Best Famous Molds Poems

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

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• All Famous Molds Poems

Written by Sylvia Plath | The Bee Meeting Who are these people at the bridge to meet me? They are the villagers---- The rector, the midwife, the sexton, the agent for bees. In my sleeveless summery dress I have no protection, And they are all gloved and covered, why did nobody tell me? They are smiling and taking out veils tacked to ancient hats. I am nude as a chicken neck, does nobody love me? Yes, here is the secretary of bees with her white shop smock, Buttoning the cuffs at my wrists and the slit from my neck to my knees. Now I am milkweed silk, the bees will not notice. They will not smell my fear, my fear, my fear. Which is the rector now, is it that man in black? Which is the midwife, is that her blue coat? Everybody is nodding a square black head, they are knights in visors, Breastplates of cheesecloth knotted under the armpits. Their smiles and their voces are changing. I am led through a beanfield. Strips of tinfoil winking like people, Feather dusters fanning their hands in a sea of bean flowers, Creamy bean flowers with black eyes and leaves like bored hearts. Is it blood clots the tendrils are dragging up that string? No, no, it is scarlet flowers that will one day be edible. Now they are giving me a fashionable white straw Italian hat And a black veil that molds to my face, they are making me one of them. They are leading me to the shorn grove, the circle of hives. Is it the hawthorn that smells so sick? The barren body of hawthon, etherizing its children. Is it some operation that is taking place? It is the surgeon my neighbors are waiting for, This apparition in a green helmet, Shining gloves and white suit. Is it the butcher, the grocer, the postman, someone I know? I cannot run, I am rooted, and the gorse hurts me With its yellow purses, its spiky armory. I could not run without having to run forever. The white hive is snug as a virgin, Sealing off her brood cells, her honey, and quietly humming. Smoke rolls and scarves in the grove. The mind of the hive thinks this is the end of everything. Here they come, the outriders, on their hysterical elastics. If I stand very still, they will think I am cow-parsley, A gullible head untouched by their animosity, Not even nodding, a personage in a hedgerow. The villagers open the chambers, they are hunting the queen. Is she hiding, is she eating honey? She is very clever. She is old, old, old, she must live another year, and she knows it. While in their fingerjoint cells the new virgins Dream of a duel they will win inevitably, A curtain of wax dividing them from the bride flight, The upflight of the murderess into a heaven that loves her. The villagers are moving the virgins, there will be no killing. The old queen does not show herself, is she so ungrateful? I am exhausted, I am exhausted ---- Pillar of white in a blackout of knives. I am the magician's girl who does not flinch. The villagers are untying their disguises, they are shaking hands. Whose is that long white box in the grove, what have they accomplished, why am I cold.

Written by Russell Edson | The Melting An old woman likes to melt her husband. She puts him in a melting device, and he pours out the other end in a hot bloody syrup, which she catches in a series of little husband molds. What splatters on the floor the dog licks up. When they have set she has seventeen little husbands. One she throws to the dog because the genitals didn't set right; too much like a vulva because of an air bubble. Then there are sixteen naked little husbands standing in a row across the kitchen table. She diddles them and they produce sixteen little erections. She thinks she might melt her husband again. She likes melting him. She might pour him into an even smaller series of husband molds . . .

Written by Eugene Field | Little Boy Blue The little toy dog is covered with dust, But sturdy and stanch he stands; And the little toy soldier is red with rust, And his musket molds in his hands. Time was when the little toy dog was new And the soldier was passing fair, And that was the time when our Little Boy Blue Kissed them and put them there. "Now, don't you go till I come," he said, "And don't you make any noise!" So toddling off to his trundle-bed He dreamed of the pretty toys. And as he was dreaming, an angel song Awakened our Little Boy Blue,-- Oh, the years are many, the years are long, But the little toy friends are true. Ay, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand, Each in the same old place, Awaiting the touch of a little hand, The smile of a little face. And they wonder, as waiting these long years through, In the dust of that little chair, What has become of our Little Boy Blue Since he kissed them and put them there.

Written by Carl Sandburg | Bronzes THEY ask me to handle bronzes Kept by children in China Three thousand years Since their fathers Took fire and molds and hammers And made these. The Ming, the Chou, And other dynasties, Out, gone, reckoned in ciphers, Dynasties dressed up In old gold and old yellow— They saw these. Let the wheels Of three thousand years Turn, turn, turn on. Let one poet then (One will be enough) Handle these bronzes And mention the dynasties And pass them along.

Written by Isaac Watts | Hymn 4 part 2 The inward witness to Christianity. 1 Jn. 5:10. Questions and doubts be heard no more, Let Christ and joy be all our theme; His Spirit seals his gospel sure, To every soul that trusts in him. Jesus, thy witness speaks within; The mercy which thy words reveal Refines the heart from sense and sin, And stamps its own celestial seal. 'Tis God's inimitable hand That molds and forms the heart anew; Blasphemers can no more withstand, But bow, and own thy doctrine true. The guilty wretch that trusts thy blood Finds peace and pardon at the cross; The sinful soul, averse to God, Believes and loves his Maker's laws. Learning and wit may cease their strife, When miracles with glory shine; The voice that calls the dead to life Must be almighty and divine.