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Best Famous Oaken Poems

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

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Written by Rudyard Kipling | Create an image from this poem

The Land

 When Julius Fabricius, Sub-Prefect of the Weald,
In the days of Diocletian owned our Lower River-field,
He called to him Hobdenius-a Briton of the Clay,
Saying: "What about that River-piece for layin'' in to hay?"

And the aged Hobden answered: "I remember as a lad
My father told your father that she wanted dreenin' bad.
An' the more that you neeglect her the less you'll get her clean.
Have it jest as you've a mind to, but, if I was you, I'd dreen.
" So they drained it long and crossways in the lavish Roman style-- Still we find among the river-drift their flakes of ancient tile, And in drouthy middle August, when the bones of meadows show, We can trace the lines they followed sixteen hundred years ago.
Then Julius Fabricius died as even Prefects do, And after certain centuries, Imperial Rome died too.
Then did robbers enter Britain from across the Northern main And our Lower River-field was won by Ogier the Dane.
Well could Ogier work his war-boat --well could Ogier wield his brand-- Much he knew of foaming waters--not so much of farming land.
So he called to him a Hobden of the old unaltered blood, Saying: "What about that River-piece; she doesn't look no good?" And that aged Hobden answered "'Tain't for me not interfere.
But I've known that bit o' meadow now for five and fifty year.
Have it jest as you've a mind to, but I've proved it time on ' time, If you want to change her nature you have got to give her lime!" Ogier sent his wains to Lewes, twenty hours' solemn walk, And drew back great abundance of the cool, grey, healing chalk.
And old Hobden spread it broadcast, never heeding what was in't.
-- Which is why in cleaning ditches, now and then we find a flint.
Ogier died.
His sons grew English-Anglo-Saxon was their name-- Till out of blossomed Normandy another pirate came; For Duke William conquered England and divided with his men, And our Lower River-field he gave to William of Warenne.
But the Brook (you know her habit) rose one rainy autumn night And tore down sodden flitches of the bank to left and right.
So, said William to his Bailiff as they rode their dripping rounds: "Hob, what about that River-bit--the Brook's got up no bounds? " And that aged Hobden answered: "'Tain't my business to advise, But ye might ha' known 'twould happen from the way the valley lies.
Where ye can't hold back the water you must try and save the sile.
Hev it jest as you've a mind to, but, if I was you, I'd spile!" They spiled along the water-course with trunks of willow-trees, And planks of elms behind 'em and immortal oaken knees.
And when the spates of Autumn whirl the gravel-beds away You can see their faithful fragments, iron-hard in iron clay.
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Georgii Quinti Anno Sexto, I, who own the River-field, Am fortified with title-deeds, attested, signed and sealed, Guaranteeing me, my assigns, my executors and heirs All sorts of powers and profits which-are neither mine nor theirs, I have rights of chase and warren, as my dignity requires.
I can fish-but Hobden tickles--I can shoot--but Hobden wires.
I repair, but he reopens, certain gaps which, men allege, Have been used by every Hobden since a Hobden swapped a hedge.
Shall I dog his morning progress o'er the track-betraying dew? Demand his dinner-basket into which my pheasant flew? Confiscate his evening ****** under which my conies ran, And summons him to judgment? I would sooner summons Pan.
His dead are in the churchyard--thirty generations laid.
Their names were old in history when Domesday Book was made; And the passion and the piety and prowess of his line Have seeded, rooted, fruited in some land the Law calls mine.
Not for any beast that burrows, not for any bird that flies, Would I lose his large sound council, miss his keen amending eyes.
He is bailiff, woodman, wheelwright, field-surveyor, engineer, And if flagrantly a poacher--'tain't for me to interfere.
"Hob, what about that River-bit?" I turn to him again, With Fabricius and Ogier and William of Warenne.
"Hev it jest as you've a mind to, but"-and here he takes com- mand.
For whoever pays the taxes old Mus' Hobden owns the land.


