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Best Famous Mockeries Poems

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

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Written by Walt Whitman | Create an image from this poem

To You

 WHOEVER you are, I fear you are walking the walks of dreams, 
I fear these supposed realities are to melt from under your feet and hands; 
Even now, your features, joys, speech, house, trade, manners, troubles, follies, costume,
 crimes, dissipate away from you, 
Your true Soul and Body appear before me, 
They stand forth out of affairs—out of commerce, shops, law, science, work, forms,
 clothes, the house, medicine, print, buying, selling, eating, drinking, suffering, dying.

Whoever you are, now I place my hand upon you, that you be my poem; 
I whisper with my lips close to your ear, 
I have loved many women and men, but I love none better than you. 

O I have been dilatory and dumb; 
I should have made my way straight to you long ago;
I should have blabb’d nothing but you, I should have chanted nothing but you. 

I will leave all, and come and make the hymns of you; 
None have understood you, but I understand you; 
None have done justice to you—you have not done justice to yourself; 
None but have found you imperfect—I only find no imperfection in you;
None but would subordinate you—I only am he who will never consent to subordinate
 you; 
I only am he who places over you no master, owner, better, God, beyond what waits
 intrinsically
 in yourself. 

Painters have painted their swarming groups, and the centre figure of all; 
From the head of the centre figure spreading a nimbus of gold-color’d light; 
But I paint myriads of heads, but paint no head without its nimbus of gold-color’d
 light;
From my hand, from the brain of every man and woman it streams, effulgently flowing
 forever. 

O I could sing such grandeurs and glories about you! 
You have not known what you are—you have slumber’d upon yourself all your life; 
Your eye-lids have been the same as closed most of the time; 
What you have done returns already in mockeries;
(Your thrift, knowledge, prayers, if they do not return in mockeries, what is their
 return?) 

The mockeries are not you; 
Underneath them, and within them, I see you lurk; 
I pursue you where none else has pursued you; 
Silence, the desk, the flippant expression, the night, the accustom’d routine, if
 these
 conceal you from others, or from yourself, they do not conceal you from me;
The shaved face, the unsteady eye, the impure complexion, if these balk others, they do
 not
 balk me, 
The pert apparel, the deform’d attitude, drunkenness, greed, premature death, all
 these I
 part aside. 

There is no endowment in man or woman that is not tallied in you; 
There is no virtue, no beauty, in man or woman, but as good is in you; 
No pluck, no endurance in others, but as good is in you;
No pleasure waiting for others, but an equal pleasure waits for you. 

As for me, I give nothing to any one, except I give the like carefully to you; 
I sing the songs of the glory of none, not God, sooner than I sing the songs of the glory
 of
 you. 

Whoever you are! claim your own at any hazard! 
These shows of the east and west are tame, compared to you;
These immense meadows—these interminable rivers—you are immense and interminable
 as
 they; 
These furies, elements, storms, motions of Nature, throes of apparent dissolution—you
 are
 he or she who is master or mistress over them, 
Master or mistress in your own right over Nature, elements, pain, passion, dissolution. 

The hopples fall from your ankles—you find an unfailing sufficiency; 
Old or young, male or female, rude, low, rejected by the rest, whatever you are promulges
 itself;
Through birth, life, death, burial, the means are provided, nothing is scanted; 
Through angers, losses, ambition, ignorance, ennui, what you are picks its way.


Written by Audre Lorde | Create an image from this poem

The Black Unicorn

 The black unicorn is greedy. 
The black unicorn is impatient. 
'The black unicorn was mistaken 
for a shadow or symbol
and taken
through a cold country 
where mist painted mockeries 
of my fury.
It is not on her lap where the horn rests 
but deep in her moonpit 
growing.
The black unicorn is restless 
the black unicorn is unrelenting 
the black unicorn is not 
free.
Written by Lewis Carroll | Create an image from this poem

The Palace of Humbug

 Lays of Mystery,
Imagination, and Humor 

Number 1 

I dreamt I dwelt in marble halls,
And each damp thing that creeps and crawls
Went wobble-wobble on the walls. 

Faint odours of departed cheese,
Blown on the dank, unwholesome breeze,
Awoke the never ending sneeze. 

Strange pictures decked the arras drear,
Strange characters of woe and fear,
The humbugs of the social sphere. 

One showed a vain and noisy prig,
That shouted empty words and big
At him that nodded in a wig. 

And one, a dotard grim and gray,
Who wasteth childhood's happy day
In work more profitless than play. 

Whose icy breast no pity warms,
Whose little victims sit in swarms,
And slowly sob on lower forms. 

And one, a green thyme-honoured Bank,
Where flowers are growing wild and rank,
Like weeds that fringe a poisoned tank. 

All birds of evil omen there
Flood with rich Notes the tainted air,
The witless wanderer to snare. 

The fatal Notes neglected fall,
No creature heeds the treacherous call,
For all those goodly Strawn Baits Pall. 

