Best Famous Overflowing Poems

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

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Written by Paul Eluard | The Human Face I. Soon Of all the springtimes of the world This one is the ugliest Of all of my ways of being To be trusting is the best Grass pushes up snow Like the stone of a tomb But I sleep within the storm And awaken eyes bright Slowness, brief time ends Where all streets must pass Through my innermost recesses So that I would meet someone I don’t listen to monsters I know them and all that they say I see only beautiful faces Good faces, sure of themselves Certain soon to ruin their masters II. The women’s role As they sing, the maids dash forward To tidy up the killing fields Well-powdered girls, quickly to their knees Their hands -- reaching for the fresh air -- Are blue like never before What a glorious day! Look at their hands, the dead Look at their liquid eyes This is the toilet of transience The final toilet of life Stones sink and disappear In the vast, primal waters The final toilet of time Hardly a memory remains the dried-up well of virtue In the long, oppressive absences One surrenders to tender flesh Under the spell of weakness III. As deep as the silence As deep as the silence Of a corpse under ground With nothing but darkness in mind As dull and deaf As autumn by the pond Covered with stale shame Poison, deprived of its flower And of its golden beasts out its night onto man IV. Patience You, my patient one My patience My parent Head held high and proudly Organ of the sluggish night Bow down Concealing all of heaven And its favor Prepare for vengeance A bed where I'll be born V. First march, the voice of another Laughing at sky and planets Drunk with their confidence The wise men wish for sons And for sons from their sons Until they all perish in vain Time burdens only fools While Hell alone prospers And the wise men are absurd VI. A wolf Day surprises me and night scares me haunts me and winter follows me An animal walking on the snow has placed Its paws in the sand or in the mud Its paws have traveled From further afar than my own steps On a path where death Has the imprints of life VII. A flawless fire The threat under the red sky Came from below -- jaws And scales and links Of a slippery, heavy chain Life was spread about generously So that death took seriously The debt it was paid without a thought Death was the God of love And the conquerors in a kiss Swooned upon their victims Corruption gained courage And yet, beneath the red sky Under the appetites for blood Under the dismal starvation The cavern closed The kind earth filled The graves dug in advance Children were no longer afraid Of maternal depths And madness and stupidity And vulgarity make way For humankind and brotherhood No longer fighting against life -- For an everlasting humankind VIII. Liberty On my school notebooks On my desk, on the trees On the sand, on the snow I write your name On all the read pages On all the empty pages Stone, blood, paper or ash I write your name On the golden images On the weapons of warriors On the crown of kings I write your name On the jungle and the desert On the nests, on the broom On the echo of my childhood I write your name On the wonders of nights On the white bread of days On the seasons betrothed I write your name d'azur On all my blue rags On the sun-molded pond On the moon-enlivened lake I write your name On the fields, on the horizon On the wings of birds And on the mill of shadows I write your name On every burst of dawn On the sea, on the boats On the insane mountain I write your name On the foam of clouds On the sweat of the storm On the rain, thick and insipid I write your name On the shimmering shapes On the colorful bells On the physical truth I write your name On the alert pathways On the wide-spread roads On the overflowing places I write your name On the lamp that is ignited On the lamp that is dimmed On my reunited houses I write your name On the fruit cut in two Of the mirror and of my room On my bed, an empty shell I write your name On my dog, young and greedy On his pricked-up ears On his clumsy paw I write your name On the springboard of my door On the familiar objects On the wave of blessed fire I write your name On all harmonious flesh On the face of my friends On every out-stretched hand I write your name On the window-pane of surprises On the careful lips Well-above silence I write your name On my destroyed shelter On my collapsed beacon On the walls of my weariness I write your name On absence without want On naked solitude On the steps of death I write your name On regained health On vanished risk On hope free from memory I write your name And by the power of one word I begin my life again I am born to know you To call you by name: Liberty!