Written by Eugene Field | Create an image from this poem

Ballad of women i love

 Prudence Mears hath an old blue plate
Hid away in an oaken chest,
And a Franklin platter of ancient date
Beareth Amandy Baker's crest;
What times soever I've been their guest,
Says I to myself in an undertone:
"Of womenfolk, it must be confessed,
These do I love, and these alone.
" Well, again, in the Nutmeg State, Dorothy Pratt is richly blest With a relic of art and a land effete-- A pitcher of glass that's cut, not pressed.
And a Washington teapot is possessed Down in Pelham by Marthy Stone-- Think ye now that I say in jest "These do I love, and these alone?" Were Hepsy Higgins inclined to mate, Or Dorcas Eastman prone to invest In Cupid's bonds, they could find their fate In the bootless bard of Crockery Quest.
For they've heaps of trumpery--so have the rest Of those spinsters whose ware I'd like to own; You can see why I say with such certain zest, "These do I love, and these alone.
"
Written by John Clare | Create an image from this poem

The Nightingales Nest

 Up this green woodland-ride let's softly rove,
And list the nightingale— she dwells just here.
Hush ! let the wood-gate softly clap, for fear The noise might drive her from her home of love ; For here I've heard her many a merry year— At morn, at eve, nay, all the live-long day, As though she lived on song.
This very spot, Just where that old-man's-beard all wildly trails Rude arbours o'er the road, and stops the way— And where that child its blue-bell flowers hath got, Laughing and creeping through the mossy rails— There have I hunted like a very boy, Creeping on hands and knees through matted thorn To find her nest, and see her feed her young.
And vainly did I many hours employ : All seemed as hidden as a thought unborn.
And where those crimping fern-leaves ramp among The hazel's under boughs, I've nestled down, And watched her while she sung ; and her renown Hath made me marvel that so famed a bird Should have no better dress than russet brown.
Her wings would tremble in her ecstasy, And feathers stand on end, as 'twere with joy, And mouth wide open to release her heart Of its out-sobbing songs.
The happiest part Of summer's fame she shared, for so to me Did happy fancies shapen her employ ; But if I touched a bush, or scarcely stirred, All in a moment stopt.
I watched in vain : The timid bird had left the hazel bush, And at a distance hid to sing again.
Lost in a wilderness of listening leaves, Rich Ecstasy would pour its luscious strain, Till envy spurred the emulating thrush To start less wild and scarce inferior songs ; For while of half the year Care him bereaves, To damp the ardour of his speckled breast ; The nightingale to summer's life belongs, And naked trees, and winter's nipping wrongs, Are strangers to her music and her rest.
Her joys are evergreen, her world is wide— Hark! there she is as usual— let's be hush— For in this black-thorn clump, if rightly guest, Her curious house is hidden.
Part aside These hazel branches in a gentle way, And stoop right cautious 'neath the rustling boughs, For we will have another search to day, And hunt this fern-strewn thorn-clump round and round ; And where this reeded wood-grass idly bows, We'll wade right through, it is a likely nook : In such like spots, and often on the ground, They'll build, where rude boys never think to look— Aye, as I live ! her secret nest is here, Upon this white-thorn stump ! I've searched about For hours in vain.
There! put that bramble by— Nay, trample on its branches and get near.
How subtle is the bird ! she started out, And raised a plaintive note of danger nigh, Ere we were past the brambles ; and now, near Her nest, she sudden stops— as choking fear, That might betray her home.
So even now We'll leave it as we found it : safety's guard Of pathless solitudes shall keep it still.
See there! she's sitting on the old oak bough, Mute in her fears ; our presence doth retard Her joys, and doubt turns every rapture chill.
Sing on, sweet bird! may no worse hap befall Thy visions, than the fear that now deceives.
We will not plunder music of its dower, Nor turn this spot of happiness to thrall ; For melody seems hid in every flower, That blossoms near thy home.
These harebells all Seem bowing with the beautiful in song ; And gaping cuckoo-flower, with spotted leaves, Seems blushing of the singing it has heard.
How curious is the nest ; no other bird Uses such loose materials, or weaves Its dwelling in such spots : dead oaken leaves Are placed without, and velvet moss within, And little scraps of grass, and, scant and spare, What scarcely seem materials, down and hair ; For from men's haunts she nothing seems to win.
Yet Nature is the builder, and contrives Homes for her children's comfort, even here ; Where Solitude's disciples spend their lives Unseen, save when a wanderer passes near That loves such pleasant places.
Deep adown, The nest is made a hermit's mossy cell.
Snug lie her curious eggs in number five, Of deadened green, or rather olive brown ; And the old prickly thorn-bush guards them well.
So here we'll leave them, still unknown to wrong, As the old woodland's legacy of song.
Written by Walter Savage Landor | Create an image from this poem

