Best Famous Palls Poems

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

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• All Famous Palls Poems

Written by Edgar Allan Poe | The Sleeper At midnight, in the month of June, I stand beneath the mystic moon. An opiate vapor, dewy, dim, Exhales from out her golden rim, And, softly dripping, drop by drop, Upon the quiet mountain top, Steals drowsily and musically Into the universal valley. The rosemary nods upon the grave; The lily lolls upon the wave; Wrapping the fog about its breast, The ruin molders into rest; Looking like Lethe, see! the lake A conscious slumber seems to take, And would not, for the world, awake. All Beauty sleeps!- and lo! where lies Irene, with her Destinies! O, lady bright! can it be right- This window open to the night? The wanton airs, from the tree-top, Laughingly through the lattice drop- The bodiless airs, a wizard rout, Flit through thy chamber in and out, And wave the curtain canopy So fitfully- so fearfully- Above the closed and fringed lid 'Neath which thy slumb'ring soul lies hid, That, o'er the floor and down the wall, Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall! Oh, lady dear, hast thou no fear? Why and what art thou dreaming here? Sure thou art come O'er far-off seas, A wonder to these garden trees! Strange is thy pallor! strange thy dress, Strange, above all, thy length of tress, And this all solemn silentness! The lady sleeps! Oh, may her sleep, Which is enduring, so be deep! Heaven have her in its sacred keep! This chamber changed for one more holy, This bed for one more melancholy, I pray to God that she may lie For ever with unopened eye, While the pale sheeted ghosts go by! My love, she sleeps! Oh, may her sleep As it is lasting, so be deep! Soft may the worms about her creep! Far in the forest, dim and old, For her may some tall vault unfold- Some vault that oft has flung its black And winged panels fluttering back, Triumphant, o'er the crested palls, Of her grand family funerals- Some sepulchre, remote, alone, Against whose portal she hath thrown, In childhood, many an idle stone- Some tomb from out whose sounding door She ne'er shall force an echo more, Thrilling to think, poor child of sin! It was the dead who groaned within.

Written by Sylvia Plath | Marys Song The Sunday lamb cracks in its fat. The fat Sacrifices its opacity. . . . A window, holy gold. The fire makes it precious, The same fire Melting the tallow heretics, Ousting the Jews. Their thick palls float Over the cicatrix of Poland, burnt-out Germany. They do not die. Grey birds obsess my heart, Mouth-ash, ash of eye. They settle. On the high Precipice That emptied one man into space The ovens glowed like heavens, incandescent. It is a heart, This holocaust I walk in, O golden child the world will kill and eat.

