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Best Famous Moulds Poems

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

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Written by Edward Estlin (E E) Cummings | Create an image from this poem

it is at moments after i have dreamed

it is at moments after i have dreamed
of the rare entertainment of your eyes,
when (being fool to fancy) i have deemed

with your peculiar mouth my heart made wise;
at moments when the glassy darkness holds

the genuine apparition of your smile
(it was through tears always)and silence moulds
such strangeness as was mine a little while;

moments when my once more illustrious arms
are filled with fascination, when my breast
wears the intolerant brightness of your charms:

one pierced moment whiter than the rest

-turning from the tremendous lie of sleep
i watch the roses of the day grow deep.


Written by John Donne | Create an image from this poem

Elegy VIII: The Comparison

 As the sweet sweat of roses in a still,
As that which from chafed musk-cats' pores doth trill,
As the almighty balm of th' early East,
Such are the sweat drops of my mistress' breast,
And on her brow her skin such lustre sets,
They seem no sweat drops, but pearl coronets.
Rank sweaty froth thy Mistress's brow defiles, Like spermatic issue of ripe menstruous boils, Or like the scum, which, by need's lawless law Enforced, Sanserra's starved men did draw From parboiled shoes and boots, and all the rest Which were with any sovereigne fatness blest, And like vile lying stones in saffroned tin, Or warts, or weals, they hang upon her skin.
Round as the world's her head, on every side, Like to the fatal ball which fell on Ide, Or that whereof God had such jealousy, As, for the ravishing thereof we die.
Thy head is like a rough-hewn statue of jet, Where marks for eyes, nose, mouth, are yet scarce set; Like the first Chaos, or flat-seeming face Of Cynthia, when th' earth's shadows her embrace.
Like Proserpine's white beauty-keeping chest, Or Jove's best fortunes urn, is her fair breast.
Thine's like worm-eaten trunks, clothed in seals' skin, Or grave, that's dust without, and stink within.
And like that slender stalk, at whose end stands The woodbine quivering, are her arms and hands.
Like rough barked elm-boughs, or the russet skin Of men late scourged for madness, or for sin, Like sun-parched quarters on the city gate, Such is thy tanned skin's lamentable state.
And like a bunch of ragged carrots stand The short swol'n fingers of thy gouty hand.
Then like the Chimic's masculine equal fire, Which in the Lymbecks warm womb doth inspire Into th' earth's worthless dirt a soul of gold, Such cherishing heat her best loved part doth hold.
Thine's like the dread mouth of a fired gun, Or like hot liquid metals newly run Into clay moulds, or like to that Etna Where round about the grass is burnt away.
Are not your kisses then as filthy, and more, As a worm sucking an envenomed sore? Doth not thy feareful hand in feeling quake, As one which gath'ring flowers still fears a snake? Is not your last act harsh, and violent, As when a plough a stony ground doth rent? So kiss good turtles, so devoutly nice Are priests in handling reverent sacrifice, And such in searching wounds the surgeon is As we, when we embrace, or touch, or kiss.
Leave her, and I will leave comparing thus, She, and comparisons are odious.
Written by Majeed Amjad | Create an image from this poem

A Poem

Sons, my native land has sons
born on soil
barren and rocky and lone
for ages lone
across the gaping wilderness tear
ruthless winds and torrents of pain
sweep in epochs.
sweep them out.
Sons of mountains radiant petals of jasmine gay specks of time-less age-less rocks elegant, fair and tender moulds lumps of leathern coarsened hearts damned by sun and wind and time dashed from tops.
they seek a home lost in dust beneath their feet On a heap of squalid unscrubbed pans immersed in simmering scalding water the toiling sweating hands do seek the blessed home for ages they have thought and dreamed.
In towns flourshing along the banks of mountain brooks stays a-while a fleeting cloud of gloom.
.
.
.
.
.
.
The Home! and from an urban sheeted roof curls into waves of trailing smoke.
The brook is limpid murmuring gold the smoke is trailing meandering gold the killers are killers of conscience grace and candid souls if ever they marked the wave of anguish a dash, a span among the torrents of water and sweat the rocks in hearts the dark sinister rocks would fall.
(Translated from Urdu By Balraj Komal, Posted By Anila A.
)
Written by Robert Graves | Create an image from this poem

Smoke-Rings

 BOY 

Most venerable and learned sir, 
Tall and true Philosopher, 
These rings of smoke you blow all day 
With such deep thought, what sense have they? 

