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Best Famous Outgrow Poems

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

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Written by Rainer Maria Rilke | Create an image from this poem

DUINO ELEGIES

The First Elegy


Who if I cried out would hear me among the angels'
hierarchies? and even if one of them pressed me 
suddenly against his heart: I would be consumed
I that overwhelming existence.
For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror which we still are just able to endure and we are so awed because it serenely disdains to annihilate us.
Every angel is terrifying.
And so I hold myself back and swallow the call-note Of my dark sobbing.
Ah whom can we ever turn to in our need? Not angels not humans and already the knowing animals are aware that we are not really at home in our interpreted world.
Perhaps there remains for us some tree on a hillside which every day we can take into our vision; there remains for us yesterday's street and the loyalty of a habit so much at ease when it stayed with us that it moved in and never left.
Oh and night: there is night when a wind full of infinite space gnaws at out faces.
Whom would it not remain for-that longed-after mildly disillusioning presence which the solitary heart so painfully meets.
Is it any less difficult for lovers? But they keep on using each other to hide their own fate.
Don't you know yet? Fling the emptiness out of your arms Into the spaces we breathe; perhaps the birds will feel the expanded air with more passionate flying.
Yes-the springtime needed you.
Often a star was waiting for you to notice it.
A wave rolled toward you out of the distant past or as you walked under an open window a violin yielded itself to your hearing.
All this was mission.
But could you accomplish it? Weren't you always Distracted by expectation as if every event announced a beloved? (Where can you find a place to keep her with all the huge strange thoughts inside you going and coming and often staying all night.
) But when you feel longing sing of women in love; for their famous passion is still not immortal.
Sing of women abandoned and desolate (you envy them almost) who could love so much more purely than those who were gratified.
Begin again and again the never-attainable praising; remember: the hero lives on; even his downfall was merely a pretext for achieving his final birth.
But Nature spent and exhausted takes lovers back into herself as if there were not enough strength to create them a second time.
Have you imagined Gaspara Stampa intensely enough so that any girl deserted by her beloved might be inspired by that fierce example of soaring objectless love and might say to herself Perhaps I can be like her ? Shouldn't this most ancient suffering finally grow more fruitful for us? Isn't it time that we lovingly freed ourselves from the beloved and quivering endured: as the arrow endures the bowstring's tension so that gathered in the snap of release it can be more than itself.
For there is no place where we can remain.
Voices.
Voices.
Listen my heart as only Saints have listened: until the gigantic call lifted them off the ground; yet they kept on impossibly kneeling and didn't notice at all: so complete was their listening.
Not that you could endure God's voice-far from it.
But listen to the voice of the wind and the ceaseless message that forms itself out of silence.
It is murmuring toward you now from those who died young.
Didn't their fate whenever you stepped into a church In Naples or Rome quietly come to address you? Or high up some eulogy entrusted you with a mission as last year on the plaque in Santa Maria Formosa.
What they want of me is that I gently remove the appearance of injustice about their death-which at times slightly hinders their souls from proceeding onward.
Of course it is strange to inhabit the earth no longer to give up customs one barely had time to learn not to see roses and other promising Things in terms of a human future; no longer to be what one was in infinitely anxious hands; to leave even one's own first name behind forgetting it as easily as a child abandons a broken toy.
Strange to no longer desire one's desires.
Strange to see meanings that clung together once floating away in every direction.
And being dead is hard work and full of retrieval before one can gradually feel a trace of eternity.
-Though the living are wrong to believe in the too-sharp distinctions which they themselves have created.
Angels (they say) don't know whether it is the living they are moving among or the dead.
The eternal torrent whirls all ages along in it through both realms forever and their voices are drowned out in its thunderous roar.
In the end those who were carried off early no longer need us: they are weaned from earth's sorrows and joys as gently as children outgrow the soft breasts of their mothers.
But we who do need such great mysteries we for whom grief is so often the source of our spirit's growth-: could we exist without them? Is the legend meaningless that tells how in the lament for Linus the daring first notes of song pierced through the barren numbness; and then in the startled space which a youth as lovely as a god had suddenly left forever the Void felt for the first time that harmony which now enraptures and comforts and helps us.