Written by Amy Lowell | The Basket I The inkstand is full of ink, and the paper lies white and unspotted, in the round of light thrown by a candle. Puffs of darkness sweep into the corners, and keep rolling through the room behind his chair. The air is silver and pearl, for the night is liquid with moonlight. See how the roof glitters, like ice! Over there, a slice of yellow cuts into the silver-blue, and beside it stand two geraniums, purple because the light is silver-blue, to-night. See! She is coming, the young woman with the bright hair. She swings a basket as she walks, which she places on the sill, between the geranium stalks. He laughs, and crumples his paper as he leans forward to look. "The Basket Filled with Moonlight", what a title for a book! The bellying clouds swing over the housetops. He has forgotten the woman in the room with the geraniums. He is beating his brain, and in his eardrums hammers his heavy pulse. She sits on the window-sill, with the basket in her lap. And tap! She cracks a nut. And tap! Another. Tap! Tap! Tap! The shells ricochet upon the roof, and get into the gutters, and bounce over the edge and disappear. "It is very *****," thinks Peter, "the basket was empty, I'm sure. How could nuts appear from the atmosphere?" The silver-blue moonlight makes the geraniums purple, and the roof glitters like ice. II Five o'clock. The geraniums are very gay in their crimson array. The bellying clouds swing over the housetops, and over the roofs goes Peter to pay his morning's work with a holiday. "Annette, it is I. Have you finished? Can I come?" Peter jumps through the window. "Dear, are you alone?" "Look, Peter, the dome of the tabernacle is done. This gold thread is so very high, I am glad it is morning, a starry sky would have seen me bankrupt. Sit down, now tell me, is your story going well?" The golden dome glittered in the orange of the setting sun. On the walls, at intervals, hung altar-cloths and chasubles, and copes, and stoles, and coffin palls. All stiff with rich embroidery, and stitched with so much artistry, they seemed like spun and woven gems, or flower-buds new-opened on their stems. Annette looked at the geraniums, very red against the blue sky. "No matter how I try, I cannot find any thread of such a red. My bleeding hearts drip stuff muddy in comparison. Heigh-ho! See my little pecking dove? I'm in love with my own temple. Only that halo's wrong. The colour's too strong, or not strong enough. I don't know. My eyes are tired. Oh, Peter, don't be so rough; it is valuable. I won't do any more. I promise. You tyrannise, Dear, that's enough. Now sit down and amuse me while I rest." The shadows of the geraniums creep over the floor, and begin to climb the opposite wall. Peter watches her, fluid with fatigue, floating, and drifting, and undulant in the orange glow. His senses flow towards her, where she lies supine and dreaming. Seeming drowned in a golden halo. The pungent smell of the geraniums is hard to bear. He pushes against her knees, and brushes his lips across her languid hands. His lips are hot and speechless. He woos her, quivering, and the room is filled with shadows, for the sun has set. But she only understands the ways of a needle through delicate stuffs, and the shock of one colour on another. She does not see that this is the same, and querulously murmurs his name. "Peter, I don't want it. I am tired." And he, the undesired, burns and is consumed. There is a crescent moon on the rim of the sky. III "Go home, now, Peter. To-night is full moon. I must be alone." "How soon the moon is full again! Annette, let me stay. Indeed, Dear Love, I shall not go away. My God, but you keep me starved! You write `No Entrance Here', over all the doors. Is it not strange, my Dear, that loving, yet you deny me entrance everywhere. Would marriage strike you blind, or, hating bonds as you do, why should I be denied the rights of loving if I leave you free? You want the whole of me, you pick my brains to rest you, but you give me not one heart-beat. Oh, forgive me, Sweet! I suffer in my loving, and you know it. I cannot feed my life on being a poet. Let me stay." "As you please, poor Peter, but it will hurt me if you do. It will crush your heart and squeeze the love out." He answered gruffly, "I know what I'm about." "Only remember one thing from to-night. My work is taxing and I must have sight! I MUST!" The clear moon looks in between the geraniums. On the wall, the shadow of the man is divided from the shadow of the woman by a silver thread. They are eyes, hundreds of eyes, round like marbles! Unwinking, for there are no lids. Blue, black, gray, and hazel, and the irises are cased in the whites, and they glitter and spark under the moon. The basket is heaped with human eyes. She cracks off the whites and throws them away. They ricochet upon the roof, and get into the gutters, and bounce over the edge and disappear. But she is here, quietly sitting on the window-sill, eating human eyes. The silver-blue moonlight makes the geraniums purple, and the roof shines like ice. IV How hot the sheets are! His skin is tormented with pricks, and over him sticks, and never moves, an eye. It lights the sky with blood, and drips blood. And the drops sizzle on his bare skin, and he smells them burning in, and branding his body with the name "Annette". The blood-red sky is outside his window now. Is it blood or fire? Merciful God! Fire! And his heart wrenches and pounds "Annette!" The lead of the roof is scorching, he ricochets, gets to the edge, bounces over and disappears. The bellying clouds are red as they swing over the housetops. V The air is of silver and pearl, for the night is liquid with moonlight. How the ruin glistens, like a palace of ice! Only two black holes swallow the brilliance of the moon. Deflowered windows, sockets without sight. A man stands before the house. He sees the silver-blue moonlight, and set in it, over his head, staring and flickering, eyes of geranium red. Annette!

