10 Best Famous Mythic Poems

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

• All Famous Mythic Poems

Written by Rg Gregory | owl power they say in the local sanctuary owls are the stupidest creatures all this wisdom business is the mythological media at work but the shortest nosing into books tells you even the mythic world is bamboozled by the creature - no two cultures being able to agree the bird was cherished by minerva hebrews loathed it as unclean buddhists treasure its seclusion elsewhere night-hag evil omen the baker's daughter's silly cry ungrateful chinese children the precious life of genghis khan sweet fodder to the owl's blink in the end it's the paradox i'll be what you want romantic fool that scares elates about the owl sitting in the dark and seeing all not true not true the cynics say the bloody fraudster's almost blind dead lazy till its stomach rattles its skill is seeing with its ears ruthlessness stupidity (transmogrified to wisdom) make the perfect pitch for power so proofed - why give a hoot for gods

Written by Robert Hayden | Runagate Runagate Runs falls rises stumbles on from darkness into darkness and the darkness thicketed with shapes of terror and the hunters pursuing and the hounds pursuing and the night cold and the night long and the river to cross and the jack-muh-lanterns beckoning beckoning and blackness ahead and when shall I reach that somewhere morning and keep on going and never turn back and keep on going Runagate Runagate Runagate Many thousands rise and go many thousands crossing over 0 mythic North 0 star-shaped yonder Bible city Some go weeping and some rejoicing some in coffins and some in carriages some in silks and some in shackles Rise and go or fare you well No more auction block for me no more driver's lash for me If you see my Pompey, 30 yrs of age, new breeches, plain stockings, ***** shoes; if you see my Anna, likely young mulatto branded E on the right cheek, R on the left, catch them if you can and notify subscriber. Catch them if you can, but it won't be easy. They'll dart underground when you try to catch them, plunge into quicksand, whirlpools, mazes, torn into scorpions when you try to catch them. And before I'll be a slave I'll be buried in my grave North star and bonanza gold I'm bound for the freedom, freedom-bound and oh Susyanna don't you cry for me Runagate Runagate II. Rises from their anguish and their power, Harriet Tubman, woman of earth, whipscarred, a summoning, a shining Mean to be free And this was the way of it, brethren brethren, way we journeyed from Can't to Can. Moon so bright and no place to hide, the cry up and the patterollers riding, hound dogs belling in bladed air. And fear starts a-murbling, Never make it, we'll never make it. Hush that now, and she's turned upon us, levelled pistol glinting in the moonlight: Dead folks can't jaybird-talk, she says; you keep on going now or die, she says. Wanted Harriet Tubman alias The General alias Moses Stealer of Slaves In league with Garrison Alcott Emerson Garrett Douglass Thoreau John Brown Armed and known to be Dangerous Wanted Reward Dead or Alive Tell me, Ezekiel, oh tell me do you see mailed Jehovah coming to deliver me? Hoot-owl calling in the ghosted air, five times calling to the hants in the air. Shadow of a face in the scary leaves, shadow of a voice in the talking leaves: Come ride-a my train Oh that train, ghost-story train through swamp and savanna movering movering, over trestles of dew, through caves of the wish, Midnight Special on a sabre track movering movering, first stop Mercy and the last Hallelujah. Come ride-a my train Mean mean mean to be free.

Written by Sarojini Naidu | In Salutation to the Eternal Peace Men say the world is full of fear and hate, And all life's ripening harvest-fields await The restless sickle of relentless fate. But I, sweet Soul, rejoice that I was born, When from the climbing terraces of corn I watch the golden orioles of Thy morn. What care I for the world's desire and pride, Who know the silver wings that gleam and glide, The homing pigeons of Thine eventide? What care I for the world's loud weariness, Who dream in twilight granaries Thou dost bless With delicate sheaves of mellow silences? Say, shall I heed dull presages of doom, Or dread the rumoured loneliness and gloom, The mute and mythic terror of the tomb? For my glad heart is drunk and drenched with Thee, O inmost wind of living ecstasy! O intimate essence of eternity!

Written by Carl Sandburg | Lawyer WHEN the jury files in to deliver a verdict after weeks of direct and cross examinations, hot clashes of lawyers and cool decisions of the judge, There are points of high silence—twiddling of thumbs is at an end—bailiffs near cuspidors take fresh chews of tobacco and wait—and the clock has a chance for its ticking to be heard. A lawyer for the defense clears his throat and holds himself ready if the word is “Guilty” to enter motion for a new trial, speaking in a soft voice, speaking in a voice slightly colored with bitter wrongs mingled with monumental patience, speaking with mythic Atlas shoulders of many preposterous, unjust circumstances.

Written by Carl Sandburg | Palladiums IN the newspaper office—who are the spooks? Who wears the mythic coat invisible? Who pussyfoots from desk to desk with a speaking forefinger? Who gumshoes amid the copy paper with a whispering thumb? Speak softly—the sacred cows may hear. Speak easy—the sacred cows must be fed.