Written by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow | Rain In Summer How beautiful is the rain! After the dust and heat, In the broad and fiery street, In the narrow lane, How beautiful is the rain! How it clatters along the roofs, Like the tramp of hoofs How it gushes and struggles out From the throat of the overflowing spout! Across the window-pane It pours and pours; And swift and wide, With a muddy tide, Like a river down the gutter roars The rain, the welcome rain! The sick man from his chamber looks At the twisted brooks; He can feel the cool Breath of each little pool; His fevered brain Grows calm again, And he breathes a blessing on the rain. From the neighboring school Come the boys, With more than their wonted noise And commotion; And down the wet streets Sail their mimic fleets, Till the treacherous pool Ingulfs them in its whirling And turbulent ocean. In the country, on every side, Where far and wide, Like a leopard's tawny and spotted hide, Stretches the plain, To the dry grass and the drier grain How welcome is the rain! In the furrowed land The toilsome and patient oxen stand; Lifting the yoke encumbered head, With their dilated nostrils spread, They silently inhale The clover-scented gale, And the vapors that arise From the well-watered and smoking soil. For this rest in the furrow after toil Their large and lustrous eyes Seem to thank the Lord, More than man's spoken word. Near at hand, From under the sheltering trees, The farmer sees His pastures, and his fields of grain, As they bend their tops To the numberless beating drops Of the incessant rain. He counts it as no sin That he sees therein Only his own thrift and gain. These, and far more than these, The Poet sees! He can behold Aquarius old Walking the fenceless fields of air; And from each ample fold Of the clouds about him rolled Scattering everywhere The showery rain, As the farmer scatters his grain. He can behold Things manifold That have not yet been wholly told,-- Have not been wholly sung nor said. For his thought, that never stops, Follows the water-drops Down to the graves of the dead, Down through chasms and gulfs profound, To the dreary fountain-head Of lakes and rivers under ground; And sees them, when the rain is done, On the bridge of colors seven Climbing up once more to heaven, Opposite the setting sun. Thus the Seer, With vision clear, Sees forms appear and disappear, In the perpetual round of strange, Mysterious change From birth to death, from death to birth, From earth to heaven, from heaven to earth; Till glimpses more sublime Of things, unseen before, Unto his wondering eyes reveal The Universe, as an immeasurable wheel Turning forevermore In the rapid and rushing river of Time.

Written by Charlotte Bronte | Frances SHE will not sleep, for fear of dreams, But, rising, quits her restless bed, And walks where some beclouded beams Of moonlight through the hall are shed. Obedient to the goad of grief, Her steps, now fast, now lingering slow, In varying motion seek relief From the Eumenides of woe. Wringing her hands, at intervals­ But long as mute as phantom dim­ She glides along the dusky walls, Under the black oak rafters, grim. The close air of the grated tower Stifles a heart that scarce can beat, And, though so late and lone the hour, Forth pass her wandering, faltering feet; And on the pavement, spread before The long front of the mansion grey, Her steps imprint the night-frost hoar, Which pale on grass and granite lay. Not long she stayed where misty moon And shimmering stars could on her look, But through the garden arch-way, soon Her strange and gloomy path she took. Some firs, coeval with the tower, Their straight black boughs stretched o'er her head, Unseen, beneath this sable bower, Rustled her dress and rapid tread. There was an alcove in that shade, Screening a rustic-seat and stand; Weary she sat her down and laid Her hot brow on her burning hand. To solitude and to the night, Some words she now, in murmurs, said; And, trickling through her fingers white, Some tears of misery she shed. ' God help me, in my grievous need, God help me, in my inward pain; Which cannot ask for pity's meed, Which has no license to complain; Which must be borne, yet who can bear, Hours long, days long, a constant weight­ The yoke of absolute despair, A suffering wholly desolate ? Who can for ever crush the heart, Restrain its throbbing, curb its life ? Dissemble truth with ceaseless art, With outward calm, mask inward strife ?' She waited­as for some reply; The still and cloudy night gave none; Erelong, with deep-drawn, trembling sigh, Her heavy plaint again begun. ' Unloved­I love; unwept­I weep; Grief I restrain­hope I repress: Vain is this anguish­fixed and deep; Vainer, desires and dreams of bliss. My love awakes no love again, My tears collect, and fall unfelt; My sorrow touches none with pain, My humble hopes to nothing melt. For me the universe is dumb, Stone-deaf, and blank, and wholly blind; Life I must bound, existence sum In the strait limits of one mind; That mind my own. Oh ! narrow cell; Dark­imageless­a living tomb ! There must I sleep, there wake and dwell Content, with palsy, pain, and gloom.' Again she paused; a moan of pain, A stifled sob, alone was heard; Long silence followed­then again, Her voice the stagnant midnight stirred. ' Must it be so ? Is this my fate ? Can I nor struggle, nor contend ? And am I doomed for years to wait, Watching death's lingering axe descend ? And when it falls, and when I die, What follows ? Vacant nothingness ? The blank of lost identity ? Erasure both of pain and bliss ? I've