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Best Famous Neighs Poems

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

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Written by William Shakespeare | Create an image from this poem

from Venus and Adonis

 But, lo! from forth a copse that neighbours by,
A breeding jennet, lusty, young, and proud,
Adonis' trampling courser doth espy,
And forth she rushes, snorts and neighs aloud;
The strong-neck'd steed, being tied unto a tree,
Breaketh his rein, and to her straight goes he.

Imperiously he leaps, he neighs, he bounds,
And now his woven girths he breaks asunder;
The bearing earth with his hard hoof he wounds,
Whose hollow womb resounds like heaven's thunder;
The iron bit he crushes 'tween his teeth
Controlling what he was controlled with.

His ears up-prick'd; his braided hanging mane
Upon his compass'd crest now stand on end;
His nostrils drink the air, and forth again,
As from a furnace, vapours doth he send:
His eye, which scornfully glisters like fire,
Shows his hot courage and his high desire.

Sometime her trots, as if he told the steps,
With gentle majesty and modest pride;
Anon he rears upright, curvets and leaps,
As who should say, 'Lo! thus my strength is tried;
And this I do to captivate the eye
Of the fair breeder that is standing by.'

What recketh he his rider's angry stir,
His flattering 'Holla,' or his 'Stand, I say?'
What cares he now for curb of pricking spur?
For rich caparisons or trapping gay?
He sees his love, and nothing else he sees,
Nor nothing else with his proud sight agrees.

Look, when a painter would surpass the life, 
In limning out a well-proportion'd steed,
His art with nature's workmanship at strife,
As if the dead the living should exceed;
So did this horse excel a common one,
In shape, in courage, colour, pace and bone

Round-hoof'd, short-jointed, fetlocks shag and long,
Broad breast, full eye, small head, and nostril wide,
High crest, short ears, straight legs and passing strong,
Thin mane, thick tail, broad buttock, tender hide:
Look, what a horse should have he did not lack,
Save a proud rider on so proud a back.

Sometimes he scuds far off, and there he stares;
Anon he starts at stirring of a feather;
To bid the wind a race he now prepares,
And whe'r he run or fly they know not whether;
For through his mane and tail the high wind sings,
Fanning the hairs, who wave like feather'd wings.

He looks upon his love, and neighs unto her;
She answers him as if she knew his mind;
Being proud, as females are, to see him woo her,
She puts on outward strangeness, seems unkind,
Spurns at his love and scorns the heat he feels,
Beating his kind embracements with her heels.

Then, like a melancholy malcontent,
He vails his tail that, like a falling plume
Cool shadow to his melting buttock lent:
He stamps, and bites the poor flies in his fume.
His love, perceiving how he is enrag'd,
Grew kinder, and his fury was assuag'd.

His testy master goeth about to take him;
When lo! the unback'd breeder, full of fear,
Jealous of catching, swiftly doth forsake him,
With her the horse, and left Adonis there.
As they were mad, unto the wood they hie them,
Out-stripping crows that strive to over-fly them.

I prophesy they death, my living sorrow,
If thou encounter with the boar to-morrow.

"But if thou needs wilt hunt, be rul'd by me;
Uncouple at the timorous flying hare,
Or at the fox which lives by subtlety,
Or at the roe which no encounter dare:
Pursue these fearful creatures o'er the downs,
And on they well-breath'd horse keep with they hounds.

"And when thou hast on food the purblind hare,
Mark the poor wretch, to overshoot his troubles
How he outruns with winds, and with what care
He cranks and crosses with a thousand doubles:
The many musits through the which he goes
Are like a labyrinth to amaze his foes.

"Sometime he runs among a flock of sheep,
To make the cunning hounds mistake their smell,
And sometime where earth-delving conies keep,
To stop the loud pursuers in their yell,
And sometime sorteth with a herd of deer;
Danger deviseth shifts; wit waits on fear:

"For there his smell with other being mingled,
The hot scent-snuffing hounds are driven to doubt,
Ceasing their clamorous cry till they have singled 
With much ado the cold fault cleanly out;
Then do they spend their mouths: Echo replies,
As if another chase were in the skies.

"By this, poor Wat, far off upon a hill,
Stands on his hinder legs with listening ear,
To hearken if his foes pursue him still:
Anon their loud alarums he doth hear;
And now his grief may be compared well
To one sore sick that hears the passing-bell.

"Then shalt thou see the dew-bedabbled wretch
Turn, and return, indenting with the way;
Each envious briar his weary legs doth scratch,
Each shadow makes him stop, each murmur stay:
For misery is trodden on by many,
And being low never reliev'd by any.

