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Best Famous Meaningful Poems

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

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Written by R S Thomas | Create an image from this poem

The Village

 Scarcely a street, too few houses
To merit the title; just a way between
The one tavern and the one shop
That leads nowhere and fails at the top
Of the short hill, eaten away
By long erosion of the green tide
Of grass creeping perpetually nearer 
This last outpost of time past.
So little happens; the black dog Cracking his fleas in the hot sun Is history.
Yet the girl who crosses From door to door moves to a scale Beyond the bland day's two dimensions.
Stay, then, village, for round you spins On a slow axis a world as vast And meaningful as any posed By great Plato's solitary mind.
Written by Eugene Field | Create an image from this poem

The night wind

 Have you ever heard the wind go "Yooooo"?
'T is a pitiful sound to hear!
It seems to chill you through and through
With a strange and speechless fear.
'T is the voice of the night that broods outside When folk should be asleep, And many and many's the time I've cried To the darkness brooding far and wide Over the land and the deep: Whom do you want, O lonely night, That you wail the long hours through?" And the night would say in its ghostly way: "Yoooooooo! Yoooooooo! Yoooooooo!" My mother told me long ago (When I was a little tad) That when the night went wailing so, Somebody had been bad; And then, when I was snug in bed, Whither I had been sent, With the blankets pulled up round my head, I'd think of what my mother'd said, And wonder what boy she meant! And "Who's been bad to-day?" I'd ask Of the wind that hoarsely blew, And the voice would say in its meaningful way: "Yoooooooo! Yoooooooo! Yoooooooo!" That this was true I must allow - You'll not believe it, though! Yes, though I'm quite a model now, I was not always so.
And if you doubt what things I say, Suppose you make the test; Suppose, when you've been bad some day And up to bed are sent away From mother and the rest - Suppose you ask, "Who has been bad?" And then you'll hear what's true; For the wind will moan in its ruefulest tone: "Yoooooooo! Yoooooooo! Yoooooooo!"
Written by R S Thomas | Create an image from this poem

The Village

 Scarcely a street, too few houses
To merit the title; just a way between
The one tavern and the one shop
That leads nowhere and fails at the top
Of the short hill, eaten away
By long erosion of the green tide
Of grass creeping perpetually nearer 
This last outpost of time past.
So little happens; the black dog Cracking his fleas in the hot sun Is history.
Yet the girl who crosses From door to door moves to a scale Beyond the bland day's two dimensions.
Stay, then, village, for round you spins On a slow axis a world as vast And meaningful as any posed By great Plato's solitary mind.
Written by Rg Gregory | Create an image from this poem

portland views

 wherever there's a tear in the fabric
around weymouth - portland appears

from abbotsbury hill it's just a long
thin line humped at one end

closer (from chesil beach) a head-on
massive lump of rock gnashed by the sea

if you stand at sandsfoot castle
there's a military feel - an armed guard

of an island harsh with prisons
snarling with secrets visitors don't probe

but on the road up out of town
towards the east a different spirit

rides inland over caravans and hedges
especially in soft light

portland softens like a pear
in syrup (yearning to be consumed)

elsewhere at other times it broods
a sleeping lion its paw upon

the carcase of its prey - but look
at portland if you can by night

its outline traced by street lights
its harshnesses seduced to

shadows - then the island hangs
beneath the sky in still festivity

its truths intact its wounds of stone
find blessing in the herbal dark

nothing of this of course is meaningful
unless inside us all there rests

a portland ravaged daily ill-at-ease
that has to use the night-time

for its solace - and each glimpse we get
of it assuages different guilts
Written by Ehsan Sehgal | Create an image from this poem

Molten gold

"molten gold thrown of ground solidifies into an ungainly mass but put in moulds becomes attractive jewelry.
Similarly unarticulated thoughts reduced to writing will be nothing but meaningless jumble where as properly reasoned and structured thoughts expressed in writing become meaningful and if well written, can become masterpieces of literature.
" Ehsan Sehgal