heard of heaven­I would believe; For if this earth indeed be all, Who longest lives may deepest grieve, Most blest, whom sorrows soonest call. Oh ! leaving disappointment here, Will man find hope on yonder coast ? Hope, which, on earth, shines never clear, And oft in clouds is wholly lost. Will he hope's source of light behold, Fruition's spring, where doubts expire, And drink, in waves of living gold, Contentment, full, for long desire ? Will he find bliss, which here he dreamed ? Rest, which was weariness on earth ? Knowledge, which, if o'er life it beamed, Served but to prove it void of worth ? Will he find love without lust's leaven, Love fearless, tearless, perfect, pure, To all with equal bounty given, In all, unfeigned, unfailing, sure ? Will he, from penal sufferings free, Released from shroud and wormy clod, All calm and glorious, rise and see Creation's Sire­Existence' God ? Then, glancing back on Time's brief woes, Will he behold them, fading, fly; Swept from Eternity's repose, Like sullying cloud, from pure blue sky ? If so­endure, my weary frame; And when thy anguish strikes too deep, And when all troubled burns life's flame, Think of the quiet, final sleep; Think of the glorious waking-hour, Which will not dawn on grief and tears, But on a ransomed spirit's power, Certain, and free from mortal fears. Seek now thy couch, and lie till morn, Then from thy chamber, calm, descend, With mind nor tossed, nor anguish-torn, But tranquil, fixed, to wait the end. And when thy opening eyes shall see Mementos, on the chamber wall, Of one who has forgotten thee, Shed not the tear of acrid gall. The tear which, welling from the heart, Burns where its drop corrosive falls, And makes each nerve, in torture, start, At feelings it too well recalls: When the sweet hope of being loved, Threw Eden sunshine on life's way; When every sense and feeling proved Expectancy of brightest day. When the hand trembled to receive A thrilling clasp, which seemed so near, And the heart ventured to believe, Another heart esteemed it dear. When words, half love, all tenderness, Were hourly heard, as hourly spoken, When the long, sunny days of bliss, Only by moonlight nights were broken. Till drop by drop, the cup of joy Filled full, with purple light, was glowing, And Faith, which watched it, sparkling high, Still never dreamt the overflowing. It fell not with a sudden crashing, It poured not out like open sluice; No, sparkling still, and redly flashing, Drained, drop by drop, the generous juice. I saw it sink, and strove to taste it, My eager lips approached the brim; The movement only seemed to waste it, It sank to dregs, all harsh and dim. These I have drank, and they for ever Have poisoned life and love for me; A draught from Sodom's lake could never More fiery, salt, and bitter, be. Oh ! Love was all a thin illusion; Joy, but the desert's flying stream; And, glancing back on long delusion, My memory grasps a hollow dream. Yet, whence that wondrous change of feeling, I never knew, and cannot learn, Nor why my lover's eye, congealing, Grew cold, and clouded, proud, and stern. Nor wherefore, friendship's forms forgetting, He careless left, and cool withdrew; Nor spoke of grief, nor fond regretting, Nor even one glance of comfort threw. And neither word nor token sending, Of kindness, since the parting day, His course, for distant regions bending, Went, self-contained and calm, away. Oh, bitter, blighting, keen sensation, Which will not weaken, cannot die, Hasten thy work of desolation, And let my tortured spirit fly ! Vain as the passing gale, my crying; Though lightning-struck, I must live on; I know, at heart, there is no dying Of love, and ruined hope, alone. Still strong, and young, and warm with vigour, Though scathed, I long shall greenly grow, And many a storm of wildest rigour Shall yet break o'er my shivered bough. Rebellious now to blank inertion, My unused strength demands a task; Travel, and toil, and full exertion, Are the last, only boon I ask. Whence, then, this vain and barren dreaming Of death, and dubious life to come ? I see a nearer beacon gleaming Over dejection's sea of gloom. The very wildness of my sorrow Tells me I yet have innate force; My track of life has been too narrow, Effort shall trace a broader course. The world is not in yonder tower, Earth is not prisoned in that room, 'Mid whose dark pannels, hour by hour, I've sat, the slave and prey of gloom. One feeling­turned to utter anguish, Is not my being's only aim; When, lorn and loveless, life will languish, But courage can revive the flame. He, when he left me, went a roving To sunny climes, beyond the sea; And I, the weight of woe removing, Am free and fetterless as he. New scenes, new language, skies less clouded, May once more wake the wish to live; Strange, foreign towns, astir, and crowded, New pictures to the mind may give. New forms and faces, passing ever, May hide the one I still retain, Defined, and fixed, and fading never, Stamped deep on vision, heart, and brain. And we might meet­time may have changed him; Chance may reveal the mystery, The secret influence which estranged him; Love may restore him yet to me. False thought­false hope­in scorn be banished ! I am not loved­nor loved have been; Recall not, then, the dreams scarce vanished, Traitors ! mislead me not again ! To words like yours I bid defiance, 'Tis such my mental wreck have made; Of God alone, and self-reliance, I ask for solace­hope for aid. Morn comes­and ere meridian glory O'er these, my natal woods, shall smile, Both lonely wood and mansion hoary I'll leave behind, full many a mile.

