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Best Famous Pass On Poems

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

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Written by Robert Southey | Create an image from this poem

Mary - A Ballad

 Author Note: The story of the following ballad was related to me, when a school boy, as a fact which had really happened in the North of England.
I have adopted the metre of Mr.
Lewis's Alonzo and Imogene--a poem deservedly popular.
I.
Who is she, the poor Maniac, whose wildly-fix'd eyes Seem a heart overcharged to express? She weeps not, yet often and deeply she sighs, She never complains, but her silence implies The composure of settled distress.
II.
No aid, no compassion the Maniac will seek, Cold and hunger awake not her care: Thro' her rags do the winds of the winter blow bleak On her poor withered bosom half bare, and her cheek Has the deathy pale hue of despair.
III.
Yet chearful and happy, nor distant the day, Poor Mary the Maniac has been; The Traveller remembers who journeyed this way No damsel so lovely, no damsel so gay As Mary the Maid of the Inn.
IV.
Her chearful address fill'd the guests with delight As she welcomed them in with a smile: Her heart was a stranger to childish affright, And Mary would walk by the Abbey at night When the wind whistled down the dark aisle.
V.
She loved, and young Richard had settled the day, And she hoped to be happy for life; But Richard was idle and worthless, and they Who knew him would pity poor Mary and say That she was too good for his wife.
VI.
'Twas in autumn, and stormy and dark was the night, And fast were the windows and door; Two guests sat enjoying the fire that burnt bright, And smoking in silence with tranquil delight They listen'd to hear the wind roar.
VII.
"Tis pleasant," cried one, "seated by the fire side "To hear the wind whistle without.
" "A fine night for the Abbey!" his comrade replied, "Methinks a man's courage would now be well tried "Who should wander the ruins about.
VIII.
"I myself, like a school-boy, should tremble to hear "The hoarse ivy shake over my head; "And could fancy I saw, half persuaded by fear, "Some ugly old Abbot's white spirit appear, "For this wind might awaken the dead!" IX.
"I'll wager a dinner," the other one cried, "That Mary would venture there now.
" "Then wager and lose!" with a sneer he replied, "I'll warrant she'd fancy a ghost by her side, "And faint if she saw a white cow.
" X.
"Will Mary this charge on her courage allow?" His companion exclaim'd with a smile; "I shall win, for I know she will venture there now, "And earn a new bonnet by bringing a bough "From the elder that grows in the aisle.
" XI.
With fearless good humour did Mary comply, And her way to the Abbey she bent; The night it was dark, and the wind it was high And as hollowly howling it swept thro' the sky She shiver'd with cold as she went.
XII.
O'er the path so well known still proceeded the Maid Where the Abbey rose dim on the sight, Thro' the gate-way she entered, she felt not afraid Yet the ruins were lonely and wild, and their shade Seem'd to deepen the gloom of the night.
XIII.
All around her was silent, save when the rude blast Howl'd dismally round the old pile; Over weed-cover'd fragments still fearless she past, And arrived in the innermost ruin at last Where the elder tree grew in the aisle.
XIV.
Well-pleas'd did she reach it, and quickly drew near And hastily gather'd the bough: When the sound of a voice seem'd to rise on her ear, She paus'd, and she listen'd, all eager to hear, Aud her heart panted fearfully now.
XV.
The wind blew, the hoarse ivy shook over her head, She listen'd,--nought else could she hear.
The wind ceas'd, her heart sunk in her bosom with dread For she heard in the ruins distinctly the tread Of footsteps approaching her near.
XVI.
Behind a wide column half breathless with fear She crept to conceal herself there: That instant the moon o'er a dark cloud shone clear, And she saw in the moon-light two ruffians appear And between them a corpse did they bear.
XVII.
Then Mary could feel her heart-blood curdle cold! Again the rough wind hurried by,-- It blew off the hat of the one, and behold Even close to the feet of poor Mary it roll'd,-- She felt, and expected to die.
XVIII.
"Curse the hat!" he exclaims.
"Nay come on and first hide "The dead body," his comrade replies.
She beheld them in safety pass on by her side, She seizes the hat, fear her courage supplied, And fast thro' the Abbey she flies.
XIX.
She ran with wild speed, she rush'd in at the door, She gazed horribly eager around, Then her limbs could support their faint burthen no more, And exhausted and breathless she sunk on the floor Unable to utter a sound.
XX.
Ere yet her pale lips could the story impart, For a moment the hat met her view;-- Her eyes from that object convulsively start, For--oh God what cold horror then thrill'd thro' her heart, When the name of her Richard she knew! XXI.
Where the old Abbey stands, on the common hard by His gibbet is now to be seen.
Not far from the road it engages the eye, The Traveller beholds it, and thinks with a sigh Of poor Mary the Maid of the Inn.


