10 Best Famous Overmuch Poems

Here is a collection of the top 10 all-time best famous Overmuch poems. This is a select list of the best famous Overmuch poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Overmuch poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of overmuch poems.

• All Famous Overmuch Poems

I MIND me in the days departed, 
How often underneath the sun 
With childish bounds I used to run 
To a garden long deserted. 

The beds and walks were vanish'd quite; 5 
And wheresoe'er had struck the spade, 
The greenest grasses Nature laid, 
To sanctify her right. 

I call'd the place my wilderness, 
For no one enter'd there but I. 10 
The sheep look'd in, the grass to espy, 
And pass'd it ne'ertheless. 

The trees were interwoven wild, 
And spread their boughs enough about 
To keep both sheep and shepherd out, 15 
But not a happy child. 

Adventurous joy it was for me! 
I crept beneath the boughs, and found 
A circle smooth of mossy ground 
Beneath a poplar-tree. 20 

Old garden rose-trees hedged it in, 
Bedropt with roses waxen-white, 
Well satisfied with dew and light, 
And careless to be seen. 

Long years ago, it might befall, 25 
When all the garden flowers were trim, 
The grave old gardener prided him 
On these the most of all. 

Some Lady, stately overmuch, 
Here moving with a silken noise, 30 
Has blush'd beside them at the voice 
That liken'd her to such. 

Or these, to make a diadem, 
She often may have pluck'd and twined; 
Half-smiling as it came to mind, 35 
That few would look at them. 

O, little thought that Lady proud, 
A child would watch her fair white rose, 
When buried lay her whiter brows, 
And silk was changed for shroud!¡ª 40 

Nor thought that gardener (full of scorns 
For men unlearn'd and simple phrase) 
A child would bring it all its praise, 
By creeping through the thorns! 

To me upon my low moss seat, 45 
Though never a dream the roses sent 
Of science or love's compliment, 
I ween they smelt as sweet. 

It did not move my grief to see 
The trace of human step departed: 50 
Because the garden was deserted, 
The blither place for me! 

Friends, blame me not! a narrow ken 
Hath childhood 'twixt the sun and sward: 
We draw the moral afterward¡ª 55 
We feel the gladness then. 

And gladdest hours for me did glide 
In silence at the rose-tree wall: 
A thrush made gladness musical 
Upon the other side. 60 

Nor he nor I did e'er incline 
To peck or pluck the blossoms white:¡ª 
How should I know but that they might 
Lead lives as glad as mine? 

To make my hermit-home complete, 65 
I brought clear water from the spring 
Praised in its own low murmuring, 
And cresses glossy wet. 

And so, I thought, my likeness grew 
(Without the melancholy tale) 70 
To 'gentle hermit of the dale,' 
And Angelina too. 

For oft I read within my nook 
Such minstrel stories; till the breeze 
Made sounds poetic in the trees, 75 
And then I shut the book. 

If I shut this wherein I write, 
I hear no more the wind athwart 
Those trees, nor feel that childish heart 
Delighting in delight. 80 

My childhood from my life is parted, 
My footstep from the moss which drew 
Its fairy circle round: anew 
The garden is deserted. 

Another thrush may there rehearse 85 
The madrigals which sweetest are; 
No more for me!¡ªmyself afar 
Do sing a sadder verse. 

Ah me! ah me! when erst I lay 
In that child's-nest so greenly wrought, 90 
I laugh'd unto myself and thought, 
'The time will pass away.' 

And still I laugh'd, and did not fear 
But that, whene'er was pass'd away 
The childish time, some happier play 95 
My womanhood would cheer. 

I knew the time would pass away; 
And yet, beside the rose-tree wall, 
Dear God, how seldom, if at all, 
Did I look up to pray! 100 

The time is past: and now that grows 
The cypress high among the trees, 
And I behold white sepulchres 
As well as the white rose,¡ª 

When wiser, meeker thoughts are given, 105 
And I have learnt to lift my face, 
Reminded how earth's greenest place 
The colour draws from heaven,¡ª 

It something saith for earthly pain, 
But more for heavenly promise free, 110 
That I who was, would shrink to be 
That happy child again. 

