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Best Famous Open Arms Poems

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

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Written by Robert Graves | Create an image from this poem

Letter to S.S. from Mametz Wood

 I never dreamed we’d meet that day 
In our old haunts down Fricourt way, 
Plotting such marvellous journeys there 
For jolly old “Apr?s-la-guerre.
” Well, when it’s over, first we’ll meet At Gweithdy Bach, my country seat In Wales, a curious little shop With two rooms and a roof on top, A sort of Morlancourt-ish billet That never needs a crowd to fill it.
But oh, the country round about! The sort of view that makes you shout For want of any better way Of praising God: there’s a blue bay Shining in front, and on the right Snowden and Hebog capped with white, And lots of other jolly peaks That you could wonder at for weeks, With jag and spur and hump and cleft.
There’s a grey castle on the left, And back in the high Hinterland You’ll see the grave of Shawn Knarlbrand, Who slew the savage Buffaloon By the Nant-col one night in June, And won his surname from the horn Of this prodigious unicorn.
Beyond, where the two Rhinogs tower, Rhinog Fach and Rhinog Fawr, Close there after a four years’ chase From Thessaly and the woods of Thrace, The beaten Dog-cat stood at bay And growled and fought and passed away.
You’ll see where mountain conies grapple With prayer and creed in their rock chapel Which Ben and Claire once built for them; They call it S?ar Bethlehem.
You’ll see where in old Roman days, Before Revivals changed our ways, The Virgin ’scaped the Devil’s grab, Printing her foot on a stone slab With five clear toe-marks; and you’ll find The fiendish thumbprint close behind.
You’ll see where Math, Mathonwy’s son, Spoke with the wizard Gwydion And bad him from South Wales set out To steal that creature with the snout, That new-discovered grunting beast Divinely flavoured for the feast.
No traveller yet has hit upon A wilder land than Meirion, For desolate hills and tumbling stones, Bogland and melody and old bones.
Fairies and ghosts are here galore, And poetry most splendid, more Than can be written with the pen Or understood by common men.
In Gweithdy Bach we’ll rest awhile, We’ll dress our wounds and learn to smile With easier lips; we’ll stretch our legs, And live on bilberry tart and eggs, And store up solar energy, Basking in sunshine by the sea, Until we feel a match once more For anything but another war.
So then we’ll kiss our families, And sail across the seas (The God of Song protecting us) To the great hills of Caucasus.
Robert will learn the local bat For billeting and things like that, If Siegfried learns the piccolo To charm the people as we go.
The jolly peasants clad in furs Will greet the Welch-ski officers With open arms, and ere we pass Will make us vocal with Kavasse.
In old Bagdad we’ll call a halt At the S?shuns’ ancestral vault; We’ll catch the Persian rose-flowers’ scent, And understand what Omar meant.
Bitlis and Mush will know our faces, Tiflis and Tomsk, and all such places.
Perhaps eventually we’ll get Among the Tartars of Thibet.
Hobnobbing with the Chungs and Mings, And doing wild, tremendous things In free adventure, quest and fight, And God! what poetry we’ll write!

Written by Emile Verhaeren | Create an image from this poem

If fate has saved us

If fate has saved us from commonplace errors and from vile untruth and from sorry shams, it is because all constraint that might have bowed our double fervour revolted us.
You went your way, free and frank and bright, mingling with the flowers of love the flowers of your will, and gently lifting up towards yourself its lofty spirit when my brow was bent towards fear or doubt.
And you were always kind and artless in your acts, knowing that my heart was for ever yours; for if I loved—do I now know?—some other woman, it is to your heart that I always returned.
Your eyes were then so pure in their tears that my being was stirred to sincerity and truth; and I repeated to you holy and gentle words, and your weapons were sadness and forgiveness.
And in the evening I lulled my head to sleep on your bright bosom, happy at having returned from false and dim distances to the fragrant spring that bore sway in us, and I remained a captive in your open arms.
Written by Herman Melville | Create an image from this poem


 (November, 1863)