Written by Alfred Lord Tennyson | Create an image from this poem

Come not when I am dead

 Come not, when I am dead,
To drop thy foolish tears upon my grave,
To trample round my fallen head,
And vex the unhappy dust thou wouldst not save.
There let the wind sweep and the plover cry; But thou, go by.
Child, if it were thine error or thy crime I care no longer, being all unblest: Wed whom thou wilt, but I am sick of Time, And I desire to rest.
Pass on, weak heart, and leave to where I lie: Go by, go by.
Written by Du Fu | Create an image from this poem

Winding River (2)

Court return every day pawn spring clothes
Every day river area utmost drunk return
Wine debt common go place have
Life seventy always rare
Through flowers vanessa butterfly deep deep see
Drop water dragonfly leisurely fly
Pass on speech time all be on move
Brief time mutual recognise not mutual separate


I come back from the court each day and pawn some spring clothing,
Every day I return to the river as drunk as I can be.
I have many debts for wine all over the place,
For men to live to seventy has always been unusual.
I see the butterflies go deeper and deeper between the flowers,
And dragonflies in leisured flight between drops of water.
As we're told, passing time is always on the move,
So little time to know each other: we should not be apart.
Written by Du Fu | Create an image from this poem

Autumn Meditations (1)

Jade dew wither wound maple forest
Wu mountain wu gorge air desolate and dreary
River on wave meet sky surge
Pass on wind cloud join earth dark
Shrub chrysanthemum two open it day tear
Single boat one link hometown heart
Cold clothes place place urge knife measure
Baidicheng high urgent evening flat stone


Jade dew withers and wounds the groves of maple trees,
On Wu mountain, in Wu gorge, the air is dull and drear.
On the river surging waves rise to meet the sky,
Above the pass wind and cloud join the earth with darkness.
Chrysanthemum bushes open twice, weeping for their days,
A lonely boat, a single line, my heart is full of home.
Winter clothes everywhere are urgently cut and measured,
Baidicheng above, the evening's driven by beating on stones.
Written by Rudyard Kipling | Create an image from this poem

A Pict Song

 Rome never looks where she treads.
Always her heavy hooves fall On our stomachs, our hearts or our heads; And Rome never heeds when we bawl.
Her sentries pass on--that is all, And we gather behind them in hordes, And plot to reconquer the Wall, With only our tongues for our swords.
We are the Little Folk--we! Too little to love or to hate.
Leave us alone and you'll see How we can drag down the State! We are the worm in the wood! We are the rot at the root! We are the taint in the blood! We are the thorn in the foot! Mistletoe killing an oak-- Rats gnawing cables in two-- Moths making holes in a cloak-- How they must love what they do! Yes--and we Little Folk too, We are busy as they-- Working our works out of view-- Watch, and you'll see it some day! No indeed! We are not strong, But we know Peoples that are.
Yes, and we'll guide them along To smash and destroy you in War! We shall be slaves just the same? Yes, we have always been slaves, But you--you will die of the shame, And then we shall dance on your graves! We are the Little Folk, we, etc.