Written by John Donne | Create an image from this poem

Elegy VI

 Oh, let me not serve so, as those men serve
Whom honour's smokes at once fatten and starve;
Poorly enrich't with great men's words or looks;
Nor so write my name in thy loving books
As those idolatrous flatterers, which still
Their Prince's styles, with many realms fulfil
Whence they no tribute have, and where no sway.
Such services I offer as shall pay Themselves, I hate dead names: Oh then let me Favourite in Ordinary, or no favourite be.
When my soul was in her own body sheathed, Nor yet by oaths betrothed, nor kisses breathed Into my Purgatory, faithless thee, Thy heart seemed wax, and steel thy constancy: So, careless flowers strowed on the waters face The curled whirlpools suck, smack, and embrace, Yet drown them; so, the taper's beamy eye Amorously twinkling beckons the giddy fly, Yet burns his wings; and such the devil is, Scarce visiting them who are entirely his.
When I behold a stream which, from the spring, Doth with doubtful melodious murmuring, Or in a speechless slumber, calmly ride Her wedded channels' bosom, and then chide And bend her brows, and swell if any bough Do but stoop down, or kiss her upmost brow: Yet, if her often gnawing kisses win The traiterous bank to gape, and let her in, She rusheth violently, and doth divorce Her from her native, and her long-kept course, And roars, and braves it, and in gallant scorn, In flattering eddies promising retorn, She flouts the channel, who thenceforth is dry; Then say I, That is she, and this am I.
Yet let not thy deep bitterness beget Careless despair in me, for that will whet My mind to scorn; and Oh, love dulled with pain Was ne'er so wise, nor well armed as disdain.
Then with new eyes I shall survey thee, and spy Death in thy cheeks, and darkness in thine eye.
Though hope bred faith and love: thus taught, I shall, As nations do from Rome, from thy love fall.
My hate shall outgrow thine, and utterly I will renounce thy dalliance: and when I Am the recusant, in that resolute state, What hurts it me to be excommunicate?
Written by Derek Walcott | Create an image from this poem

Midsummer Tobago

 Broad sun-stoned beaches.
White heat.
A green river.
A bridge, scorched yellow palms from the summer-sleeping house drowsing through August.
Days I have held, days I have lost, days that outgrow, like daughters, my harbouring arms.
Written by Anne Sexton | Create an image from this poem

Unknown Girl In A Maternity Ward

 Child, the current of your breath is six days long.
You lie, a small knuckle on my white bed; lie, fisted like a snail, so small and strong at my breast.
Your lips are animals; you are fed with love.
At first hunger is not wrong.
The nurses nod their caps; you are shepherded down starch halls with the other unnested throng in wheeling baskets.
You tip like a cup; your head moving to my touch.
You sense the way we belong.
But this is an institution bed.
You will not know me very long.
The doctors are enamel.
They want to know the facts.
They guess about the man who left me, some pendulum soul, going the way men go and leave you full of child.
But our case history stays blank.
All I did was let you grow.
Now we are here for all the ward to see.
They thought I was strange, although I never spoke a word.
I burst empty of you, letting you see how the air is so.
The doctors chart the riddle they ask of me and I turn my head away.
I do not know.
Yours is the only face I recognize.
Bone at my bone, you drink my answers in.
Six times a day I prize your need, the animals of your lips, your skin growing warm and plump.
I see your eyes lifting their tents.
They are blue stones, they begin to outgrow their moss.
You blink in surprise and I wonder what you can see, my funny kin, as you trouble my silence.
I am a shelter of lies.
Should I learn to speak again, or hopeless in such sanity will I touch some face I recognize? Down the hall the baskets start back.
My arms fit you like a sleeve, they hold catkins of your willows, the wild bee farms of your nerves, each muscle and fold of your first days.
Your old man's face disarms the nurses.
But the doctors return to scold me.
I speak.
It is you my silence harms.
I should have known; I should have told them something to write down.
My voice alarms my throat.
"Name of father—none.
" I hold you and name you bastard in my arms.
And now that's that.
There is nothing more that I can say or lose.
Others have traded life before and could not speak.
I tighten to refuse your owling eyes, my fragile visitor.
I touch your cheeks, like flowers.
You bruise against me.
We unlearn.
I am a shore rocking off you.
You break from me.
I choose your only way, my small inheritor and hand you off, trembling the selves we lose.
Go child, who is my sin and nothing more.
Written by Robert William Service | Create an image from this poem

Rhyme-Smith

 Oh, I was born a lyric babe
(That last word is a bore -
It's only rhyme is astrolabe,"
Whose meaning I ignore.
) From cradlehood I lisped in numbers, Made jingles even in my slumbers.
Said Ma: "He'll be a bard, I know it.
" Said Pa: "let's hoe he will outgrow it.
" Alas! I never did and so A dreamer and a drone was I, Who persevered in want and woe His misery to versify.
Yea, I was doomed to be a failure (Old Browning rhymes that last with "pale lure"): And even starving in the gutter, My macaronics I would utter.
Then in a poor, cheap book I crammed, And to the public maw I tossed My bitter Dirges of the Damned, My Lyrics of the Lost.
"Let carping critic flay and flout My Ditties of the Down and Out - "There now," said I, "I've done with verse, My love, my weakness and my curse.
" Then lo! (As I would fain believe, Before they crown, the fates would shame us) I went to sleep one bitter eve, And woke to find that I was famous.
.
.
.
And so the sunny sequels were a Gay villa on the Riviera, A bank account, a limousine, a Life patterned dolce e divina.
Oh, yes, my lyric flight is flighty; My muse is much more mite than mighty: But poetry has been my friend, And rhyming's saved me in the end.


Written by Emily Dickinson | Create an image from this poem

We outgrow love like other things

 We outgrow love, like other things
And put it in the Drawer --
Till it an Antique fashion shows --
Like Costumes Grandsires wore.
Written by Emily Dickinson | Create an image from this poem

I know lives I could miss

 I know lives, I could miss
Without a Misery --
Others -- whose instant's wanting --
Would be Eternity --

The last -- a scanty Number --
'Twould scarcely fill a Two --
The first -- a Gnat's Horizon
Could easily outgrow --