 To be in love 
Is to touch with a lighter hand. 
In yourself you stretch, you are well. 
You look at things 
Through his eyes. 
A cardinal is red. 
A sky is blue. 
Suddenly you know he knows too. 
He is not there but 
You know you are tasting together 
The winter, or a light spring weather. 
His hand to take your hand is overmuch. 
Too much to bear. 
You cannot look in his eyes 
Because your pulse must not say 
What must not be said. 
When he 
Shuts a door- 
Is not there_ 
Your arms are water. 
And you are free 
With a ghastly freedom. 
You are the beautiful half 
Of a golden hurt. 
You remember and covet his mouth 
To touch, to whisper on. 
Oh when to declare 
Is certain Death! 
Oh when to apprize 
Is to mesmerize, 
To see fall down, the Column of Gold, 
Into the commonest ash.

 Once more the storm is howling, and half hid
Under this cradle-hood and coverlid
My child sleeps on. There is no obstacle
But Gregory's wood and one bare hill
Whereby the haystack- and roof-levelling wind.
Bred on the Atlantic, can be stayed;
And for an hour I have walked and prayed
Because of the great gloom that is in my mind.

I have walked and prayed for this young child an hour
And heard the sea-wind scream upon the tower,
And-under the arches of the bridge, and scream
In the elms above the flooded stream;
Imagining in excited reverie
That the future years had come,
Dancing to a frenzied drum,
Out of the murderous innocence of the sea.

May she be granted beauty and yet not
Beauty to make a stranger's eye distraught,
Or hers before a looking-glass, for such,
Being made beautiful overmuch,
Consider beauty a sufficient end,
Lose natural kindness and maybe
The heart-revealing intimacy
That chooses right, and never find a friend.

Helen being chosen found life flat and dull
And later had much trouble from a fool,
While that great Queen, that rose out of the spray,
Being fatherless could have her way
Yet chose a bandy-leggèd smith for man.
It's certain that fine women eat
A crazy salad with their meat
Whereby the Horn of plenty is undone.

In courtesy I'd have her chiefly learned;
Hearts are not had as a gift but hearts are earned
By those that are not entirely beautiful;
Yet many, that have played the fool
For beauty's very self, has charm made wisc.
And many a poor man that has roved,
Loved and thought himself beloved,
From a glad kindness cannot take his eyes.

May she become a flourishing hidden tree
That all her thoughts may like the linnet be,
And have no business but dispensing round
Their magnanimities of sound,
Nor but in merriment begin a chase,
Nor but in merriment a quarrel.
O may she live like some green laurel
Rooted in one dear perpetual place.

My mind, because the minds that I have loved,
The sort of beauty that I have approved,
Prosper but little, has dried up of late,
Yet knows that to be choked with hate
May well be of all evil chances chief.
If there's no hatred in a mind
Assault and battery of the wind
Can never tear the linnet from the leaf.

An intellectual hatred is the worst,
So let her think opinions are accursed.
Have I not seen the loveliest woman born
Out of the mouth of plenty's horn,
Because of her opinionated mind
Barter that horn and every good
By quiet natures understood
For an old bellows full of angry wind?

Considering that, all hatred driven hence,
The soul recovers radical innocence
And learns at last that it is self-delighting,
Self-appeasing, self-affrighting,
And that its own sweet will is Heaven's will;
She can, though every face should scowl
And every windy quarter howl
Or every bellows burst, be happy Still.

And may her bridegroom bring her to a house
Where all's accustomed, ceremonious;
For arrogance and hatred are the wares
Peddled in the thoroughfares.
How but in custom and in ceremony
Are innocence and beauty born?
Ceremony's a name for the rich horn,
And custom for the spreading laurel tree.

 I

Happy are men who yet before they are killed
Can let their veins run cold.
Whom no compassion fleers
Or makes their feet
Sore on the alleys cobbled with their brothers.
The front line withers,
But they are troops who fade, not flowers
For poets' tearful fooling:
Men, gaps for filling
Losses who might have fought
Longer; but no one bothers.


 II

And some cease feeling
Even themselves or for themselves.
Dullness best solves
The tease and doubt of shelling,
And Chance's strange arithmetic
Comes simpler than the reckoning of their shilling.
They keep no check on Armies' decimation.


