Best Famous Plenitude Poems

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

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• All Famous Plenitude Poems

Written by T S (Thomas Stearns) Eliot | Four Quartets 1: Burnt Norton I Time present and time past Are both perhaps present in time future, And time future contained in time past. If all time is eternally present All time is unredeemable. What might have been is an abstraction Remaining a perpetual possibility Only in a world of speculation. What might have been and what has been Point to one end, which is always present. Footfalls echo in the memory Down the passage which we did not take Towards the door we never opened Into the rose-garden. My words echo Thus, in your mind. But to what purpose Disturbing the dust on a bowl of rose-leaves I do not know. Other echoes Inhabit the garden. Shall we follow? Quick, said the bird, find them, find them, Round the corner. Through the first gate, Into our first world, shall we follow The deception of the thrush? Into our first world. There they were, dignified, invisible, Moving without pressure, over the dead leaves, In the autumn heat, through the vibrant air, And the bird called, in response to The unheard music hidden in the shrubbery, And the unseen eyebeam crossed, for the roses Had the look of flowers that are looked at. There they were as our guests, accepted and accepting. So we moved, and they, in a formal pattern, Along the empty alley, into the box circle, To look down into the drained pool. Dry the pool, dry concrete, brown edged, And the pool was filled with water out of sunlight, And the lotos rose, quietly, quietly, The surface glittered out of heart of light, And they were behind us, reflected in the pool. Then a cloud passed, and the pool was empty. Go, said the bird, for the leaves were full of children, Hidden excitedly, containing laughter. Go, go, go, said the bird: human kind Cannot bear very much reality. Time past and time future What might have been and what has been Point to one end, which is always present. II Garlic and sapphires in the mud Clot the bedded axle-tree. The trilling wire in the blood Sings below inveterate scars Appeasing long forgotten wars. The dance along the artery The circulation of the lymph Are figured in the drift of stars Ascend to summer in the tree We move above the moving tree In light upon the figured leaf And hear upon the sodden floor Below, the boarhound and the boar Pursue their pattern as before But reconciled among the stars. At the still point of the turning world. Neither flesh nor fleshless; Neither from nor towards; at the still point, there the dance is, But neither arrest nor movement. And do not call it fixity, Where past and future are gathered. Neither movement from nor towards, Neither ascent nor decline. Except for the point, the still point, There would be no dance, and there is only the dance. I can only say, there we have been: but I cannot say where. And I cannot say, how long, for that is to place it in time. The inner freedom from the practical desire, The release from action and suffering, release from the inner And the outer compulsion, yet surrounded By a grace of sense, a white light still and moving, Erhebung without motion, concentration Without elimination, both a new world And the old made explicit, understood In the completion of its partial ecstasy, The resolution of its partial horror. Yet the enchainment of past and future Woven in the weakness of the changing body, Protects mankind from heaven and damnation Which flesh cannot endure. Time past and time future Allow but a little consciousness. To be conscious is not to be in time But only in time can the moment in the rose-garden, The moment in the arbour where the rain beat, The moment in the draughty church at smokefall Be remembered; involved with past and future. Only through time time is conquered. III Here is a place of disaffection Time before and time after In a dim light: neither daylight Investing form with lucid stillness Turning shadow into transient beauty With slow rotation suggesting permanence Nor darkness to purify the soul Emptying the sensual with deprivation Cleansing affection from the temporal. Neither plenitude nor vacancy. Only a flicker Over the strained time-ridden faces Distracted from distraction by distraction Filled with fancies and empty of meaning Tumid apathy with no concentration Men and bits of paper, whirled by the cold wind That blows before and after time, Wind in and out of unwholesome lungs Time before and time after. Eructation of unhealthy souls Into the faded air, the torpid Driven on the wind that sweeps the gloomy hills of London, Hampstead and Clerkenwell, Campden and Putney, Highgate, Primrose and Ludgate. Not here Not here the darkness, in this twittering world. Descend lower, descend only Into the world of perpetual solitude, World not world, but that which is not world, Internal darkness, deprivation And destitution of all property, Desiccation of the world of sense, Evacuation of the world of fancy, Inoperancy of the world of spirit; This is the one way, and the other Is the same, not in movement But abstention from movement; while the world moves In appetency, on its metalled ways Of time past and time future. IV Time and the bell have buried the day, The black cloud carries the sun away. Will the sunflower turn to us, will the clematis Stray down, bend to us; tendril and spray Clutch and cling? Chill Fingers of yew be curled Down on us? After the kingfisher's wing Has answered light to light, and is silent, the light is still At the still point of the turning world. V Words move, music moves Only in time; but that which is only living Can only die. Words, after speech, reach Into the silence. Only by the form, the pattern, Can words or music reach The stillness, as a Chinese jar still Moves perpetually in its stillness. Not the stillness of the violin, while the note lasts, Not that only, but the co-existence, Or say that the end precedes the beginning, And the end and the beginning were always there Before the beginning and after the end. And all is always now. Words strain, Crack and sometimes break, under the burden, Under the tension, slip, slide, perish, Decay with imprecision, will not stay in place, Will not stay still. Shrieking voices Scolding, mocking, or merely chattering, Always assail them. The Word in the desert Is most attacked by voices of temptation, The crying shadow in the funeral dance, The loud lament of the disconsolate chimera. The detail of the pattern is movement, As in the figure of the ten stairs. Desire itself is movement Not in itself desirable; Love is itself unmoving, Only the cause and end of movement, Timeless, and undesiring Except in the aspect of time Caught in the form of limitation Between un-being and being. Sudden in a shaft of sunlight Even while the dust moves There rises the hidden laughter Of children in the foliage Quick now, here, now, always— Ridiculous the waste sad time Stretching before and after.