The Three Roses

 When the buds began to burst,
Long ago, with Rose the First
I was walking; joyous then
Far above all other men,
Till before us up there stood
Britonferry's oaken wood,
Whispering, "Happy as thou art,
Happiness and thou must part.
" Many summers have gone by Since a Second Rose and I (Rose from the same stem) have told This and other tales of old.
She upon her wedding day Carried home my tenderest lay: From her lap I now have heard Gleeful, chirping, Rose the Third.
Not for her this hand of mine Rhyme with nuptial wreath shall twine; Cold and torpid it must lie, Mute the tongue, and closed the eye.
Written by Gwendolyn Brooks | Create an image from this poem

The Ballad of Rudolph Reed

 Rudolph Reed was oaken.
His wife was oaken too.
And his two good girls and his good little man Oakened as they grew.
"I am not hungry for berries.
I am not hungry for bread.
But hungry hungry for a house Where at night a man in bed "May never hear the plaster Stir as if in pain.
May never hear the roaches Falling like fat rain.
"Where never wife and children need Go blinking through the gloom.
Where every room of many rooms Will be full of room.
"Oh my home may have its east or west Or north or south behind it.
All I know is I shall know it, And fight for it when I find it.
" The agent's steep and steady stare Corroded to a grin.
Why you black old, tough old hell of a man, Move your family in! Nary a grin grinned Rudolph Reed, Nary a curse cursed he, But moved in his House.
With his dark little wife, And his dark little children three.
A neighbor would look, with a yawning eye That squeezed into a slit.
But the Rudolph Reeds and children three Were too joyous to notice it.
For were they not firm in a home of their own With windows everywhere And a beautiful banistered stair And a front yard for flowers and a back for grass? The first night, a rock, big as two fists.
The second, a rock big as three.
But nary a curse cursed Rudolph Reed.
(Though oaken as man could be.
) The third night, a silvery ring of glass.
Patience arched to endure, But he looked, and lo! small Mabel's blood Was staining her gaze so pure.
Then up did rise our Roodoplh Reed And pressed the hand of his wife, And went to the door with a thirty-four And a beastly butcher knife.
He ran like a mad thing into the night And the words in his mouth were stinking.
By the time he had hurt his first white man He was no longer thinking.
By the time he had hurt his fourth white man Rudolph Reed was dead.
His neighbors gathered and kicked his corpse.
"******--" his neighbors said.
Small Mabel whimpered all night long, For calling herself the cause.
Her oak-eyed mother did no thing But change the bloody gauze.


Written by William Blake | Create an image from this poem

Blind Mans Buff

 When silver snow decks Susan's clothes,
And jewel hangs at th' shepherd's nose,
The blushing bank is all my care,
With hearth so red, and walls so fair;
`Heap the sea-coal, come, heap it higher,
The oaken log lay on the fire.
' The well-wash'd stools, a circling row, With lad and lass, how fair the show! The merry can of nut-brown ale, The laughing jest, the love-sick tale, Till, tir'd of chat, the game begins.
The lasses prick the lads with pins; Roger from Dolly twitch'd the stool, She, falling, kiss'd the ground, poor fool! She blush'd so red, with sidelong glance At hob-nail Dick, who griev'd the chance.
But now for Blind man's Buff they call; Of each encumbrance clear the hall-- Jenny her silken 'kerchief folds, And blear-eyed Will the black lot holds.
Now laughing stops, with `Silence! hush!' And Peggy Pout gives Sam a push.
The Blind man's arms, extended wide, Sam slips between:--`O woe betide Thee, clumsy Will!'--but titt'ring Kate Is penn'd up in the corner straight! And now Will's eyes beheld the play; He thought his face was t'other way.
`Now, Kitty, now! what chance hast thou, Roger so near thee!--Trips, I vow!' She catches him--then Roger ties His own head up--but not his eyes; For thro' the slender cloth he sees, And runs at Sam, who slips with ease His clumsy hold; and, dodging round, Sukey is tumbled on the ground!-- `See what it is to play unfair! Where cheating is, there's mischief there.
' But Roger still pursues the chase,-- `He sees! he sees!' cries, softly, Grace; `O Roger, thou, unskill'd in art, Must, surer bound, go thro' thy part!' Now Kitty, pert, repeats the rimes, And Roger turns him round three times, Then pauses ere he starts--but Dick Was mischief bent upon a trick; Down on his hands and knees he lay Directly in the Blind man's way, Then cries out `Hem!' Hodge heard, and ran With hood-wink'd chance--sure of his man; But down he came.
-- Alas, how frail Our best of hopes, how soon they fail! With crimson drops he stains the ground; Confusion startles all around.
Poor piteous Dick supports his head, And fain would cure the hurt he made.
But Kitty hasted with a key, And down his back they straight convey The cold relief; the blood is stay'd, And Hodge again holds up his head.
Such are the fortunes of the game, And those who play should stop the same By wholesome laws; such as all those Who on the blinded man impose Stand in his stead; as, long a-gone, When men were first a nation grown, Lawless they liv'd, till wantonness A 1000 nd liberty began t' increase, And one man lay in another's way; Then laws were made to keep fair play.
Written by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow | Create an image from this poem