 III

Happy are these who lose imagination:
They have enough to carry with ammunition.
Their spirit drags no pack.
Their old wounds save with cold can not more ache.
Having seen all things red,
Their eyes are rid
Of the hurt of the colour of blood for ever.
And terror's first constriction over,
Their hearts remain small drawn.
Their senses in some scorching cautery of battle
Now long since ironed,
Can laugh among the dying, unconcerned.


 IV

Happy the soldier home, with not a notion
How somewhere, every dawn, some men attack,
And many sighs are drained.
Happy the lad whose mind was never trained:
His days are worth forgetting more than not.
He sings along the march
Which we march taciturn, because of dusk,
The long, forlorn, relentless trend
From larger day to huger night.


 V

We wise, who with a thought besmirch
Blood over all our soul,
How should we see our task
But through his blunt and lashless eyes?
Alive, he is not vital overmuch;
Dying, not mortal overmuch;
Nor sad, nor proud,
Nor curious at all.
He cannot tell
Old men's placidity from his.


 VI

But cursed are dullards whom no cannon stuns,
That they should be as stones.
Wretched are they, and mean
With paucity that never was simplicity.
By choice they made themselves immune
To pity and whatever mourns in man
Before the last sea and the hapless stars;
Whatever mourns when many leave these shores;
Whatever shares
The eternal reciprocity of tears.

 We've sent our little Cupids all ashore --
 They were frightened, they were tired, they were cold:
Our sails of silk and purple go to store,
 And we've cut away our mast of beaten gold
  (Foul weather!)
Oh 'tis hemp and singing pine for to stand against the brine,
 But Love he is our master as of old!

The sea has shorn our galleries away,
 The salt has soiled our gilding past remede;
Our paint is flaked and blistered by the spray,
 Our sides are half a fathom furred in weed
  (Foul weather!)
And the Doves of Venus fled and the petrels came instead,
 But Love he was our master at our need!

'Was Youth would keep no vigil at the bow,
 'Was Pleasure at the helm too drunk to steer --
We've shipped three able quartermasters now.
 Men call them Custom, Reverence, and Fear
  (Foul weather!)
They are old and scarred and plain, but we'll run no risk again
 From any Port o' Paphos mutineer!

We seek no more the tempest for delight,
 We skirt no more the indraught and the shoal --
We ask no more of any day or night
 Than to come with least adventure to our goal
  (Foul weather!)
What we find we needs must brook, but we do not go to look,
 Nor tempt the Lord our God that saved us whole.

Yet, caring so, not overmuch we care
 To brace and trim for every foolish blast,
If the squall be pleased to seep us unaware,
 He may bellow off to leeward like the last
  (Foul weather!)
We will blame it on the deep (for the watch must have their sleep),
 And Love can come and wake us when 'tis past.

Oh launch them down with music from the beach,
 Oh warp them out with garlands from the quays --
Most resolute -- a damsel unto each --
 New prows that seek the old Hesperides!
  (Foul weather!)
Though we know their voyage is vain, yet we see our path again
 In the saffroned bridesails scenting all the seas!
  (Foul weather!)

 My desires are many and my cry is pitiful, 
but ever didst thou save me by hard refusals; 
and this strong mercy has been wrought into my life through and through. 

Day by day thou art making me worthy of the simple, 
great gifts that thou gavest to me unasked---this sky and the light, this body and the 
life and the mind---saving me from perils of overmuch desire. 

There are times when I languidly linger 
and times when I awaken and hurry in search of my goal; 
but cruelly thou hidest thyself from before me. 

Day by day thou art making me worthy of thy full acceptance by 
refusing me ever and anon, saving me from perils of weak, uncertain desire.

 To be in love 
Is to touch with a lighter hand. 
In yourself you stretch, you are well. 
You look at things 
Through his eyes. 
A cardinal is red. 
A sky is blue. 
Suddenly you know he knows too. 
He is not there but 
You know you are tasting together 
The winter, or a light spring weather. 
His hand to take your hand is overmuch. 
Too much to bear. 
You cannot look in his eyes 
Because your pulse must not say 
What must not be said. 
When he 
Shuts a door- 
Is not there_ 
Your arms are water. 
And you are free 
With a ghastly freedom. 
You are the beautiful half 
Of a golden hurt. 
You remember and covet his mouth 
To touch, to whisper on. 
Oh when to declare 
Is certain Death! 
Oh when to apprize 
Is to mesmerize, 
To see fall down, the Column of Gold, 
Into the commonest ash.