Written by Barry Tebb | Sorry I Missed You (or ‘Huddersfield the Second Poetry Capital of England Re-visited’) What was it Janice Simmons said to me as James lay dying in Ireland? “Phone Peter Pegnall in Leeds, an ex-pupil of Jimmy’s. He’s organising A benefit reading, he’d love to hear from you and have your help.” ‘Like hell he would’ I thought but I phoned him all the same At his converted farmhouse at Barswill, a Lecturer in Creative Writing At the uni. But what’s he written, I wondered, apart from his CV? “Well I am organising a reading but only for the big people, you understand, Hardman, Harrison, Doughty, Duhig, Basher O’Brien, you know the kind, The ones that count, the ones I owe my job to.” We nattered on and on until by way of adieu I read the final couplet Of my Goodbye poem, the lines about ‘One Leeds Jimmy who could fix the world’s. Duhigs once and for all/Write them into the ground and still have a hundred Lyrics in his quiver.’ Pete Stifled a cough which dipped into a gurgle and sank into a mire Of strangulated affect which almost became a convulsion until finally He shrieked, “I have to go, the cat’s under the Christmas tree, ripping Open all the presents, the central heating boiler’s on the blink, The house is on fucking fire!” So I was left with the offer of being raffle-ticket tout as a special favour, Some recompense for giving over two entire newsletters to Jimmy’s work: The words of the letter before his stroke still burned. “I don’t know why They omitted me, Armitage and Harrison were my best mates once. You and I Must meet.” A whole year’s silence until the card with its cryptic message ‘Jimmy’s recovering slowly but better than expected’. I never heard from Pegnall about the reading, the pamphlets he asked for Went unacknowledged. Whalebone, the fellow-tutor he commended, also stayed silent. Had the event been cancelled? Happening to be in Huddersfield on Good Friday I staggered up three flights of stone steps in the Byram Arcade to the Poetry Business Where, next to the ‘closed’ sign an out-of-date poster announced the reading in Leeds At a date long gone. I peered through the slats at empty desks, at brimming racks of books, At overflowing bin-bags and the yellowing poster. Desperately I tried to remember What Janice had said. “We were sat up in bed, planning to take the children For a walk when Jimmy stopped looking at me, the pupils of his eyes rolled sideways, His head lolled and he keeled over.” The title of the reading was from Jimmy’s best collection ‘With Energy To Burn’ with energy to burn.

Written by Rabindranath Tagore | A Moments Indulgence I ask for a moment's indulgence to sit by thy side. The works that I have in hand I will finish afterwards. Away from the sight of thy face my heart knows no rest nor respite, and my work becomes an endless toil in a shoreless sea of toil. Today the summer has come at my window with its sighs and murmurs; and the bees are plying their minstrelsy at the court of the flowering grove. Now it is time to sit quite, face to face with thee, and to sing dedication of life in this silent and overflowing leisure.

