10 Best Famous Moorings Poems

Here is a collection of the top 10 all-time best famous Moorings poems. This is a select list of the best famous Moorings poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Moorings poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of moorings poems.

• All Famous Moorings Poems

Written by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow | Paul Revere's Ride Listen, my children, and you shall hear Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere, On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-Five: Hardly a man is now alive Who remembers that famous day and year. He said to his friend, "If the British march By land or sea from the town to-night, Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry-arch Of the North-Church-tower, as a signal-light,-- One if by land, and two if by sea; And I on the opposite shore will be, Ready to ride and spread the alarm Through every Middlesex village and farm, For the country-folk to be up and to arm." Then he said "Good night!" and with muffled oar Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore, Just as the moon rose over the bay, Where swinging wide at her moorings lay The Somerset, British man-of-war: A phantom ship, with each mast and spar Across the moon, like a prison-bar, And a huge black hulk, that was magnified By its own reflection in the tide. Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street Wanders and watches with eager ears, Till in the silence around him he hears The muster of men at the barrack door, The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet, And the measured tread of the grenadiers Marching down to their boats on the shore. Then he climbed to the tower of the church, Up the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread, To the belfry-chamber overhead, And startled the pigeons from their perch On the sombre rafters, that round him made Masses and moving shapes of shade,-- By the trembling ladder, steep and tall, To the highest window in the wall, Where he paused to listen and look down A moment on the roofs of the town, And the moonlight flowing over all. Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead, In their night-encampment on the hill, Wrapped in silence so deep and still That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread, The watchful night-wind, as it went Creeping along from tent to tent, And seeming to whisper, "All is well!" A moment only he feels the spell Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread Of the lonely belfry and the dead; For suddenly all his thoughts are bent On a shadowy something far away, Where the river widens to meet the bay, -- A line of black, that bends and floats On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats. Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride, Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride, On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere. Now he patted his horse's side, Now gazed on the landscape far and near, Then impetuous stamped the earth, And turned and tightened his saddle-girth; But mostly he watched with eager search The belfry-tower of the old North Church, As it rose above the graves on the hill, Lonely and spectral and sombre and still. And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height, A glimmer, and then a gleam of light! He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns, But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight A second lamp in the belfry burns! A hurry of hoofs in a village-street, A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark, And beneath from the pebbles, in passing, a spark Struck out by a steed that flies fearless and fleet: That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light, The fate of a nation was riding that night; And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight, Kindled the land into flame with its heat. He has left the village and mounted the steep, And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep, Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides; And under the alders, that skirt its edge, Now soft on the sand, now load on the ledge, Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides. It was twelve by the village clock When he crossed the bridge into Medford town. He heard the crowing of the cock, And the barking of the farmer's dog, And felt the damp of the river-fog, That rises when the sun goes down. It was one by the village clock, When he galloped into Lexington. He saw the gilded weathercock Swim in the moonlight as he passed, And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare, Gaze at him with a spectral glare, As if they already stood aghast At the bloody work they would look upon. It was two by the village clock, When be came to the bridge in Concord town. He heard the bleating of the flock, And the twitter of birds among the trees, And felt the breath of the morning breeze Blowing over the meadows brown. And one was safe and asleep in his bed Who at the bridge would be first to fall, Who that day would be lying dead, Pierced by a British musket-ball. You know the rest. In the books you have read, How the British Regulars fired and fled,-- How the farmers gave them ball for ball, From behind each fence and farmyard-wall, Chasing the red-coats down the lane, Then crossing the fields to emerge again Under the trees at the turn of the road, And only pausing to fire and load. So through the night rode Paul Revere; And so through the night went his cry of alarm To every Middlesex village and farm,-- A cry of defiance, and not of fear, A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door, And a word that shall echo forevermore! For, borne on the night-wind of the Past, Through all our history, to the last, In the hour of darkness and peril and need, The people will waken and listen to hear The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed, And the midnight message of Paul Revere.