"Lie quietly, and hear a little more;
Nay, do not struggle, for thou shalt not rise:
To make thee hate the hunting of the boar,
Unlike myself thou hear'st me moralize,
Applying this to that, and so to so;
For love can comment upon every woe."


Written by Ezra Pound | Create an image from this poem

Sestina: Altaforte

 LOQUITUR: En Bertans de Born. Dante Alighieri put this man in hell
for that he was a stirrer up of strife. Eccovi! Judge ye! Have I dug
him up again? The scene is at his castle, Altaforte. "Papiols" is his
jongleur. "The Leopard," the device of Richard Coeur de Lion.

I

Damn it all! all this our South stinks peace.
You whoreson dog, Papiols, come! Let's to music!
I have no life save when the swords clash.
But ah! when I see the standards gold, vair, purple, opposing
And the broad fields beneath them turn crimson,
Then howl I my heart nigh mad with rejoicing.

II

In hot summer I have great rejoicing
When the tempests kill the earth's foul peace,
And the lightning from black heav'n flash crimson,
And the fierce thunders roar me their music
And the winds shriek through the clouds mad, opposing,
And through all the riven skies God's swords clash.

III

Hell grant soon we hear again the swords clash!
And the shrill neighs of destriers in battle rejoicing,
Spiked breast to spiked breat opposing!
Better one hour's stour than a year's peace
With fat boards, bawds, wine and frail music!
Bah! there's no wine like the blood's crimson!

IV

And I love to see the sun rise blood-crimson.
And I watch his spears through the dark clash
And it fills all my heart with rejoicing
And pries wide my mouth with fast music
When I see him so scorn and defy peace,
His long might 'gainst all darkness opposing.

V

The man who fears war and squats opposing
My words for stour, hath no blood of crimson
But is fit only to rot in womanish peace
Far from where worth's won and the swords clash
For the death of such sluts I go rejoicing;
Yea, I fill all the air with my music.

VI

Papiols, Papiols, to the music!
There's no sound like to swords swords opposing,
No cry like the battle's rejoicing
When our elbows and swords drip the crimson
And our charges 'gainst "The Leopard's" rush clash.
May God damn for ever all who cry "Peace!"

VII

And let the music of the swords make them crimson!
Hell grant soon we hear again the swords clash!
Hell blot black for always the thought "Peace!"
Written by Carl Sandburg | Create an image from this poem

Honky Tonk in Cleveland Ohio

 IT’S a jazz affair, drum crashes and cornet razzes
The trombone pony neighs and the tuba jackass snorts.
The banjo tickles and titters too awful.
The chippies talk about the funnies in the papers.
 The cartoonists weep in their beer.
 Ship riveters talk with their feet
 To the feet of floozies under the tables.
A quartet of white hopes mourn with interspersed snickers:
 “I got the blues.
 I got the blues.
 I got the blues.”
And … as we said earlier:
 The cartoonists weep in their beer.
Written by Rudyard Kipling | Create an image from this poem

Follow Me ome

 There was no one like 'im, 'Orse or Foot,
 Nor any o' the Guns I knew;
An' because it was so, why, o' course 'e went an' died,
 Which is just what the best men do.

So it's knock out your pipes an' follow me!
An' it's finish up your swipes an' follow me!
 Oh, 'ark to the big drum callin',
 Follow me -- follow me 'ome!

 'Is mare she neighs the 'ole day long,
 She paws the 'ole night through,
An' she won't take 'er feed 'cause o' waitin' for 'is step,
 Which is just what a beast would do.

 'Is girl she goes with a bombardier
 Before 'er month is through;
An' the banns are up in church, for she's got the beggar hooked,
 Which is just what a girl would do.

 We fought 'bout a dog -- last week it were --
 No more than a round or two;
But I strook 'im cruel 'ard, an' I wish I 'adn't now,
 Which is just what a man can't do.

 'E was all that I 'ad in the way of a friend,
 An' I've 'ad to find one new;
But I'd give my pay an' stripe for to get the beggar back,
 Which it's just too late to do.

So it's knock out your pipes an' follow me!
An' it's finish off your swipes an' follow me!
 Oh, 'ark to the fifes a-crawlin'!
 Follow me -- follow me 'ome!

 Take 'im away! 'E's gone where the best men go.
 Take 'im away! An' the gun-wheels turnin' slow.
 Take 'im away! There's more from the place 'e come.
 Take 'im away, with the limber an' the drum.