Written by Charles Simic | Create an image from this poem

The Partial Explanation

 Seems like a long time
Since the waiter took my order.
Grimy little luncheonette, The snow falling outside.
Seems like it has grown darker Since I last heard the kitchen door Behind my back Since I last noticed Anyone pass on the street.
A glass of ice-water Keeps me company At this table I chose myself Upon entering.
And a longing, Incredible longing To eavesdrop On the conversation Of cooks.
Written by William Cowper | Create an image from this poem

The Task: Book IV The Winter Evening (excerpts)

 Hark! 'tis the twanging horn! O'er yonder bridge,
That with its wearisome but needful length
Bestrides the wintry flood, in which the moon
Sees her unwrinkled face reflected bright,
He comes, the herald of a noisy world,
With spatter'd boots, strapp'd waist, and frozen locks;
News from all nations lumb'ring at his back.
True to his charge, the close-pack'd load behind, Yet careless what he brings, his one concern Is to conduct it to the destin'd inn: And, having dropp'd th' expected bag, pass on.
He whistles as he goes, light-hearted wretch, Cold and yet cheerful: messenger of grief Perhaps to thousands, and of joy to some; To him indiff'rent whether grief or joy.
Houses in ashes, and the fall of stocks, Births, deaths, and marriages, epistles wet With tears that trickled down the writer's cheeks Fast as the periods from his fluent quill, Or charg'd with am'rous sighs of absent swains, Or nymphs responsive, equally affect His horse and him, unconscious of them all.
But oh th' important budget! usher'd in With such heart-shaking music, who can say What are its tidings? have our troops awak'd? Or do they still, as if with opium drugg'd, Snore to the murmurs of th' Atlantic wave? Is India free? and does she wear her plum'd And jewell'd turban with a smile of peace, Or do we grind her still? The grand debate, The popular harangue, the tart reply, The logic, and the wisdom, and the wit, And the loud laugh--I long to know them all; I burn to set th' imprison'd wranglers free, And give them voice and utt'rance once again.
Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast, Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round, And, while the bubbling and loud-hissing urn Throws up a steamy column, and the cups, That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each, So let us welcome peaceful ev'ning in.
Not such his ev'ning, who with shining face Sweats in the crowded theatre, and, squeez'd And bor'd with elbow-points through both his sides, Out-scolds the ranting actor on the stage: Nor his, who patient stands till his feet throb, And his head thumps, to feed upon the breath Of patriots, bursting with heroic rage, Or placemen, all tranquility and smiles.
This folio of four pages, happy work! Which not ev'n critics criticise; that holds Inquisitive attention, while I read, Fast bound in chains of silence, which the fair, Though eloquent themselves, yet fear to break; What is it, but a map of busy life, Its fluctuations, and its vast concerns?.
.
.
Oh winter, ruler of th' inverted year, Thy scatter'd hair with sleet like ashes fill'd, Thy breath congeal'd upon thy lips, thy cheeks Fring'd with a beard made white with other snows Than those of age, thy forehead wrapp'd in clouds, A leafless branch thy sceptre, and thy throne A sliding car, indebted to no wheels, But urg'd by storms along its slipp'ry way, I love thee, all unlovely as thou seem'st, And dreaded as thou art! Thou hold'st the sun A pris'ner in the yet undawning east, Short'ning his journey between morn and noon, And hurrying him, impatient of his stay, Down to the rosy west; but kindly still Compensating his loss with added hours Of social converse and instructive ease, And gath'ring, at short notice, in one group The family dispers'd, and fixing thought, Not less dispers'd by day-light and its cares.
I crown thee king of intimate delights, Fire-side enjoyments, home-born happiness, And all the comforts that the lowly roof Of undisturb'd retirement, and the hours Of long uninterrupted ev'ning, know.
No rattling wheels stop short before these gates; No powder'd pert proficient in the art Of sounding an alarm, assaults these doors Till the street rings; no stationary steeds Cough their own knell, while, heedless of the sound, The silent circle fan themselves, and quake: But here the needle plies its busy task, The pattern grows, the well-depicted flow'r, Wrought patiently into the snowy lawn, Unfolds its bosom; buds, and leaves, and sprigs, And curling tendrils, gracefully dispos'd, Follow the nimble finger of the fair; A wreath that cannot fade, or flow'rs that blow With most success when all besides decay.
The poet's or historian's page, by one Made vocal for th' amusement of the rest; The sprightly lyre, whose treasure of sweet sounds The touch from many a trembling chord shakes out; And the clear voice symphonious, yet distinct, And in the charming strife triumphant still; Beguile the night, and set a keener edge On female industry: the threaded steel Flies swiftly, and, unfelt, the task proceeds.
The volume clos'd, the customary rites Of the last meal commence.
A Roman meal; Such as the mistress of the world once found Delicious, when her patriots of high note, Perhaps by moonlight, at their humble doors, And under an old oak's domestic shade, Enjoy'd--spare feast!--a radish and an egg! Discourse ensues, not trivial, yet not dull, Nor such as with a frown forbids the play Of fancy, or proscribes the sound of mirth: Nor do we madly, like an impious world, Who deem religion frenzy, and the God That made them an intruder on their joys, Start at his awful name, or deem his praise A jarring note.
Themes of a graver tone, Exciting oft our gratitude and love, While we retrace with mem'ry's pointing wand, That calls the past to our exact review, The dangers we have 'scaped, the broken snare, The disappointed foe, deliv'rance found Unlook'd for, life preserv'd and peace restor'd-- Fruits of omnipotent eternal love.
Oh ev'nings worthy of the gods! exclaim'd The Sabine bard.
Oh ev'nings, I reply, More to be priz'd and coveted than yours, As more illumin'd, and with nobler truths.
That I, and mine, and those we love, enjoy.
.
.
.
Written by Robert William Service | Create an image from this poem