Written by Barry Tebb | Letters To Friends I Eddie Linden Dear Eddie we’ve not met Except upon the written page And at your age the wonder Is that you write at all When so many have gone under Or been split asunder by narcissistic humours Blunder following blunder Barker and Graham, godfathering my verse Bearing me cloud-handed to Haworth moor From my chained metropolitan moorings, O hyaline March morning with Leeds At its thrusting best, the thirsty beasts Of night quenched as the furnaces Of Hunslet where Hudswell Clarke’s locos Rust in their skeletal sheds, rails skewed To graveyards platforms and now instead Skyscrapers circle the city, cranes, aeroplanes, Electric trains but even they cannot hinder Branches bursting with semen Seraphic cloud sanctuaries shunting Us homeward to the beckoning moors. II Brenda Williams Leeds voices soothe the turbulence ‘Ey’ ‘sithee’ and ‘love’, lastingly lilt From cradle to grave, from backstreet On the social, our son, beat his way To Eton, Balliol, to Calcatta’s Shantiniketan And all the way back to a locked ward. While I in the meantime fondly fiddled With rhyme and unreason, publishing pamphlets And Leeds Poetry Weekly while under the bane Of his tragic illness, poet and mother, You were driven from pillar to post By the taunting yobbery of your family And the crass insensitivity of wild therapy To the smoking dark of despair, Locked in your flat in the Abbey Road With seven cats and poetry. O stop and strop your bladed darkness On the rock of ages while plangent tollings Mock your cradled rockings, knock by knock. III Debjani Chatterjee In these doom-laden days You are steady as a pilot nursing tired ships homeward Through churning seas Where grey gulls scream Forlornly and for ever. I am the red-neck, Bear-headed blaster Shifting sheer rock To rape the ore of poetry’s plunder Or bulldozing trees to glean mines of silver While you sail serenely onward Ever the diplomat’s daughter Toujours de la politesse. IV Daisy Abey Daisy, dearest of all, safest And kindest, watcher and warner Of chaotic corners looming Round poetry’s boomerang bends I owe you most a letter While you are here beside me Patient as a miller waiting on wind To drive the great sails Through summer. When the muse takes over I am snatched from order and duty Blowing routine into a riot of going And coming, blind, backwards, tip Over ****, sea waves crashing in suburbia, Saturnalia in Sutton, headlines of mad poet Striding naked over moors, roaring "I am here I am waiting". V Jeremy Reed Niagaras of letters on pink sheets In sheaths of silver envelopes Mutually exchanged. I open your missives Like undressing a girl in my teens Undoing the flap like a recalcitrant Bra strap, the letters stiff as nipples While I stroke the creviced folds Of amber and mauve and lick As I stick stamps like the ******** Of a reluctant virgin, urgent for Defloration and the pulse of ******.

Written by George Bradley | At The Other End Of The Telescope the people are very small and shrink, dwarves on the way to netsuke hell bound for a flea circus in full retreat toward sub-atomic particles-- difficult to keep in focus, the figures at that end are nearly indistinguishable, generals at the heads of minute armies differing little from fishwives, emperors the same as eskimos huddled under improvisations of snow-- eskimos, though, now have the advantage, for it seems to be freezing there, a climate which might explain the population's outr? dress, their period costumes of felt and silk and eiderdown, their fur concoctions stuffed with straw held in place with flexible strips of bark, and all to no avail, the midgets forever stamping their match-stick feet, blowing on the numb flagella of their fingers-- but wait, bring a light, clean the lens.... can it be those shivering arms are waving, are trying to attract attention, hailing you? seen from the other end of the telescope, your eye must appear enormous, must fill the sky like a sun, and as you occupy their tiny heads naturally they wish to communicate, to tell you of their diminishing perspective-- yes, look again, their hands are cupped around the pinholes of their mouths, their faces are swollen, red with effort; why, they're screaming fit to burst, though what they say is anybody's guess, it is next to impossible to hear them, and most of them speak languages for which no Rosetta stone can be found-- but listen harder, use your imagination.... the people at the other end of the telescope, are they trying to tell you their names? yes, surely that must be it, their names and those of those they love, and possibly something else, some of them.... listen.... the largest are struggling to explain what befell them, how it happened that they woke one morning as if adrift, their moorings cut in the night, and were swept out over the horizon, borne on an ebbing tide and soon to be discernible only as distance, collapsed into mirage, made to become legendary creatures now off every map.

