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Best Famous Modulated Poems

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

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Written by Christina Rossetti | Create an image from this poem

Bride Song

 From 'The Prince's Progress' 

TOO late for love, too late for joy, 
 Too late, too late! 
You loiter'd on the road too long, 
 You trifled at the gate: 
The enchanted dove upon her branch 
 Died without a mate; 
The enchanted princess in her tower 
 Slept, died, behind the grate; 
Her heart was starving all this while 
 You made it wait. 

Ten years ago, five years ago, 
 One year ago, 
Even then you had arrived in time, 
 Though somewhat slow; 
Then you had known her living face 
 Which now you cannot know: 
The frozen fountain would have leap'd, 
 The buds gone on to blow, 
The warm south wind would have awaked 
 To melt the snow. 

Is she fair now as she lies? 
 Once she was fair; 
Meet queen for any kingly king, 
 With gold-dust on her hair. 
Now there are poppies in her locks, 
 White poppies she must wear; 
Must wear a veil to shroud her face 
 And the want graven there: 
Or is the hunger fed at length, 
 Cast off the care? 

We never saw her with a smile 
 Or with a frown; 
Her bed seem'd never soft to her, 
 Though toss'd of down; 
She little heeded what she wore, 
 Kirtle, or wreath, or gown; 
We think her white brows often ached 
 Beneath her crown, 
Till silvery hairs show'd in her locks 
 That used to be so brown. 

We never heard her speak in haste: 
 Her tones were sweet, 
And modulated just so much 
 As it was meet: 
Her heart sat silent through the noise 
 And concourse of the street. 
There was no hurry in her hands, 
 No hurry in her feet; 
There was no bliss drew nigh to her, 
 That she might run to greet. 

You should have wept her yesterday, 
 Wasting upon her bed: 
But wherefore should you weep to-day 
 That she is dead? 
Lo, we who love weep not to-day, 
 But crown her royal head. 
Let be these poppies that we strew, 
 Your roses are too red: 
Let be these poppies, not for you 
 Cut down and spread.


Written by Christina Rossetti | Create an image from this poem

The Princes Progress (excerpt)

 "Too late for love, too late for joy,
Too late, too late!
You loitered on the road too long,
You trifled at the gate:
The enchanted dove upon her branch
Died without a mate.
The enchanted princess in her tower
Slept, died, behind the grate;
Her heart was starving all this while
You made it wait.

"Ten years ago, five years ago,
One year ago,
Even then you had arrived in time,
Though somewhat slow;
Then you had known her living face
Which now you cannot know:
The frozen fountain would have leaped,
The buds gone on to blow,
The warm south wind would have awaked
To melt the snow.

"Is she fair now as she lies?
Once she was fair;
Meet queen for any kingly king,
With gold-dust on her hair.
Now these are poppies in her locks,
White poppies she must wear;
Must wear a veil to shroud her face
And the want graven there:
Or is the hunger fed at length,
Cast off the care?

"We never saw her with a smile
Or with a frown;
Her bed seemed never soft to her,
Though tossed of down;
She little heeded what she wore,
Kirtle, or wreath, or gown;
We think her white brows often ached
Beneath her crown,
Till silvery hairs showed in her locks
That used to be so brown.

"We never heard her speak in haste;
Her tones were sweet,
And modulated just so much
As it was meet:
Her heart sat silent through the noise
And concourse of the street.
There was no hurry in her hands,
No hurry in her feet;
There was no bliss drew nigh to her,
That she might run to greet.

"You should have wept her yesterday,
Wasting upon her bed:
But wherefore should you weep to-day
That she is dead?
Lo we who love weep not to-day,
But crown her royal head.
Let be these poppies that we strew,
Your roses are too red:
Let be these poppies, not for you
Cut down and spread."
Written by Thomas Lux | Create an image from this poem

Henry Clays Mouth

 Senator, statesman, speaker of the House,
exceptional dancer, slim,
graceful, ugly. Proclaimed, before most, slavery
an evil, broker
of elections (burned Jackson
for Adams), took a pistol ball in the thigh
in a duel, delayed, by forty years,
with his compromises, the Civil War,
gambler ("I have always
paid peculiar homage to the fickle goddess"),
boozehound, ladies' man -- which leads us
to his mouth, which was huge,
a long slash across his face,
with which he ate and prodigiously drank,
with which he modulated his melodic voice,
with which he liked to kiss and kiss and kiss.
He said: "Kissing is like the presidency,
it is not to be sought and not to be declined."
A rival, one who wanted to kiss
whom he was kissing, said: "The ample
dimensions of his kissing apparatus
enabled him to rest one side of it
while the other was on active duty."
It was written, if women had the vote,
he would have been President,
kissing everyone in sight,
dancing on tables ("a grand Terpsichorean
performance ..."), kissing everyone,
sometimes two at once, kissing everyone,
the almost-President
of our people.

Book: Reflection on the Important Things