Written by John Ashbery | Into the Dusk-Charged Air Far from the Rappahannock, the silent Danube moves along toward the sea. The brown and green Nile rolls slowly Like the Niagara's welling descent. Tractors stood on the green banks of the Loire Near where it joined the Cher. The St. Lawrence prods among black stones And mud. But the Arno is all stones. Wind ruffles the Hudson's Surface. The Irawaddy is overflowing. But the yellowish, gray Tiber Is contained within steep banks. The Isar Flows too fast to swim in, the Jordan's water Courses over the flat land. The Allegheny and its boats Were dark blue. The Moskowa is Gray boats. The Amstel flows slowly. Leaves fall into the Connecticut as it passes Underneath. The Liffey is full of sewage, Like the Seine, but unlike The brownish-yellow Dordogne. Mountains hem in the Colorado And the Oder is very deep, almost As deep as the Congo is wide. The plain banks of the Neva are Gray. The dark Saône flows silently. And the Volga is long and wide As it flows across the brownish land. The Ebro Is blue, and slow. The Shannon flows Swiftly between its banks. The Mississippi Is one of the world's longest rivers, like the Amazon. It has the Missouri for a tributary. The Harlem flows amid factories And buildings. The Nelson is in Canada, Flowing. Through hard banks the Dubawnt Forces its way. People walk near the Trent. The landscape around the Mohawk stretches away; The Rubicon is merely a brook. In winter the Main Surges; the Rhine sings its eternal song. The Rhône slogs along through whitish banks And the Rio Grande spins tales of the past. The Loir bursts its frozen shackles But the Moldau's wet mud ensnares it. The East catches the light. Near the Escaut the noise of factories echoes And the sinuous Humboldt gurgles wildly. The Po too flows, and the many-colored Thames. Into the Atlantic Ocean Pours the Garonne. Few ships navigate On the Housatonic, but quite a few can be seen On the Elbe. For centuries The Afton has flowed. If the Rio ***** Could abandon its song, and the Magdalena The jungle flowers, the Tagus Would still flow serenely, and the Ohio Abrade its slate banks. The tan Euphrates would Sidle silently across the world. The Yukon Was choked with ice, but the Susquehanna still pushed Bravely along. The Dee caught the day's last flares Like the Pilcomayo's carrion rose. The Peace offered eternal fragrance Perhaps, but the Mackenzie churned livid mud Like tan chalk-marks. Near where The Brahmaputra slapped swollen dikes And the Pechora? The São Francisco Skulks amid gray, rubbery nettles. The Liard's Reflexes are slow, and the Arkansas erodes Anthracite hummocks. The Paraná stinks. The Ottawa is light emerald green Among grays. Better that the Indus fade In steaming sands! Let the Brazos Freeze solid! And the Wabash turn to a leaden Cinder of ice! The Marañón is too tepid, we must Find a way to freeze it hard. The Ural Is freezing slowly in the blasts. The black Yonne Congeals nicely. And the Petit-Morin Curls up on the solid earth. The Inn Does not remember better times, and the Merrimack's Galvanized. The Ganges is liquid snow by now; The Vyatka's ice-gray. The once-molten Tennessee s Curdled. The Japurá is a pack of ice. Gelid The Columbia's gray loam banks. The Don's merely A giant icicle. The Niger freezes, slowly. The interminable Lena plods on But the Purus' mercurial waters are icy, grim With cold. The Loing is choked with fragments of ice. The Weser is frozen, like liquid air. And so is the Kama. And the beige, thickly flowing Tocantins. The rivers bask in the cold. The stern Uruguay chafes its banks, A mass of ice. The Hooghly is solid Ice. The Adour is silent, motionless. The lovely Tigris is nothing but scratchy ice Like the Yellowstone, with its osier-clustered banks. The Mekong is beginning to thaw out a little And the Donets gurgles beneath the Huge blocks of ice. The Manzanares gushes free. The Illinois darts through the sunny air again. But the Dnieper is still ice-bound. Somewhere The Salado propels irs floes, but the Roosevelt's Frozen. The Oka is frozen solider Than the Somme. The Minho slumbers In winter, nor does the Snake Remember August. Hilarious, the Canadian Is solid ice. The Madeira slavers Across the thawing fields, and the Plata laughs. The Dvina soaks up the snow. The Sava's Temperature is above freezing. The Avon Carols noiselessly. The Drôme presses Grass banks; the Adige's frozen Surface is like gray pebbles. Birds circle the Ticino. In winter The Var was dark blue, unfrozen. The Thwaite, cold, is choked with sandy ice; The Ardèche glistens feebly through the freezing rain.