Written by J R R Tolkien | Bilbos Last Song (At the Grey Havens) Day is ended, dim my eyes, But journey long before me lies. Farewell, friends! I hear the call. The ship's beside the stony wall. Foam is white and waves are grey; beyond the sunset leads my way. Foam is salt, the wind is free; I hear the rising of the sea. Farewell, friends! The sails are set, the wind is east, the moorings fret. Shadows long before me lie, beneath the ever-bending sky, but islands lie behind the Sun that i shall raise ere all is done; lands there are to west of West, where night is quiet and sleep is rest. Guided by the Lonely Star, beyond the utmost harbour-bar, I'll find the heavens fair and free, and beaches of the Starlit Sea. Ship my ship! I seek the West, and fields and mountains ever blest. Farewell to Middle-earth at last. I see the star above my mast!

Written by Carl Sandburg | Always the Mob JESUS emptied the devils of one man into forty hogs and the hogs took the edge of a high rock and dropped off and down into the sea: a mob. The sheep on the hills of Australia, blundering fourfooted in the sunset mist to the dark, they go one way, they hunt one sleep, they find one pocket of grass for all. Karnak? Pyramids? Sphinx paws tall as a coolie? Tombs kept for kings and sacred cows? A mob. Young roast pigs and naked dancing girls of Belshazzar, the room where a thousand sat guzzling when a hand wrote: Mene, mene, tekel, upharsin? A mob. The honeycomb of green that won the sun as the Hanging Gardens of Nineveh, flew to its shape at the hands of a mob that followed the fingers of Nebuchadnezzar: a mob of one hand and one plan. Stones of a circle of hills at Athens, staircases of a mountain in Peru, scattered clans of marble dragons in China: each a mob on the rim of a sunrise: hammers and wagons have them now. Locks and gates of Panama? The Union Pacific crossing deserts and tunneling mountains? The Woolworth on land and the Titanic at sea? Lighthouses blinking a coast line from Labrador to Key West? Pigiron bars piled on a barge whistling in a fog off Sheboygan? A mob: hammers and wagons have them to-morrow. The mob? A typhoon tearing loose an island from thousand-year moorings and bastions, shooting a volcanic ash with a fire tongue that licks up cities and peoples. Layers of worms eating rocks and forming loam and valley floors for potatoes, wheat, watermelons. The mob? A jag of lightning, a geyser, a gravel mass loosening… The mob … kills or builds … the mob is Attila or Ghengis Khan, the mob is Napoleon, Lincoln. I am born in the mob—I die in the mob—the same goes for you—I don’t care who you are. I cross the sheets of fire in No Man’s land for you, my brother—I slip a steel tooth into your throat, you my brother—I die for you and I kill you—It is a twisted and gnarled thing, a crimson wool: One more arch of stars, In the night of our mist, In the night of our tears.