 Her little head just topped the window-sill;
She even mounted on a stool, maybe;
She pressed against the pane, as children will,
And watched us playing, oh so wistfully!
And then I missed her for a month or more,
And idly thought: "She's gone away, no doubt,"
Until a hearse drew up beside the door . . .
I saw a tiny coffin carried out.

And after that, towards dusk I'd often see
Behind the blind another face that looked:
Eyes of a young wife watching anxiously,
Then rushing back to where her dinner cooked.
She often gulped it down alone, I fear,
Within her heart the sadness of despair,
For near to midnight I would vaguely hear
A lurching step, a stumbling on the stair.

These little dramas of the common day!
A man weak-willed and fore-ordained to fail . . .
The window's empty now, they've gone away,
And yonder, see, their furniture's for sale.
To all the world their door is open wide,
And round and round the bargain-hunters roam,
And peer and gloat, like vultures avid-eyed,
Above the corpse of what was once a home.

So reverent I go from room to room,
And see the patient care, the tender touch,
The love that sought to brighten up the gloom,
The woman-courage tested overmuch.
Amid those things so intimate and dear,
Where now the mob invades with brutal tread,
I think: "What happiness is buried here,
What dreams are withered and what hopes are dead!"

Oh, woman dear, and were you sweet and glad
Over the lining of your little nest!
What ponderings and proud ideas you had!
What visions of a shrine of peace and rest!
For there's his easy-chair upon the rug,
His reading-lamp, his pipe-rack on the wall,
All that you could devise to make him snug --
And yet you could not hold him with it all.

Ah, patient heart, what homelike joys you planned
To stay him by the dull domestic flame!
Those silken cushions that you worked by hand
When you had time, before the baby came.
Oh, how you wove around him cozy spells,
And schemed so hard to keep him home of nights!
Aye, every touch and turn some story tells
Of sweet conspiracies and dead delights.

And here upon the scratched piano stool,
Tied in a bundle, are the songs you sung;
That cozy that you worked in colored wool,
The Spanish lace you made when you were young,
And lots of modern novels, cheap reprints,
And little dainty knick-knacks everywhere;
And silken bows and curtains of gay chintz . . .
And oh, her tiny crib, her folding chair!

Sweet woman dear, and did your heart not break,
To leave this precious home you made in vain?
Poor shabby things! so prized for old times' sake,
With all their memories of love and pain.
Alas! while shouts the raucous auctioneer,
And rat-faced dames are prying everywhere,
The echo of old joy is all I hear,
All, all I see just heartbreak and despair.

 ("Amis! ennui nous tue.") 
 
 {Bk. IV. xv., March, 1825.} 


 Aweary unto death, my friends, a mood by wise abhorred, 
 Come to the novel feast I spread, thrice-consul, Nero, lord, 
 The Caesar, master of the world, and eke of harmony, 
 Who plays the harp of many strings, a chief of minstrelsy. 
 
 My joyful call should instantly bring all who love me most,— 
 For ne'er were seen such arch delights from Greek or Roman host; 
 Nor at the free, control-less jousts, where, spite of cynic vaunts, 
 Austere but lenient Seneca no "Ercles" bumper daunts; 
 
 Nor where upon the Tiber floats Aglae in galley gay, 
 'Neath Asian tent of brilliant stripes, in gorgeous array; 
 Nor when to lutes and tambourines the wealthy prefect flings 
 A score of slaves, their fetters wreathed, to feed grim, greedy 
 things. 
 
 I vow to show ye Rome aflame, the whole town in a mass; 
 Upon this tower we'll take our stand to watch the 'wildered pass; 
 How paltry fights of men and beasts! here be my combatants,— 
 The Seven Hills my circus form, and fiends shall lead the dance. 
 
 This is more meet for him who rules to drive away his stress— 
 He, being god, should lightnings hurl and make a wilderness— 
 But, haste! for night is darkling—soon, the festival it brings; 
 Already see the hydra show its tongues and sombre wings, 
 
 And mark upon a shrinking prey the rush of kindling breaths; 
 They tap and sap the threatened walls, and bear uncounted deaths; 
 And 'neath caresses scorching hot the palaces decay— 
 Oh, that I, too, could thus caress, and burn, and blight, and slay! 
 