A Cabbage Patch

 Folk ask if I'm alive,
 Most think I'm not;
Yet gaily I contrive
 To till my plot.
The world its way can go, I little heed, So long as I can grow The grub I need.
For though long overdue, The years to me, Have taught a lesson true, --Humility.
Such better men than I I've seen pass on; Their pay-off when they die; --Oblivion.
And so I mock at fame, With books unread; No monument I claim When I am dead; Contented as I see My cottage thatch That my last goal should be --A cabbage patch.
Written by Yehuda Amichai | Create an image from this poem

And We Shall Not Get Excited

 And we shall not get excited.
Because a translator May not get excited.
Calmly, we shall pass on Words from man to son, from one tongue To others' lips, un- Knowingly, like a father who passes on The features of his dead father's face To his son, and he himself is like neither of them.
Merely a mediator.
We shall remember the things we held in our hands That slipped out.
What I have in my possesion and what I do not have in my possession.
We must not get excited.
Calls and their callers drowned.
Or, my beloved Gave me a few words before she left, To bring up for her.
And no more shall we tell what we were told To other tellers.
Silence as admission.
We must not Get excited.
Written by Friedrich von Schiller | Create an image from this poem

Melancholy -- To Laura

 Laura! a sunrise seems to break
Where'er thy happy looks may glow.
Joy sheds its roses o'er thy cheek, Thy tears themselves do but bespeak The rapture whence they flow; Blest youth to whom those tears are given-- The tears that change his earth to heaven; His best reward those melting eyes-- For him new suns are in the skies! Thy soul--a crystal river passing, Silver-clear, and sunbeam-glassing, Mays into bloom sad Autumn by thee; Night and desert, if they spy thee, To gardens laugh--with daylight shine, Lit by those happy smiles of thine! Dark with cloud the future far Goldens itself beneath thy star.
Smilest thou to see the harmony Of charm the laws of Nature keep? Alas! to me the harmony Brings only cause to weep! Holds not Hades its domain Underneath this earth of ours? Under palace, under fame, Underneath the cloud-capped towers? Stately cities soar and spread O'er your mouldering bones, ye dead! From corruption, from decay, Springs yon clove-pink's fragrant bloom; Yon gay waters wind their way From the hollows of a tomb.
From the planets thou mayest know All the change that shifts below, Fled--beneath that zone of rays, Fled to night a thousand Mays; Thrones a thousand--rising--sinking, Earth from thousand slaughters drinking Blood profusely poured as water;-- Of the sceptre--of the slaughter-- Wouldst thou know what trace remaineth? Seek them where the dark king reigneth! Scarce thine eye can ope and close Ere life's dying sunset glows; Sinking sudden from its pride Into death--the Lethe tide.
Ask'st thou whence thy beauties rise? Boastest thou those radiant eyes?-- Or that cheek in roses dyed? All their beauty (thought of sorrow!) From the brittle mould they borrow.