Written by Andrew Barton Paterson | The Ballad of the Calliope By the far Samoan shore, Where the league-long rollers pour All the wash of the Pacific on the coral-guarded bay, Riding lightly at their ease, In the calm of tropic seas, The three great nations' warships at their anchors proudly lay. Riding lightly, head to wind, With the coral reefs behind, Three German and three Yankee ships were mirrored in the blue; And on one ship unfurled Was the flag that rules the world -- For on the old Calliope the flag of England flew. When the gentle off-shore breeze, That had scarcely stirred the trees, Dropped down to utter stillness, and the glass began to fall, Away across the main Lowered the coming hurricane, And far away to seaward hung the cloud-wrack like a pall. If the word had passed around, "Let us move to safer ground; Let us steam away to seaward" -- then his tale were not to tell! But each Captain seemed to say "If the others stay, I stay!" And they lingered at their moorings till the shades of evening fell. Then the cloud-wrack neared them fast, And there came a sudden blast, And the hurricane came leaping down a thousand miles of main! Like a lion on its prey, Leapt the storm fiend on the bay, And the vessels shook and shivered as their cables felt the strain. As the surging seas came by, That were running mountains high, The vessels started dragging, drifting slowly to the lee; And the darkness of the night Hid the coral reefs from sight, And the Captains dared not risk the chance to grope their way to sea. In the dark they dared not shift! They were forced to wait and drift; All hands stood by uncertain would the anchors hold or no. But the men on deck could see, If a chance for them might be, There was little chance of safety for the men who were below. Through that long, long night of dread, While the storm raged overhead, They were waiting by their engines, with the furnace fires aroar; So they waited, staunch and true, Though they knew, and well they knew, They must drown like rats imprisoned if the vessel touched the shore. When the grey dawn broke at last, And the long, long night was past, While the hurricane redoubled, lest its prey should steal away, On the rocks, all smashed and strown, Were the German vessels thrown, While the Yankees, swamped and helpless, drifted shorewards down the bay. Then at last spoke Captain Kane, "All our anchors are in vain, And the Germans and the Yankees they have drifted to the lee! Cut the cables at the bow! We must trust the engines now! Give her steam, and let her have it, lads! we'll fight her out to sea!" And the answer came with cheers From the stalwart engineers, From the grim and grimy firemen at the furnaces below; And above the sullen roar Of the breakers on the shore Came the throbbing of the engines as they laboured to and fro. If the strain should find a flaw, Should a bolt or rivet draw, Then -- God help them! for the vessel were a plaything in the tide! With a face of honest cheer Quoth an English engineer, "I will answer for the engiines that were built on old Thames-side! "For the stays and stanchions taut, For the rivets truly wrought, For the valves that fit their faces as a glove should fit the hand. Give her every ounce of power; If we make a knot an hour Then it's way enough to steer her, and we'll drive her from the land." Life a foam-flake tossed and thrown, She could barely hold her own, While the other ships all helplessly were drifting to the lee. Through the smother and the rout The Calliope steamed out -- And they cheered her from the Trenton that was foundering in the sea. Ay! drifting shoreward there, All helpless as they were, Their vessel hurled upon the reefs as weed ashore is hurled, Without a thought of fear The Yankees raised a cheer -- A cheer that English-speaking folk should echo round the world.