PHILOSOPHER 

Small friend, with prayer and meditation 
I make an image of Creation.
And if your mind is working nimble Straightway you’ll recognize a symbol Of the endless and eternal ring Of God, who girdles everything— God, who in His own form and plan Moulds the fugitive life of man.
These vaporous toys you watch me make, That shoot ahead, pause, turn and break— Some glide far out like sailing ships, Some weak ones fail me at my lips.
He who ringed His awe in smoke, When He led forth His captive folk, In like manner, East, West, North, and South, Blows us ring-wise from His mouth.
Written by Algernon Charles Swinburne | Create an image from this poem

A Marching Song

 We mix from many lands,
We march for very far;
In hearts and lips and hands
Our staffs and weapons are;
The light we walk in darkens sun and moon and star.
It doth not flame and wane With years and spheres that roll, Storm cannot shake nor stain The strength that makes it whole, The fire that moulds and moves it of the sovereign soul.
We are they that have to cope With time till time retire; We live on hopeless hope, We feed on tears and fire; Time, foot by foot, gives back before our sheer desire.
From the edge of harsh derision, From discord and defeat, From doubt and lame division, We pluck the fruit and eat; And the mouth finds it bitter, and the spirit sweet.
We strive with time at wrestling Till time be on our side And hope, our plumeless nestling, A full-fledged eaglet ride Down the loud length of storm its windward wings divide.
We are girt with our belief, Clothed with our will and crowned; Hope, fear, delight, and grief, Before our will give ground; Their calls are in our ears as shadows of dead sound.
All but the heart forsakes us, All fails us but the will; Keen treason tracks and takes us In pits for blood to fill; Friend falls from friend, and faith for faith lays wait to kill.
Out under moon and stars And shafts of the urgent sun Whose face on prison-bars And mountain-heads is one, Our march is everlasting till time's march be done.
Whither we know, and whence, And dare not care wherethrough.
Desires that urge the sense, Fears changing old with new, Perils and pains beset the ways we press into; Earth gives us thorns to tread, And all her thorns are trod; Through lands burnt black and red We pass with feet unshod; Whence we would be man shall not keep us, nor man's God.
Through the great desert beasts Howl at our backs by night, And thunder-forging priests Blow their dead bale-fires bright, And on their broken anvils beat out bolts for fight.
Inside their sacred smithies Though hot the hammer rings, Their steel links snap like withies, Their chains like twisted strings, Their surest fetters are as plighted words of kings.
O nations undivided, O single people and free, We dreamers, we derided, We mad blind men that see, We bear you witness ere ye come that ye shall be.
Ye sitting among tombs, Ye standing round the gate, Whom fire-mouthed war consumes, Or cold-lipped peace bids wait, All tombs and bars shall open, every grave and grate.
The locks shall burst in sunder, The hinges shrieking spin, When time, whose hand is thunder, Lays hand upon the pin, And shoots the bolts reluctant, bidding all men in.
These eyeless times and earless, Shall these not see and hear, And all their hearts burn fearless That were afrost for fear? Is day not hard upon us, yea, not our day near? France! from its grey dejection Make manifest the red Tempestuous resurrection Of thy most sacred head! Break thou the covering cerecloths; rise up from the dead.
And thou, whom sea-walls sever From lands unwalled with seas, Wilt thou endure for ever, O Milton's England, these? Thou that wast his Republic, wilt thou clasp their knees? These royalties rust-eaten, These worm-corroded lies, That keep thine head storm-beaten And sunlike strength of eyes From the open heaven and air of intercepted skies; These princelings with gauze winglets That buzz in the air unfurled, These summer-swarming kinglets, These thin worms crowned and curled, That bask and blink and warm themselves about the world; These fanged meridian vermin, Shrill gnats that crowd the dusk, Night-moths whose nestling ermine Smells foul of mould and musk, Blind