A kindling impulse seized the host
Inspired by heaven's elastic air;
Their hearts outran their General's plan,
Though Grant commanded there - 
Grant, who without reserve can dare;
And, "Well, go on and do your will,"
He said, and measured the mountain then:
So master-riders fling the rein - 
But you must know your men.
On yester-morn in grayish mist, Armies like ghosts on hills had fought, And rolled from the cloud their thunders loud The Cumberlands far had caught: Today the sunlit steeps are sought.
Grant stood on cliffs whence all was plain, And smoked as one who feels no cares; But mastered nervousness intense, Alone such calmness wears.
The summit-cannon plunge their flame Sheer down the primal wall, But up and up each linking troop In stretching festoons crawl - Nor fire a shot.
Such men appal The foe, though brave.
He, from the brink, Looks far along the breadth of slope, And sees two miles of dark dots creep, And knows they mean the cope.
He sees them creep.
Yet here and there Half hid 'mid leafless groves they go; As men who ply through traceries high Of turreted marbles show - So dwindle these to eyes below.
But fronting shot and flanking shell Sliver and rive the inwoven ways; High tops of oaks and high hearts fall, But never the climbing stays.
Near and more near; till now the flags Run like a catching flame; And one flares highest, to peril nighest - He means to make a name: Salvos! they give him his fame.
The staff is caught, and next the rush, And then the leap where death has led; Flag answered flag along the crest, And swarms of rebels fled.
But some who gained the envied Alp, And -eager, ardent, earnest there - Dropped into Death's wide-open arms, Quelled on the wing like eagles struck in air - Forever they slumber young and fair, The smile upon them as they died; Their end attained, that end a height: Life was to these a dream fulfilled, And death a starry night.
Written by Robert Burns | Create an image from this poem

146. Address to Edinburgh

 EDINA! Scotia’s darling seat!
 All hail thy palaces and tow’rs,
Where once, beneath a Monarch’s feet,
 Sat Legislation’s sov’reign pow’rs:
 From marking wildly scatt’red flow’rs,
As on the banks of Ayr I stray’d,
 And singing, lone, the lingering hours,
I shelter in they honour’d shade.
Here Wealth still swells the golden tide, As busy Trade his labours plies; There Architecture’s noble pride Bids elegance and splendour rise: Here Justice, from her native skies, High wields her balance and her rod; There Learning, with his eagle eyes, Seeks Science in her coy abode.
Thy sons, Edina, social, kind, With open arms the stranger hail; Their views enlarg’d, their liberal mind, Above the narrow, rural vale: Attentive still to Sorrow’s wail, Or modest Merit’s silent claim; And never may their sources fail! And never Envy blot their name! Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn, Gay as the gilded summer sky, Sweet as the dewy, milk-white thorn, Dear as the raptur’d thrill of joy! Fair Burnet strikes th’ adoring eye, Heaven’s beauties on my fancy shine; I see the Sire of Love on high, And own His work indeed divine! There, watching high the least alarms, Thy rough, rude fortress gleams afar; Like some bold veteran, grey in arms, And mark’d with many a seamy scar: The pond’rous wall and massy bar, Grim-rising o’er the rugged rock, Have oft withstood assailing war, And oft repell’d th’ invader’s shock.
With awe-struck thought, and pitying tears, I view that noble, stately Dome, Where Scotia’s kings of other years, Fam’d heroes! had their royal home: Alas, how chang’d the times to come! Their royal name low in the dust! Their hapless race wild-wand’ring roam! Tho’ rigid Law cries out “’twas just!” Wild beats my heart to trace your steps, Whose ancestors, in days of yore, Thro’ hostile ranks and ruin’d gaps Old Scotia’s bloody lion bore: Ev’n I who sing in rustic lore, Haply my sires have left their shed, And fac’d grim Danger’s loudest roar, Bold-following where your fathers led! Edina! Scotia’s darling seat! All hail thy palaces and tow’rs; Where once, beneath a Monarch’s feet, Sat Legislation’s sovereign pow’rs: From marking wildly-scatt’red flow’rs, As on the banks of Ayr I stray’d, And singing, lone, the ling’ring hours, I shelter in thy honour’d shade.
Written by Walt Whitman | Create an image from this poem

Two Rivulets

 TWO Rivulets side by side, 
Two blended, parallel, strolling tides, 
Companions, travelers, gossiping as they journey.
For the Eternal Ocean bound, These ripples, passing surges, streams of Death and Life, Object and Subject hurrying, whirling by, The Real and Ideal, Alternate ebb and flow the Days and Nights, (Strands of a Trio twining, Present, Future, Past.
) In You, whoe’er you are, my book perusing, In I myself—in all the World—these ripples flow, All, all, toward the mystic Ocean tending.
(O yearnful waves! the kisses of your lips! Your breast so broad, with open arms, O firm, expanded shore!)

Book: Reflection on the Important Things