Written by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow | The Landlords Tale; Paul Reveres Ride Listen my children and you shall hear Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere, On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five; Hardly a man is now alive Who remembers that famous day and year. He said to his friend, "If the British march By land or sea from the town to-night, Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch Of the North Church tower as a signal light,-- One if by land, and two if by sea; And I on the opposite shore will be, Ready to ride and spread the alarm Through every Middlesex village and farm, For the country folk to be up and to arm." Then he said "Good-night!" and with muffled oar Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore, Just as the moon rose over the bay, Where swinging wide at her moorings lay The Somerset, British man-of-war; A phantom ship, with each mast and spar Across the moon like a prison bar, And a huge black hulk, that was magnified By its own reflection in the tide. Meanwhile, his friend through alley and street Wanders and watches, with eager ears, Till in the silence around him he hears The muster of men at the barrack door, The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet, And the measured tread of the grenadiers, Marching down to their boats on the shore. Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church, By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread, To the belfry chamber overhead, And startled the pigeons from their perch On the sombre rafters, that round him made Masses and moving shapes of shade,-- By the trembling ladder, steep and tall, To the highest window in the wall, Where he paused to listen and look down A moment on the roofs of the town And the moonlight flowing over all. Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead, In their night encampment on the hill, Wrapped in silence so deep and still That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread, The watchful night-wind, as it went Creeping along from tent to tent, And seeming to whisper, "All is well!" A moment only he feels the spell Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread Of the lonely belfry and the dead; For suddenly all his thoughts are bent On a shadowy something far away, Where the river widens to meet the bay,-- A line of black that bends and floats On the rising tide like a bridge of boats. Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride, Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere. Now he patted his horse's side, Now he gazed at the landscape far and near, Then, impetuous, stamped the earth, And turned and tightened his saddle girth; But mostly he watched with eager search The belfry tower of the Old North Church, As it rose above the graves on the hill, Lonely and spectral and sombre and still. And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height A glimmer, and then a gleam of light! He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns, But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight A second lamp in the belfry burns. A hurry of hoofs in a village street, A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark, And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet; That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light, The fate of a nation was riding that night; And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight, Kindled the land into flame with its heat. He has left the village and mounted the steep, And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep, Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides; And under the alders that skirt its edge, Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge, Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides. It was twelve by the village clock When he crossed the bridge into Medford town. He heard the crowing of the cock, And the barking of the farmer's dog, And felt the damp of the river fog, That rises after the sun goes down. It was one by the village clock, When he galloped into Lexington. He saw the gilded weathercock Swim in the moonlight as he passed, And the meeting-house windows, black and bare, Gaze at him with a spectral glare, As if they already stood aghast At the bloody work they would look upon. It was two by the village clock, When he came to the bridge in Concord town. He heard the bleating of the flock, And the twitter of birds among the trees, And felt the breath of the morning breeze Blowing over the meadow brown. And one was safe and asleep in his bed Who at the bridge would be first to fall, Who that day would be lying dead, Pierced by a British musket ball. You know the rest. In the books you have read How the British Regulars fired and fled,--- How the farmers gave them ball for ball, From behind each fence and farmyard wall, Chasing the redcoats down the lane, Then crossing the fields to emerge again Under the trees at the turn of the road, And only pausing to fire and load. So through the night rode Paul Revere; And so through the night went his cry of alarm To every Middlesex village and farm,--- A cry of defiance, and not of fear, A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door, And a word that shall echo for evermore! For, borne on the night-wind of the Past, Through all our history, to the last, In the hour of darkness and peril and need, The people will waken and listen to hear The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed, And the midnight message of Paul Revere.

Written by Philip Levine | Clouds 1 Dawn. First light tearing at the rough tongues of the zinnias, at the leaves of the just born. Today it will rain. On the road black cars are abandoned, but the clouds ride above, their wisdom intact. They are predictions. They never matter. The jet fighters lift above the flat roofs, black arrowheads trailing their future. 2 When the night comes small fires go out. Blood runs to the heart and finds it locked. Morning is exhaustion, tranquilizers, gasoline, the screaming of frozen bearings, the failures ofwill, the TV talking to itself The clouds go on eating oil, cigars, housewives, sighing letters, the breath of lies. In their great silent pockets they carry off all our dead. 3 The clouds collect until there's no sky. A boat slips its moorings and drifts toward the open sea, turning and turning. The moon bends to the canal and bathes her torn lips, and the earth goes on giving off her angers and sighs and who knows or cares except these breathing the first rains, the last rivers running over iron. 4 You cut an apple in two pieces and ate them both. In the rain the door knocked and you dreamed it. On bad roads the poor walked under cardboard boxes. The houses are angry because they're watched. A soldier wants to talk with God but his mouth fills with lost tags. The clouds have seen it all, in the dark they pass over the graves of the forgotten and they don't cry or whisper. They should be punished every morning, they should be bitten and boiled like spoons.

Written by Emily Dickinson | Went up a year this evening! Went up a year this evening! I recollect it well! Amid no bells nor bravoes The bystanders will tell! Cheerful -- as to the village -- Tranquil -- as to repose -- Chastened -- as to the Chapel This humble Tourist rose! Did not talk of returning! Alluded to no time When, were the gales propitious -- We might look for him! Was grateful for the Roses In life's diverse bouquet -- Talked softly of new species To pick another day; Beguiling thus the wonder The wondrous nearer drew -- Hands bustled at the moorings -- The crown respectful grew -- Ascended from our vision To Countenances new! A Difference -- A Daisy -- Is all the rest I knew!