flesh-flies hatched by dark and hampered in their husk; These honours without honour, These ghost-like gods of gold, This earth that wears upon her To keep her heart from cold No memory more of men that brought it fire of old; These limbs, supine, unbuckled, In rottenness of rest, These sleepy lips blood-suckled And satiate of thy breast, These dull wide mouths that drain thee dry and call thee blest; These masters of thee mindless That wear thee out of mind, These children of thee kindless That use thee out of kind, Whose hands strew gold before thee and contempt behind; Who have turned thy name to laughter, Thy sea-like sounded name That now none hearkens after For faith in its free fame, Who have robbed thee of thy trust and given thee of their shame; These hours that mock each other, These years that kill and die, Are these thy gains, our mother, For all thy gains thrown by? Is this that end whose promise made thine heart so high? With empire and with treason The first right hand made fast, But in man's nobler season To put forth help the last, Love turns from thee, and memory disavows thy past.
Lest thine own sea disclaim thee, Lest thine own sons despise, Lest lips shoot out that name thee And seeing thee men shut eyes, Take thought with all thy people, turn thine head and rise.
Turn thee, lift up thy face; What ails thee to be dead? Ask of thyself for grace, Seek of thyself for bread, And who shall starve or shame thee, blind or bruise thine head? The same sun in thy sight, The same sea in thine ears, That saw thine hour at height, That sang thy song of years, Behold and hearken for thee, knowing thy hopes and fears.
O people, O perfect nation, O England that shall be, How long till thou take station? How long till thralls live free? How long till all thy soul be one with all thy sea? Ye that from south to north, Ye that from east to west, Stretch hands of longing forth And keep your eyes from rest, Lo, when ye will, we bring you gifts of what is best.
From the awful northland pines That skirt their wan dim seas To the ardent Apennines And sun-struck Pyrenees, One frost on all their frondage bites the blossoming trees.
The leaves look up for light, For heat of helpful air; The trees of oldest height And thin storm-shaken hair Seek with gaunt hands up heavenward if the sun be there.
The woods where souls walk lonely, The forests girt with night, Desire the day-star only And firstlings of the light Not seen of slaves nor shining in their masters' sight.
We have the morning star, O foolish people, O kings! With us the day-springs are, Even all the fresh day-springs; For us, and with us, all the multitudes of things.
O sorrowing hearts of slaves, We heard you beat from far! We bring the light that saves, We bring the morning star; Freedom's good things we bring you, whence all good things are.
With us the winds and fountains And lightnings live in tune; The morning-coloured mountains That burn into the noon, The mist's mild veil on valleys muffled from the moon: The thunder-darkened highlands And lowlands hot with fruit, Sea-bays and shoals and islands, And cliffs that foil man's foot, And all the flower of large-limbed life and all the root: The clangour of sea-eagles That teach the morning mirth With baying of heaven's beagles That seek their prey on earth, By sounding strait and channel, gulf and reach and firth.
With us the fields and rivers, The grass that summer thrills, The haze where morning quivers, The peace at heart of hills, The sense that kindles nature, and the soul that fills.
With us all natural sights, All notes of natural scale; With us the starry lights; With us the nightingale; With us the heart and secret of the worldly tale.
The strife of things and beauty, The fire and light adored, Truth, and life-lightening duty, Love without crown or sword, That by his might and godhead makes man god and lord.
These have we, these are ours, That no priests give nor kings; The honey of all these flowers, The heart of all these springs; Ours, for where freedom lives not, there live no good things.
Rise, ere the dawn be risen; Come, and be all souls fed; From field and street and prison Come, for the feast is spread; Live, for the truth is living; wake, for night is dead.