Written by Ralph Waldo Emerson | Saadi Trees in groves, Kine in droves, In ocean sport the scaly herds, Wedge-like cleave the air the birds, To northern lakes fly wind-borne ducks, Browse the mountain sheep in flocks, Men consort in camp and town, But the poet dwells alone. God who gave to him the lyre, Of all mortals the desire, For all breathing men's behoof, Straitly charged him, "Sit aloof;" Annexed a warning, poets say, To the bright premium,— Ever when twain together play, Shall the harp be dumb. Many may come, But one shall sing; Two touch the string, The harp is dumb. Though there come a million Wise Saadi dwells alone. Yet Saadi loved the race of men,— No churl immured in cave or den,— In bower and hall He wants them all, Nor can dispense With Persia for his audience; They must give ear, Grow red with joy, and white with fear, Yet he has no companion, Come ten, or come a million, Good Saadi dwells alone. Be thou ware where Saadi dwells. Gladly round that golden lamp Sylvan deities encamp, And simple maids and noble youth Are welcome to the man of truth. Most welcome they who need him most, They feed the spring which they exhaust: For greater need Draws better deed: But, critic, spare thy vanity, Nor show thy pompous parts, To vex with odious subtlety The cheerer of men's hearts. Sad-eyed Fakirs swiftly say Endless dirges to decay; Never in the blaze of light Lose the shudder of midnight; And at overflowing noon, Hear wolves barking at the moon; In the bower of dalliance sweet Hear the far Avenger's feet; And shake before those awful Powers Who in their pride forgive not ours. Thus the sad-eyed Fakirs preach; "Bard, when thee would Allah teach, And lift thee to his holy mount, He sends thee from his bitter fount, Wormwood; saying, Go thy ways, Drink not the Malaga of praise, But do the deed thy fellows hate, And compromise thy peaceful state. Smite the white breasts which thee fed, Stuff sharp thorns beneath the head Of them thou shouldst have comforted. For out of woe and out of crime Draws the heart a lore sublime." And yet it seemeth not to me That the high gods love tragedy; For Saadi sat in the sun, And thanks was his contrition; For haircloth and for bloody whips, Had active hands and smiling lips; And yet his runes he rightly read, And to his folk his message sped. Sunshine in his heart transferred Lighted each transparent word; And well could honoring Persia learn What Saadi wished to say; For Saadi's nightly stars did burn Brighter than Dschami's day. Whispered the muse in Saadi's cot; O gentle Saadi, listen not, Tempted by thy praise of wit, Or by thirst and appetite For the talents not thine own, To sons of contradiction. Never, sun of eastern morning, Follow falsehood, follow scorning, Denounce who will, who will, deny, And pile the hills to scale the sky; Let theist, atheist, pantheist, Define and wrangle how they list,— Fierce conserver, fierce destroyer, But thou joy-giver and enjoyer, Unknowing war, unknowing crime, Gentle Saadi, mind thy rhyme. Heed not what the brawlers say, Heed thou only Saadi's lay. Let the great world bustle on With war and trade, with camp and town. A thousand men shall dig and eat, At forge and furnace thousands sweat, And thousands sail the purple sea, And give or take the stroke of war, Or crowd the market and bazaar. Oft shall war end, and peace return, And cities rise where cities burn, Ere one man my hill shall climb, Who can turn the golden rhyme; Let them manage how they may, Heed thou only Saadi's lay. Seek the living among the dead: Man in man is imprisoned. Barefooted Dervish is not poor, If fate unlock his bosom's door. So that what his eye hath seen His tongue can paint, as bright, as keen, And what his tender heart hath felt, With equal fire thy heart shall melt. For, whom the muses shine upon, And touch with soft persuasion, His words like a storm-wind can bring Terror and beauty on their wing; In his every syllable Lurketh nature veritable; And though he speak in midnight dark, In heaven, no star; on earth, no spark; Yet before the listener's eye Swims the world in ecstasy, The forest waves, the morning breaks, The pastures sleep, ripple the lakes, Leaves twinkle, flowers like persons be, And life pulsates in rock or tree. Saadi! so far thy words shall reach; Suns rise and set in Saadi's speech. And thus to Saadi said the muse; Eat thou the bread which men refuse; Flee from the goods which from thee flee; Seek nothing; Fortune seeketh thee. Nor mount, nor dive; all good things keep The midway of the eternal deep; Wish not to fill the isles with eyes To fetch thee birds of paradise; On thine orchard's edge belong All the brass of plume and song; Wise Ali's sunbright sayings pass For proverbs in the market-place; Through mountains bored by regal art Toil whistles as he drives his cart. Nor scour the seas, nor sift mankind, A poet or a friend to find; Behold, he watches at the door, Behold his shadow on the floor. Open innumerable doors, The heaven where unveiled Allah pours The flood of truth, the flood of good, The seraph's and the cherub's food; Those doors are men; the pariah kind Admits thee to the perfect Mind. Seek not beyond thy cottage wall Redeemer that can yield thee all. While thou sittest at thy door, On the desert's yellow floor, Listening to the gray-haired crones, Foolish gossips, ancient drones,— Saadi, see, they rise in stature To the height of mighty nature, And the secret stands revealed Fraudulent Time in vain concealed, That blessed gods in servile masks Plied for thee thy household tasks.

