Best Famous Pearly White Poems

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

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• All Famous Pearly White Poems

Written by Elinor Wylie | Spring Pastoral Liza, go steep your long white hands In the cool waters of that spring Which bubbles up through shiny sands The colour of a wild-dove's wing. Dabble your hands, and steep them well Until those nails are pearly white Now rosier than a laurel bell; Then come to me at candlelight. Lay your cold hands across my brows, And I shall sleep, and I shall dream Of silver-pointed willow boughs Dipping their fingers in a stream.

Written by Vachel Lindsay | The Potatoes Dance (A Poem Game.) I "Down cellar," said the cricket, "Down cellar," said the cricket, "Down cellar," said the cricket, "I saw a ball last night, In honor of a lady, In honor of a lady, In honor of a lady, Whose wings were pearly-white. The breath of bitter weather, The breath of bitter weather, The breath of bitter weather, Had smashed the cellar pane. We entertained a drift of leaves, We entertained a drift of leaves, We entertained a drift of leaves, And then of snow and rain. But we were dressed for winter, But we were dressed for winter, But we were dressed for winter, And loved to hear it blow In honor of the lady, In honor of the lady, In honor of the lady, Who makes potatoes grow, Our guest the Irish lady, The tiny Irish lady, The airy Irish lady, Who makes potatoes grow. II "Potatoes were the waiters, Potatoes were the waiters, Potatoes were the waiters, Potatoes were the band, Potatoes were the dancers Kicking up the sand, Kicking up the sand, Kicking up the sand, Potatoes were the dancers Kicking up the sand. Their legs were old burnt matches, Their legs were old burnt matches, Their legs were old burnt matches, Their arms were just the same. They jigged and whirled and scrambled, Jigged and whirled and scrambled, Jigged and whirled and scrambled, In honor of the dame, The noble Irish lady Who makes potatoes dance, The witty Irish lady, The saucy Irish lady, The laughing Irish lady Who makes potatoes prance. III "There was just one sweet potato. He was golden brown and slim. The lady loved his dancing, The lady loved his dancing, The lady loved his dancing, She danced all night with him, She danced all night with him. Alas, he wasn't Irish. So when she flew away, They threw him in the coal-bin, And there he is today, Where they cannot hear his sighs And his weeping for the lady, The glorious Irish lady, The beauteous Irish lady, Who Gives Potatoes Eyes."

Written by Bertolt Brecht | Mack The Knife Oh, the shark has pretty teeth, dear And he shows them pearly white. Just a jack knife has Macheath, dear And he keeps it out of sight. When the shark bites with his teeth, dear Scarlet billows start to spread. Fancy gloves, though, wears Macheath, dear So there's not a trace of red. On the side-walk Sunday morning Lies a body oozing life; Someone's sneaking 'round the corner. Is that someone Mack the Knife? From a tugboat by the river A cement bag's dropping down; The cement's just for the weight, dear. Bet you Mackie's back in town. Louie Miller disappeared, dear After drawing out his cash; And Macheath spends like a sailor. Did our boy do something rash? Sukey Tawdry, Jenny Diver, Polly Peachum, Lucy Brown Oh, the line forms on the right, dear Now that Mackie's back in town.

Written by Francesco Petrarch | Sonnet XXXVIII SONNET XXXVIII. L' oro e le perle, e i fior vermigli e i bianchi. HE INVEIGHS AGAINST LAURA'S MIRROR, BECAUSE IT MAKES HER FORGET HIM. Those golden tresses, teeth of pearly white,Those cheeks' fair roses blooming to decay,Do in their beauty to my soul conveyThe poison'd arrows from my aching sight.Thus sad and briefly must my days take flight,For life with woe not long on earth will stay;But more I blame that mirror's flattering sway,Which thou hast wearied with thy self-delight.Its power my bosom's sovereign too hath still'd,Who pray'd thee in my suit—now he is mute,Since thou art captured by thyself alone:Death's seeds it hath within my heart instill'd,For Lethe's stream its form doth constitute,And makes thee lose each image but thine own. Wollaston. The gold and pearls, the lily and the roseWhich weak and dry in winter wont to be,Are rank and poisonous arrow-shafts to me,As my sore-stricken bosom aptly shows:Thus all my days now sadly shortly close,For seldom with great grief long years agree;But in that fatal glass most blame I see,That weary with your oft self-liking grows.[Pg 48]It on my lord placed silence, when my suitHe would have urged, but, seeing your desireEnd in yourself alone, he soon was mute.'Twas fashion'd in hell's wave and o'er its fire,And tinted in eternal Lethe: thenceThe spring and secret of my death commence. Macgregor.