Written by Harold Pinter | Message Jill. Fred phoned. He can't make tonight. He said he'd call again, as soon as poss. I said (on your behalf) OK, no sweat. He said to tell you he was fine, Only the crap, he said, you know, it sticks, The crap you have to fight. You're sometimes nothing but a walking shithouse. I was well acquainted with the pong myself, I told him, and I counselled calm. Don't let the fuckers get you down, Take the lid off the kettle a couple of minutes, Go on the town, burn someone to death, Find another tart, giver her some hammer, Live while you're young, until it palls, Kick the first blind man you meet in the balls. Anyway he'll call again. I'll be back in time for tea. Your loving mother.

Written by Kathleen Raine | Lament Where are those dazzling hills touched by the sun, Those crags in childhood that I used to climb? Hidden, hidden under mist is yonder mountain, Hidden is the heart. A day of cloud, a lifetime falls between, Gone are the heather moors and the pure stream, Gone are the rocky places and the green, Hidden, hidden under sorrow is yonder mountain, Hidden, hidden. O storm and gale of tears, whose blinding screen Makes weather of grief, snow's drifting curtain Palls th'immortal heights once seen. Hidden, hidden is the heart, Hidden, hidden is the heart.

Written by Emily Dickinson | Upon Concluded Lives Upon Concluded Lives There's nothing cooler falls -- Than Life's sweet Calculations -- The mixing Bells and Palls -- Make Lacerating Tune -- To Ears the Dying Side -- 'Tis Coronal -- and Funeral -- Saluting -- in the Road --

Written by Victor Hugo | The Poet's Simple Faith You say, "Where goest thou?" I cannot tell, And still go on. If but the way be straight, It cannot go amiss! before me lies Dawn and the Day; the Night behind me; that Suffices me; I break the bounds; I see, And nothing more; believe, and nothing less. My future is not one of my concerns. PROF. E. DOWDEN. I AM CONTENT. ("J'habite l'ombre.") {1855.} True; I dwell lone, Upon sea-beaten cape, Mere raft of stone; Whence all escape Save one who shrinks not from the gloom, And will not take the coward's leap i' the tomb. My bedroom rocks With breezes; quakes in storms, When dangling locks Of seaweed mock the forms Of straggling clouds that trail o'erhead Like tresses from disrupted coffin-lead. Upon the sky Crape palls are often nailed With stars. Mine eye Has scared the gull that sailed To blacker depths with shrillest scream, Still fainter, till like voices in a dream. My days become More plaintive, wan, and pale, While o'er the foam I see, borne by the gale, Infinity! in kindness sent— To find me ever saying: "I'm content!"

Written by Francesco Petrarch | Sonnet CLXV SONNET CLXV. L' aura soave ch' al sol spiega e vibra. HIS HEART LIES TANGLED IN HER HAIR. The pleasant gale, that to the sun unplaitsAnd spreads the gold Love's fingers weave, and braidO'er her fine eyes, and all around her head,Fetters my heart, the wishful sigh creates:No nerve but thrills, no artery but beats,Approaching my fair arbiter with dread,Who in her doubtful scale hath ofttimes weigh'dWhether or death or life on me awaits;Beholding, too, those eyes their fires display,And on those shoulders shine such wreaths of hair,Whose witching tangles my poor heart ensnare.But how this magic's wrought I cannot say;For twofold radiance doth my reason blind,And sweetness to excess palls and o'erpowers my mind. Nott. The soft gale to the sun which shakes and spreadsThe gold which Love's own hand has spun and wrought.[Pg 179]There, with her bright eyes and those fairy threads,Binds my poor heart and sifts each idle thought.My veins of blood, my bones of marrow fail,Thrills all my frame when I, to hear or gaze,Draw near to her, who oft, in balance frail,My life and death together holds and weighs,And see those love-fires shine wherein I burn,And, as its snow each sweetest shoulder heaves,Flash the fair tresses right and left by turn;Verse fails to paint what fancy scarce conceives.From two such lights is intellect distress'd,And by such sweetness weary and oppress'd. Macgregor.