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
Written by Gerard Manley Hopkins | Create an image from this poem

To R. B

 The fine delight that fathers thought; the strong
Spur, live and lancing like the blowpipe flame,
Breathes once and, quenchèd faster than it came,
Leaves yet the mind a mother of immortal song.
Nine months she then, nay years, nine years she long Within her wears, bears, cares and moulds the same: The widow of an insight lost she lives, with aim Now known and hand at work now never wrong.
Sweet fire the sire of muse, my soul needs this; I want the one rapture of an inspiration.
O then if in my lagging lines you miss The roll, the rise, the carol, the creation, My winter world, that scarcely breathes that bliss Now, yields you, with some sighs, our explanation.
Written by Edgar Lee Masters | Create an image from this poem

Ippolit Konovaloff

 I was a gun-smith in Odessa.
One night the police broke in the room Where a group of us were reading Spencer.
And seized our books and arrested us.
But I escaped and came to New York And thence to Chicago, and then to Spoon River, Where I could study my Kant in peace And eke out a living repairing guns! Look at my moulds! My architectonics! One for a barrel, one for a hammer, And others for other parts of a gun! Well, now suppose no gun-smith living Had anything else but duplicate moulds Of these I show you -- well, all guns Would be just alike, with a hammer to hit The cap and a barrel to carry the shot, All acting alike for themselves, and all Acting against each other alike.
And there would be your world of guns! Which nothing could ever free from itself Except a Moulder with different moulds To mould the metal over.
Written by Adela Florence Cory Nicolson | Create an image from this poem

Sunstroke

   Softly the feathery Palm-trees fade in the violet Distance,
   Faintly the lingering light touches the edge of the sea,
   Sadly the Music of Waves, drifts, faint as an Anthem's insistence,
   Heard in the aisles of a dream, over the sandhills, to me.

   Now that the Lights are reversed, and the Singing changed into sighing,
   Now that the wings of our fierce, fugitive passion are furled,
   Take I unto myself, all alone in the light that is dying,
   Much of the sorrow that lies hid at the Heart of the World.

   Sad am I, sad for your loss: for failing the charm of your presence,
   Even the sunshine has paled, leaving the Zenith less blue.
   Even the ocean lessens the light of its green opalescence,
   Since, to my sorrow I loved, loved and grew weary of, you.

   Why was our passion so fleeting, why had the flush of your beauty
   Only so slender a spell, only so futile a power?
   Yet, even thus ever is life, save when long custom or duty
   Moulds into sober fruit Love's fragile and fugitive flower.

   Fain would my soul have been faithful; never an alien pleasure
   Lured me away from the light lit in your luminous eyes,
   But we have altered the World as pitiful man has leisure
   To criticise, balance, take counsel, assuredly lies.

   All through the centuries Man has gathered his flower, and fenced it,
   —Infinite strife to attain; infinite struggle to keep,—
   Holding his treasure awhile, all Fate and all forces against it,
   Knowing it his no more, if ever his vigilance sleep.

   But we have altered the World as pitiful man has grown stronger,
   So that the things we love are as easily kept as won,
   Therefore the ancient fight can engage and detain us no longer,
   And all too swiftly, alas, passion is over and done.

   Far too speedily now we can gather the coveted treasure,
   Enjoy it awhile, be satiated, begin to tire;
   And what shall be done henceforth with the profitless after-leisure,
   Who has the breath to kindle the ash of a faded fire?

   Ah, if it only had lasted!  After my ardent endeavour
   Came the delirious Joy, flooding my life like a sea,
   Days of delight that are burnt on the brain for ever and ever,
   Days and nights when you loved, before you grew weary of me.

   Softly the sunset decreases dim in the violet Distance,
   Even as Love's own fervour has faded away from me,
   Leaving the weariness, the monotonous Weight of Existence,—
   All the farewells in the world weep in the sound of the sea.
Written by George William Russell | Create an image from this poem

In the Womb

 STILL rests the heavy share on the dark soil:
Upon the black mould thick the dew-damp lies:
The horse waits patient: from his lowly toil
The ploughboy to the morning lifts his eyes.
The unbudding hedgerows dark against day’s fires Glitter with gold-lit crystals: on the rim Over the unregarding city’s spires The lonely beauty shines alone for him.
And day by day the dawn or dark enfolds And feeds with beauty eyes that cannot see How in her womb the mighty mother moulds The infant spirit for eternity.