The wandering phantom broke and fled,
Straightway I saw within my head
A vision of a ghostly bed, 

Where lay two worn decrepit men,
The fictions of a lawyer's pen,
Who never more might breathe again. 

The serving-man of Richard Roe
Wept, inarticulate with woe:
She wept, that waiting on John Doe. 

"Oh rouse", I urged, "the waning sense
With tales of tangled evidence,
Of suit, demurrer, and defence." 

"Vain", she replied, "such mockeries:
For morbid fancies, such as these,
No suits can suit, no plea can please." 

And bending o'er that man of straw,
She cried in grief and sudden awe,
Not inappropriately, "Law!" 

The well-remembered voice he knew,
He smiled, he faintly muttered "Sue!"
(Her very name was legal too.) 

The night was fled, the dawn was nigh:
A hurricane went raving by,
And swept the Vision from mine eye. 

Vanished that dim and ghostly bed,
(The hangings, tape; the tape was red happy
'Tis o'er, and Doe and Roe are dead! 

Oh, yet my spirit inly crawls,
What time it shudderingly recalls
That horrid dream of marble halls!
Written by Thomas Hardy | Create an image from this poem

A Confession To A Friend In Trouble

 Your troubles shrink not, though I feel them less
 Here, far away, than when I tarried near;
I even smile old smiles--with listlessness--
 Yet smiles they are, not ghastly mockeries mere.

A thought too strange to house within my brain
 Haunting its outer precincts I discern:
 --That I will not show zeal again to learn
Your griefs, and, sharing them, renew my pain....

It goes, like murky bird or buccaneer
That shapes its lawless figure on the main,
And each new impulse tends to make outflee
The unseemly instinct that had lodgment here;
Yet, comrade old, can bitterer knowledge be
Than that, though banned, such instinct was in me!
Written by Robert William Service | Create an image from this poem

The Cat With Wings

 You never saw a cat with wings,
I'll bet a dollar -- well, I did;
'Twas one of those fantastic things
One runs across in old Madrid.
A walloping big tom it was,
(Maybe of the Angora line),
With silken ears and velvet paws,
And silver hair, superbly fine.

It sprawled upon a crimson mat,
Yet though crowds came to gaze on it,
It was a supercilious cat,
And didn't seem to mind a bit.
It looked at us with dim disdain,
And indolently seemed to sigh:
"There's not another cat in Spain
One half so marvelous as I."

Its owner gently stroked its head,
And tickled it with fingers light.
"Ah no, it cannot fly," he said;
"But see - it has the wings all right."
Then tenderly from off its back
He raised, despite its feline fears,
Appendages that seemed to lack
Vitality - like rabbit's ears.

And then the vision that I had
Of Tabbie soaring through the night,
Quick vanished, and I felt so sad
For that poor pussy's piteous plight.
For though frustration has it stings,
Its mockeries in Hope's despite,
The hell of hells is to have wings
Yet be denied the bliss of flight.


Written by Dorothy Parker | Create an image from this poem

For A Lady Who Must Write Verse

 Unto seventy years and seven,
Hide your double birthright well-
You, that are the brat of Heaven
And the pampered heir to Hell.

Let your rhymes be tinsel treasures,
Strung and seen and thrown aside.
Drill your apt and docile measures
Sternly as you drill your pride.

Show your quick, alarming skill in
Tidy mockeries of art;
Never, never dip your quill in
Ink that rushes from your heart.

When your pain must come to paper,
See it dust, before the day;
Let your night-light curl and caper,
Let it lick the words away.

Never print, poor child, a lay on
Love and tears and anguishing,
Lest a cooled, benignant Phaon
Murmur, "Silly little thing!"
Written by Wilfred Owen | Create an image from this poem

Anthem For Doomed Youth

 What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
 Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
 Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries for them; no prayers nor bells,
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs, --
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.

What candles may be held to speed them all?
 Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes.
 The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.
Written by Edgar Lee Masters | Create an image from this poem

Edmund Pollard

 I would I had thrust my hands of flesh
Into the disk-flowers bee-infested,
Into the mirror-like core of fire
Of the light of life, the sun of delight.
For what are anthers worth or petals
Or halo-rays? Mockeries, shadows
Of the heart of the flower, the central flame!
All is yours, young passer-by;
Enter the banquet room with the thought;
Don't sidle in as if you were doubtful
Whether you're welcome -- the feast is yours!
Nor take but a little, refusing more
With a bashful "Thank you," when you're hungry.
Is your soul alive? Then let it feed!
Leave no balconies where you can climb;
Nor milk-white bosoms where you can rest;
Nor golden heads with pillows to share;
Nor wine cups while the wine is sweet;
Nor ecstasies of body or soul,
You will die, no doubt, but die while living
In depths of azure, rapt and mated,
Kissing the queen-bee, Life!

Book: Reflection on the Important Things