For it's "Three rounds blank" an' follow me,
An' it's "Thirteen rank" an' follow me;
 Oh, passin' the love o' women,
 Follow me -- follow me 'ome!
Written by Du Fu | Create an image from this poem

Parting from Abbot Zan

Hundred river daily east flow Traveller go again not rest My life bitter float drift What time have end limit Zan abbot Buddhism old Banish come capital Still by earth dust bother Fairly show emaciated appearance Willow twig morning in hand Bean fruit rain thereafter ripe This body like float cloud What can boundary south north Different county meet old friend New happiness write feelings Heaven long pass fortress cold Year end hunger freeze compel Plains wind blow travel clothes About to part direction sunset dark Horse neigh think old stable Return bird exhaust fold wings Old times gather part place Short time grow thorns jujube Mutual look together decline years Leave stay each strive
The hundred rivers flow east every day, The traveller keeps on moving, without rest. My life is one of bitterness and drift, What time will they finally reach their end? Abbot Zan, learned in Buddhist teaching, Banished from the capital to here. Still we're bothered by these earthly cares, Reflected in our lean and haggard faces. We stood one morning with willow twigs in hand; The beans sprouted; then rain; then they ripened again. The body floats along just like a cloud, What limit can there be, to south or north? I meet my old friend in a foreign region, Newly happy, I write what's in my breast. The sky is long, the fortified pass is cold, At the year's end, hunger and chill pursue me. The desert wind blows my travelling clothes, I'm ready to leave and journey into the sunset. The horse neighs, remembering its old stable, Returning birds have all now folded their wings. The places where we used to meet and part, Thorns and brambles have quickly covered over. We look at each other, both in years of decline; Leaving or staying, we each must do our best.


Written by Rudyard Kipling | Create an image from this poem

White Horses

 Where run your colts at pasture?
 Where hide your mares to breed?
'Mid bergs about the Ice-cap
 Or wove Sargasso weed;
By chartless reef and channel,
 Or crafty coastwise bars,
But most the ocean-meadows
 All purple to the stars!

Who holds the rein upon you?
 The latest gale let free.
What meat is in your mangers?
 The glut of all the sea.
'Twixt tide and tide's returning
 Great store of newly dead, --
The bones of those that faced us,
 And the hearts of those that fled.
Afar, off-shore and single,
 Some stallion, rearing swift,
Neighs hungry for new fodder,
 And calls us to the drift:
Then down the cloven ridges --
 A million hooves unshod --
Break forth the mad White Horses
 To seek their meat from God!

Girth-deep in hissing water
 Our furious vanguard strains --
Through mist of mighty tramplings
 Roll up the fore-blown manes --
A hundred leagues to leeward,
 Ere yet the deep is stirred,
The groaning rollers carry
 The coming of the herd!

Whose hand may grip your nostrils --
 Your forelock who may hold?
E'en they that use the broads with us --
 The riders bred and bold,
That spy upon our matings,
 That rope us where we run --
They know the strong White Horses
 From father unto son.

We breathe about their cradles,
 We race their babes ashore,
We snuff against their thresholds,
 We nuzzle at their door;
By day with stamping squadrons,
 By night in whinnying droves,
Creep up the wise White Horses,
 To call them from their loves.

And come they for your calling?
 No wit of man may save.
They hear the loosed White Horses
 Above their fathers' grave;
And, kin of those we crippled,
 And, sons of those we slew,
Spur down the wild white riders
 To school the herds anew.

What service have ye paid them,
 Oh jealous steeds and strong?
Save we that throw their weaklings,
 Is none dare work them wrong;
While thick around the homestead
 Our snow-backed leaders graze --
A guard behind their plunder,
 And a veil before their ways.

With march and countermarchings --
 With weight of wheeling hosts --
Stray mob or bands embattled --
 We ring the chosen coasts:
And, careless of our clamour
 That bids the stranger fly,
At peace with our pickets
 The wild white riders lie.

 . . . .

Trust ye that curdled hollows --
 Trust ye the neighing wind --
Trust ye the moaning groundswell --
 Our herds are close behind!
To bray your foeman's armies --
 To chill and snap his sword --
Trust ye the wild White Horses,
 The Horses of the Lord!
Written by Barry Tebb | Create an image from this poem

A Memory At Sixty

 They have vanished, the pop men with their varnished crates

Of Tizer and dandy, American ice-cream soda and one percent shandy.

The clunk of frothy quarts dumped on donkey-stoned doorsteps

Is heard no more, nor the neighs of restless mares between the shafts.

The shining brass of harness hangs in bar-rooms or droops

From imitation beams.



Gelded stallions no longer chomp and champ

In stalls beneath the slats of shadowed lofts with straw-bales

And hay-ricks as high as houses lazing in lantern light.

The ashes of the carts they pulled have smouldered into silence,

The clatter over cobbles of iron shoes and shouts of “Whoa, lass!”

Hushed in this last weariness.

Book: Reflection on the Important Things