 Hark to the hubbub! scent the fumes! Are those real men or ghosts? 
 The stillness spreads of Death abroad—down come the temple posts, 
 Their molten bronze is coursing fast and joins with silver waves 
 To leap with hiss of thousand snakes where Tiber writhes and raves. 
 
 All's lost! in jasper, marble, gold, the statues totter—crash! 
 Spite of the names divine engraved, they are but dust and ash. 
 The victor-scourge sweeps swollen on, whilst north winds sound the horn 
 To goad the flies of fire yet beyond the flight forlorn. 
 
 Proud capital! farewell for e'er! these flames nought can subdue— 
 The Aqueduct of Sylla gleams, a bridge o'er hellish brew. 
 'Tis Nero's whim! how good to see Rome brought the lowest down; 
 Yet, Queen of all the earth, give thanks for such a splendrous crown! 
 
 When I was young, the Sybils pledged eternal rule to thee; 
 That Time himself would lay his bones before thy unbent knee. 
 Ha! ha! how brief indeed the space ere this "immortal star" 
 Shall be consumed in its own glow, and vanished—oh, how far! 
 
 How lovely conflagrations look when night is utter dark! 
 The youth who fired Ephesus' fane falls low beneath my mark. 
 The pangs of people—when I sport, what matters?—See them whirl 
 About, as salamanders frisk and in the brazier curl. 
 
 Take from my brow this poor rose-crown—the flames have made it pine; 
 If blood rains on your festive gowns, wash off with Cretan wine! 
 I like not overmuch that red—good taste says "gild a crime?" 
 "To stifle shrieks by drinking-songs" is—thanks! a hint sublime! 
 
 I punish Rome, I am avenged; did she not offer prayers 
 Erst unto Jove, late unto Christ?—to e'en a Jew, she dares! 
 Now, in thy terror, own my right to rule above them all; 
 Alone I rest—except this pile, I leave no single hall. 
 
 Yet I destroy to build anew, and Rome shall fairer shine— 
 But out, my guards, and slay the dolts who thought me not divine. 
 The stiffnecks, haste! annihilate! make ruin all complete— 
 And, slaves, bring in fresh roses—what odor is more sweet? 
 
 H.L. WILLIAMS 


 

 I towered far, and lo! I stood within 
 The presence of the Lord Most High, 
Sent thither by the sons of earth, to win 
 Some answer to their cry. 

 --"The Earth, say'st thou? The Human race? 
 By Me created? Sad its lot? 
Nay: I have no remembrance of such place: 
 Such world I fashioned not." - 

 --"O Lord, forgive me when I say 
 Thou spak'st the word, and mad'st it all." - 
"The Earth of men--let me bethink me . . . Yea! 
 I dimly do recall 

 "Some tiny sphere I built long back 
 (Mid millions of such shapes of mine) 
So named . . . It perished, surely--not a wrack 
 Remaining, or a sign? 

 "It lost my interest from the first, 
 My aims therefor succeeding ill; 
Haply it died of doing as it durst?" - 
 "Lord, it existeth still." - 

 "Dark, then, its life! For not a cry 
 Of aught it bears do I now hear; 
Of its own act the threads were snapt whereby 
 Its plaints had reached mine ear. 

 "It used to ask for gifts of good, 
 Till came its severance self-entailed, 
When sudden silence on that side ensued, 
 And has till now prevailed. 

 "All other orbs have kept in touch; 
 Their voicings reach me speedily: 
Thy people took upon them overmuch 
 In sundering them from me! 

 "And it is strange--though sad enough - 
 Earth's race should think that one whose call 
Frames, daily, shining spheres of flawless stuff 
 Must heed their tainted ball! . . . 

 "But say'st thou 'tis by pangs distraught, 
 And strife, and silent suffering? - 
Deep grieved am I that injury should be wrought 
 Even on so poor a thing! 

 "Thou should'st have learnt that Not to Mend 
 For Me could mean but Not to Know: 
Hence, Messengers! and straightway put an end 
 To what men undergo." . . . 

 Homing at dawn, I thought to see 
 One of the Messengers standing by. 
- Oh, childish thought! . . . Yet oft it comes to me 
 When trouble hovers nigh.