Written by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | Idyll A village Chorus is supposed to be assembled, and about to commence its festive procession. [Written for the birthday of the Duchess Louisa of Weimar.] CHORUS. THE festal day hail ye With garlands of pleasure, And dances' soft measure, With rapture commingled And sweet choral song. DAMON. Oh, how I yearn from out the crowd to flee! What joy a secret glade would give to me! Amid the throng, the turmoil here, Confined the plain, the breezes e'en appear. CHORUS. Now order it truly, That ev'ry one duly May roam and may wander, Now here, and now yonder, The meadows along. [The Chorus retreats gradually, and the song becomes fainter and fainter, till it dies away in the distance.] DAMON. In vain ye call, in vain would lure me on; True my heart speaks,--but with itself alone. And if I may view A blessing-fraught land, The heaven's clear blue, And the plain's verdant hue, Alone I'll rejoice, Undisturbed by man's voice. And there I'll pay homage To womanly merit, Observe it in spirit, In spirit pay homage; To echo alone Shall my secret be known. CHORUS. [Faintly mingling with Damon's song in the distance.] To echo--alone-- Shall my secret--be known.-- MENALCAS. My friend, why meet I here with thee? Thou hast'nest not to join the festal throng? No longer stay, but come with me, And mingle in the dance and song. DAMON. Thou'rt welcome, friend! but suffer me to roam Where these old beeches hide me from man's view: Love seeks in solitude a home, And homage may retreat there too. MENALCAS. Thou seekest here a spurious fame, And hast a mind to-day to grieve me. Love as thy portion thou mayst claim But homage thou must share with all, believe me! When their voices thousands raise, And the dawn of morning praise, Rapture bringing, Blithely singing On before us, Heart and ear in pleasure vie; And when thousands join in chorus, With the feelings brightly glowing, And the wishes overflowing, Forcibly they'll bear thee high. [The Chorus gradually approaches, from the distance.] DAMON. Distant strains are hither wending, And I'm gladden'd by the throng; Yes, they're coming,--yes, descending To the valley from the height, MENALCAS. Let us haste, our footsteps blending With the rhythm of the song! Yes, they come; their course they're bending Tow'rd the wood's green sward so bright. CHORUS. [Gradually becoming louder.] Yes, we hither come, attending With the harmony of song, As the hours their race are ending On this day of blest delight. ALL. Let none reveal The thoughts we feel, The aims we own! Let joy alone Disclose the story! She'll prove it right And her delight Includes the glory, Includes the bliss Of days like this! 1813.

Written by Robert Frost | A Fountain a Bottle a Donkeys Ears and Some Books Old Davis owned a solid mica mountain In Dalton that would someday make his fortune. There'd been some Boston people out to see it: And experts said that deep down in the mountain The mica sheets were big as plate-glass windows. He'd like to take me there and show it to me. "I'll tell you what you show me. You remember You said you knew the place where once, on Kinsman, The early Mormons made a settlement And built a stone baptismal font outdoors— But Smith, or someone, called them off the mountain To go West to a worse fight with the desert. You said you'd seen the stone baptismal font. Well, take me there." Someday I will." "Today." "Huh, that old bathtub, what is that to see? Let's talk about it." "Let's go see the place." 'To shut you up I'll tell you what I'll do: I'll find that fountain if it takes all summer, And both of our united strengths, to do it." "You've lost it, then?" "Not so but I can find it. No doubt it's grown up some to woods around it. The mountain may have shifted since I saw it In eighty-five." "As long ago as that?" "If I remember rightly, it had sprung A leak and emptied then. And forty years Can do a good deal to bad masonry. You won't see any Mormon swimming in it. But you have said it, and we're off to find it. Old as I am, I'm going to let myself Be dragged by you all over everywhere——" "I thought you were a guide.” "I am a guide, And that's why I can't decently refuse you." We made a day of it out of the world, Ascending to descend to reascend. The old man seriously took his bearings, And spoke his doubts in every open place. We came out on a look-off where we faced A cliff, and on the cliff a bottle painted, Or stained by vegetation from above, A likeness to surprise the thrilly tourist. "Well, if I haven't brought you to the fountain, At least I've brought you to the famous Bottle." "I won't accept the substitute. It's empty.” "So's everything." "I want my fountain." "I guess you'd find the fountain just as empty. And anyway this tells me where I am.” "Hadn't you long suspected where you were?" "You mean miles from that Mormon settlement? Look here, you treat your guide with due respect If you don't want to spend the night outdoors. I vow we must be near the place from where The two converging slides, the avalanches, On Marshall, look like donkey's ears. We may as well see that and save the day." "Don't donkey's ears suggest we shake our own?" "For God's sake, aren't you fond of viewing nature? You don't like nature. All you like is books. What signify a donkey's cars and bottle, However natural? Give you your books! Well then, right here is where I show you books. Come straight down off this mountain just as