to show me? Crowds in the blazing street, mirth where the feasters meet, kisses and wine: Many to laugh with me, but never one to know me: A cityful of stranger-hearts and none to beat with mine! Look how the glittering lines are wavering and lifting, -- Softly the breeze of night, scatters the vision bright: and, passing fair, Over the meadow-grass and through the forest drifting, The Fire-Fly City of the Dark is lost in empty air! Girl of the golden eyes, to you my heart is turning: Sleep in your quiet room, while through the midnight gloom my train is whirled. Clear in your dreams of me the light of love is burning, -- The only never failing light in all the phantom world.

Written by Dorothy Parker | Requiescat Tonight my love is sleeping cold Where none may see and none shall pass. The daisies quicken in the mold, And richer fares the meadow grass. The warding cypress pleads the skies, The mound goes level in the rain. My love all cold and silent lies- Pray God it will not rise again!

Written by Omar Khayyam | Sense, seeking happiness, bids us pursue Sense, seeking happiness, bids us pursue All present joys, and present griefs eschew; She says, we are not as the meadow grass, Which, when they mow it down, springs up anew.