The Skeleton in Armor

"SPEAK! speak! thou fearful guest! 
Who, with thy hollow breast 
Still in rude armor drest, 
Comest to daunt me! 
Wrapt not in Eastern balms, 5 
But with thy fleshless palms 
Stretched, as if asking alms, 
Why dost thou haunt me?" 

Then, from those cavernous eyes 
Pale flashes seemed to rise, 10 
As when the Northern skies 
Gleam in December; 
And, like the water's flow 
Under December's snow, 
Came a dull voice of woe 15 
From the heart's chamber.
"I was a Viking old! My deeds, though manifold, No Skald in song has told, No Saga taught thee! 20 Take heed, that in thy verse Thou dost the tale rehearse, Else dread a dead man's curse; For this I sought thee.
"Far in the Northern Land, 25 By the wild Baltic's strand, I, with my childish hand, Tamed the gerfalcon; And, with my skates fast-bound, Skimmed the half-frozen Sound, 30 That the poor whimpering hound Trembled to walk on.
"Oft to his frozen lair Tracked I the grisly bear, While from my path the hare 35 Fled like a shadow; Oft through the forest dark Followed the were-wolf's bark, Until the soaring lark Sang from the meadow.
40 "But when I older grew, Joining a corsair's crew, O'er the dark sea I flew With the marauders.
Wild was the life we led; 45 Many the souls that sped, Many the hearts that bled, By our stern orders.
"Many a wassail-bout Wore the long Winter out; 50 Often our midnight shout Set the cocks crowing, As we the Berserk's tale Measured in cups of ale, Draining the oaken pail, 55 Filled to o'erflowing.
"Once as I told in glee Tales of the stormy sea, Soft eyes did gaze on me, Burning yet tender; 60 And as the white stars shine On the dark Norway pine, On that dark heart of mine Fell their soft splendor.
"I wooed the blue-eyed maid, 65 Yielding, yet half afraid, And in the forest's shade Our vows were plighted.
Under its loosened vest Fluttered her little breast, 70 Like birds within their nest By the hawk frighted.
"Bright in her father's hall Shields gleamed upon the wall, Loud sang the minstrels all, 75 Chanting his glory; When of old Hildebrand I asked his daughter's hand, Mute did the minstrels stand To hear my story.
80 "While the brown ale he quaffed, Loud then the champion laughed, And as the wind-gusts waft The sea-foam brightly, So the loud laugh of scorn, 85 Out of those lips unshorn, From the deep drinking-horn Blew the foam lightly.
"She was a Prince's child, I but a Viking wild, 90 And though she blushed and smiled, I was discarded! Should not the dove so white Follow the sea-mew's flight, Why did they leave that night 95 Her nest unguarded? "Scarce had I put to sea, Bearing the maid with me, Fairest of all was she Among the Norsemen! 100 When on the white sea-strand, Waving his arm¨¨d hand, Saw we old Hildebrand, With twenty horsemen.
"Then launched they to the blast, 105 Bent like a reed each mast, Yet we were gaining fast, When the wind failed us; And with a sudden flaw Came round the gusty Skaw, 110 So that our foe we saw Laugh as he hailed us.
"And as to catch the gale Round veered the flapping sail, 'Death!' was the helmsman's hail, 115 'Death without quarter!' Mid-ships with iron keel Struck we her ribs of steel; Down her black hulk did reel Through the black water! 120 "As with his wings aslant, Sails the fierce cormorant, Seeking some rocky haunt, With his prey laden, So toward the open main, 125 Beating to sea again, Through the wild hurricane, Bore I the maiden.
"Three weeks we westward bore, And when the storm was o'er, 130 Cloud-like we saw the shore Stretching to leeward; There for my lady's bower Built I the lofty tower, Which, to this very hour, 135 Stands looking seaward.
"There lived we many years; Time dried the maiden's tears; She had forgot her fears, She was a mother; 140 Death closed her mild blue eyes, Under that tower she lies; Ne'er shall the sun arise On such another! "Still grew my bosom then, 145 Still as a stagnant fen! Hateful to me were men, The sunlight hateful! In the vast forest here, Clad in my warlike gear, 150 Fell I upon my spear, Oh, death was grateful! "Thus, seamed with many scars, Bursting these prison bars, Up to its native stars 155 My soul ascended! There from the flowing bowl Deep drinks the warrior's soul, Skoal! to the Northland! skoal!" Thus the tale ended.
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Written by Dylan Thomas | Create an image from this poem