fast As we can fall and keep a-bouncing on our feet. It's hell for knees unless done hell-for-leather." Be ready, I thought, for almost anything. We struck a road I didn't recognize, But welcomed for the chance to lave my shoes In dust once more. We followed this a mile, Perhaps, to where it ended at a house I didn't know was there. It was the kind To bring me to for broad-board paneling. I never saw so good a house deserted. "Excuse me if I ask you in a window That happens to be broken, Davis said. "The outside doors as yet have held against us. I want to introduce you to the people Who used to live here. They were Robinsons. You must have heard of Clara Robinson, The poetess who wrote the book of verses And had it published. It was all about The posies on her inner windowsill, And the birds on her outer windowsill, And how she tended both, or had them tended: She never tended anything herself. She was 'shut in' for life. She lived her whole Life long in bed, and wrote her things in bed. I'll show You how she had her sills extended To entertain the birds and hold the flowers. Our business first's up attic with her books." We trod uncomfortably on crunching glass Through a house stripped of everything Except, it seemed, the poetess's poems. Books, I should say!—-if books are what is needed. A whole edition in a packing case That, overflowing like a horn of plenty, Or like the poetess's heart of love, Had spilled them near the window, toward the light Where driven rain had wet and swollen them. Enough to stock a village library— Unfortunately all of one kind, though. They bad been brought home from some publisher And taken thus into the family. Boys and bad hunters had known what to do With stone and lead to unprotected glass: Shatter it inward on the unswept floors. How had the tender verse escaped their outrage? By being invisible for what it was, Or else by some remoteness that defied them To find out what to do to hurt a poem. Yet oh! the tempting flatness of a book, To send it sailing out the attic window Till it caught wind and, opening out its covers, Tried to improve on sailing like a tile By flying like a bird (silent in flight, But all the burden of its body song), Only to tumble like a stricken bird, And lie in stones and bushes unretrieved. Books were not thrown irreverently about. They simply lay where someone now and then, Having tried one, had dropped it at his feet And left it lying where it fell rejected. Here were all those the poetess's life Had been too short to sell or give away. "Take one," Old Davis bade me graciously. "Why not take two or three?" "Take all you want." Good-looking books like that." He picked one fresh In virgin wrapper from deep in the box, And stroked it with a horny-handed kindness. He read in one and I read in another, Both either looking for or finding something. The attic wasps went missing by like bullets. I was soon satisfied for the time being. All the way home I kept remembering The small book in my pocket. It was there. The poetess had sighed, I knew, in heaven At having eased her heart of one more copy— Legitimately. My demand upon her, Though slight, was a demand. She felt the tug. In time she would be rid of all her books.

Written by Delmore Schwartz | The Poet The riches of the poet are equal to his poetry His power is his left hand It is idle weak and precious His poverty is his wealth, a wealth which may destroy him like Midas Because it is that laziness which is a form of impatience And this he may be destroyed by the gold of the light which never was On land or sea. He may be drunken to death, draining the casks of excess That extreme form of success. He may suffer Narcissus' destiny Unable to live except with the image which is infatuation Love, blind, adoring, overflowing Unable to respond to anything which does not bring love quickly or immediately. ...The poet must be innocent and ignorant But he cannot be innocent since stupidity is not his strong point Therefore Cocteau said, "What would I not give To have the poems of my youth withdrawn from existence? I would give to Satan my immortal soul." This metaphor is wrong, for it is his immortal soul which he wished to redeem, Lifting it and sifting it, free and white, from the actuality of youth's banality, vulgarity, pomp and affectation of his early works of poetry. So too in the same way a Famous American Poet When fame at last had come to him sought out the fifty copies of his first book of poems which had been privately printed by himself at his own expense. He succeeded in securing 48 of the 50 copies, burned them And learned then how the last copies were extant, As the law of the land required, stashed away in the national capital, at the Library of Congress. Therefore he went to Washington, therefore he took out the last two copies Placed them in his pocket, planned to depart Only to be halted and apprehended. Since he was the author, Since they were his books and his property he was reproached But forgiven. But the two copies were taken away from him Thus setting a national precedent. For neither amnesty nor forgiveness is bestowed upon poets, poetry and poems, For William James, the lovable genius of Harvard spoke the terrifying truth: "Your friends may forget, God may forgive you, But the brain cells record your acts for the rest of eternity." What a terrifying thing to say! This is the endless doom, without remedy, of poetry. This is also the joy everlasting of poetry.