Heavy interest in the tomb For the brief loan of the bloom, For the beauty of the day, Death the usurer, thou must pay, In the long to-morrow! Maiden!--Death's too strong for scorn; In the cheek the fairest, He But the fairest throne doth see Though the roses of the morn Weave the veil by beauty worn-- Aye, beneath that broidered curtain, Stands the Archer stern and certain! Maid--thy Visionary hear-- Trust the wild one as the sear, When he tells thee that thine eye, While it beckons to the wooer, Only lureth yet more nigh Death, the dark undoer! Every ray shed from thy beauty Wastes the life-lamp while it beams, And the pulse's playful duty, And the blue veins' merry streams, Sport and run into the pall-- Creatures of the Tyrant, all! As the wind the rainbow shatters, Death thy bright smiles rends and scatters, Smile and rainbow leave no traces;-- From the spring-time's laughing graces, From all life, as from its germ, Grows the revel of the worm! Woe, I see the wild wind wreak Its wrath upon thy rosy bloom, Winter plough thy rounded cheek, Cloud and darkness close in gloom; Blackening over, and forever, Youth's serene and silver river! Love alike and beauty o'er, Lovely and beloved no more! Maiden, an oak that soars on high, And scorns the whirlwind's breath Behold thy Poet's youth defy The blunted dart of Death! His gaze as ardent as the light That shoots athwart the heaven, His soul yet fiercer than the light In the eternal heaven, Of Him, in whom as in an ocean-surge Creation ebbs and flows--and worlds arise and merge! Through Nature steers the poet's thought to find No fear but this--one barrier to the mind? And dost thou glory so to think? And heaves thy bosom?--Woe! This cup, which lures him to the brink, As if divinity to drink-- Has poison in its flow! Wretched, oh, wretched, they who trust To strike the God-spark from the dust! The mightiest tone the music knows, But breaks the harp-string with the sound; And genius, still the more it glows, But wastes the lamp whose life bestows The light it sheds around.
Soon from existence dragged away, The watchful jailer grasps his prey: Vowed on the altar of the abused fire, The spirits I raised against myself conspire! Let--yes, I feel it two short springs away Pass on their rapid flight; And life's faint spark shall, fleeting from the clay, Merge in the Fount of Light! And weep'st thou, Laura?--be thy tears forbid; Would'st thou my lot, life's dreariest years amid, Protract and doom?--No: sinner, dry thy tears: Would'st thou, whose eyes beheld the eagle wing Of my bold youth through air's dominion spring, Mark my sad age (life's tale of glory done)-- Crawl on the sod and tremble in the sun? Hear the dull frozen heart condemn the flame That as from heaven to youth's blithe bosom came; And see the blind eyes loathing turn from all The lovely sins age curses to recall? Let me die young!--sweet sinner, dry thy tears! Yes, let the flower be gathered in its bloom! And thou, young genius, with the brows of gloom, Quench thou life's torch, while yet the flame is strong! Even as the curtain falls; while still the scene Most thrills the hearts which have its audience been; As fleet the shadows from the stage--and long When all is o'er, lingers the breathless throng!
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