Especially When The October Wind

 Especially when the October wind
With frosty fingers punishes my hair,
Caught by the crabbing sun I walk on fire
And cast a shadow crab upon the land,
By the sea's side, hearing the noise of birds,
Hearing the raven cough in winter sticks,
My busy heart who shudders as she talks
Sheds the syllabic blood and drains her words.
Shut, too, in a tower of words, I mark On the horizon walking like the trees The wordy shapes of women, and the rows Of the star-gestured children in the park.
Some let me make you of the vowelled beeches, Some of the oaken voices, from the roots Of many a thorny shire tell you notes, Some let me make you of the water's speeches.
Behind a post of ferns the wagging clock Tells me the hour's word, the neural meaning Flies on the shafted disk, declaims the morning And tells the windy weather in the cock.
Some let me make you of the meadow's signs; The signal grass that tells me all I know Breaks with the wormy winter through the eye.
Some let me tell you of the raven's sins.
Especially when the October wind (Some let me make you of autumnal spells, The spider-tongued, and the loud hill of Wales) With fists of turnips punishes the land, Some let me make of you the heartless words.
The heart is drained that, spelling in the scurry Of chemic blood, warned of the coming fury.
By the sea's side hear the dark-vowelled birds.
Written by Elinor Wylie | Create an image from this poem

A Crowded Trolley-Car

 The rain's cold grains are silver-gray 
Sharp as golden sands, 
A bell is clanging, people sway 
Hanging by their hands.
Supple hands, or gnarled and stiff, Snatch and catch and grope; That face is yellow-pale, as if The fellow swung from rope.
Dull like pebbles, sharp like knives, Glances strike and glare, Fingers tangle, Bluebeard's wives Dangle by the hair.
Orchard of the strangest fruits Hanging from the skies; Brothers, yet insensate brutes Who fear each other's eyes.
One man stands as free men stand, As if his soul might be Brave, unbroken; see his hand Nailed to an oaken tree.
Written by William Cullen Bryant | Create an image from this poem

Song of Marions Men

OUR band is few but true and tried  
Our leader frank and bold; 
The British soldier trembles 
When Marion's name is told.
Our fortress is the good greenwood 5 Our tent the cypress-tree; We know the forest round us As seamen know the sea.
We know its walls of thorny vines Its glades of reedy grass 10 Its safe and silent islands Within the dark morass.
Woe to the English soldiery That little dread us near! On them shall light at midnight 15 A strange and sudden fear: When waking to their tents on fire They grasp their arms in vain And they who stand to face us Are beat to earth again; 20 And they who fly in terror deem A mighty host behind And hear the tramp of thousands Upon the hollow wind.
Then sweet the hour that brings release 25 From danger and from toil; We talk the battle over And share the battle's spoil.
The woodland rings with laugh and shout As if a hunt were up 30 And woodland flowers are gathered To crown the soldier's cup.
With merry songs we mock the wind That in the pine-top grieves And slumber long and sweetly 35 On beds of oaken leaves.
Well knows the fair and friendly moon The band that Marion leads¡ª The glitter of their rifles The scampering of their steeds.
40 'T is life to guide the fiery barb Across the moonlit plain; 'T is life to feel the night-wind That lifts his tossing mane.
A moment in the British camp¡ª 45 A moment¡ªand away Back to the pathless forest Before the peep of day.
Grave men there are by broad Santee Grave men with hoary hairs; 50 Their hearts are all with Marion For Marion are their prayers.
And lovely ladies greet our band With kindliest welcoming With smiles like those of summer 55 And tears like those of spring.
For them we wear these trusty arms And lay them down no more Till we have driven the Briton Forever from our shore.
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Book: Shattered Sighs