Written by David Lehman | The Gift "He gave her class. She gave him sex." -- Katharine Hepburn on Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers He gave her money. She gave him head. He gave her tips on "aggressive growth" mutual funds. She gave him a red rose and a little statue of eros. He gave her Genesis 2 (21-23). She gave him Genesis 1 (26-28). He gave her a square peg. She gave him a round hole. He gave her Long Beach on a late Sunday in September. She gave him zinnias and cosmos in the plenitude of July. He gave her a camisole and a brooch. She gave him a cover and a break. He gave her Venice, Florida. She gave him Rome, New York. He gave her a false sense of security. She gave him a true sense of uncertainty. He gave her the finger. She gave him what for. He gave her a black eye. She gave him a divorce. He gave her a steak for her black eye. She gave him his money back. He gave her what she had never had before. She gave him what he had had and lost. He gave her nastiness in children. She gave him prudery in adults. He gave her Panic Hill. She gave him Mirror Lake. He gave her an anthology of drum solos. She gave him the rattle of leaves in the wind.

Written by Sylvia Plath | Frog Autumn Summer grows old, cold-blooded mother. The insects are scant, skinny. In these palustral homes we only Croak and wither. Mornings dissipate in somnolence. The sun brightens tardily Among the pithless reeds. Flies fail us. he fen sickens. Frost drops even the spider. Clearly The genius of plenitude Houses himself elsewhwere. Our folk thin Lamentably.

Written by Barry Tebb | Inspiration From A Visitation Of My Muse Memories bursting like tears or waves On some lonely Adriatic shore Beating again and again Threshings of green sea foam Flecked like the marble Leonardo Chipped for his ‘Moses’. And my tears came as suddenly In that dream, criss-crossed With memory and desire. Grandad Nicky had worked Down the pits for a pittance To bring up his six children But nothing left over for more Than a few nuts and an orange For six Christmas stockings So hopefully hung, weighted by pennies, Stretched across the black mantle. So Lawrence-like and yet not, grandad A strict Methodist who read only a vast Bible Hunched in his fireside chair insisting On chapel three times on Sundays. Only in retirement did joy and wisdom Enter him, abandoning chapel he took To the Friends or Quakers as they called them then And somehow at seventy the inner light Consumed him. Gruff but kind was my impression: He would take me for walks Along abandoned railways to the shutdown Pipeworks where my three uncles Worked their early manhood through. It would have delighted Auden and perhaps That was the bridge between us Though we were of different generations And by the time I began to write he had died. All are gone except some few who may live still But in their dotage.After my mother’s funeral None wanted contact: I had been judged in my absence And found wanting. Durham was not my county, Hardly my country, memories from childhood Of Hunwick Village with its single cobbled street Of squat stone cottages and paved yards With earth closets and stacks of sawn logs Perfuming the air with their sap In a way only French poets could say And that is why we have no word but clich? ‘Reflect’ or ‘make come alive’ or other earthbound Anglicanisms; yet it is there in Valery Larbaud ‘J’ai senti pour la premiere fois toute la douceur de vivre’- I experienced for the first time all the joy of living. I quote of their plenitude to mock the absurdity Of English poets who have no time for Francophiles Better the ‘O altitudo’ of earlier generations – Wallace Stevens’ "French and English Are one language indivisible." That scent of sawdust, the milkcart the pony pulled Each morning over the cobbles, the earthenware jug I carried to be filled, ladle by shining ladle, From the great churns and there were birds singing In the still blue over the fields beyond the village But because I was city-bred I could not name them. I write to please myself: ‘Only other poets read poems’

Written by Sir John Suckling | If you refuse me once and think again If you refuse me once, and think again, I will complain. You are deceiv'd, love is no work of art, It must be got and born, Not made and worn, By every one that hath a heart. Or do you think they more than once can die, Whom you deny? Who tell you of a thousand deaths a day, Like the old poets feign And tell the pain They met, but in the common way? Or do you think 't too soon to yield, And quit the field? Nor is that right, they yield that first entreat; Once one may crave for love, But more would prove This heart too little, that too great. Oh that I were all soul, that I might prove For you as fit a love As you are for an angel; for I know, None but pure spirits are fit loves for you. You are all ethereal; there's in you no dross, Nor any part that's gross. Your coarsest part is like a curious lawn, The vestal relics for a covering drawn. Your other parts, part of the purest fire That e'er Heav'n did inspire, Makes every thought that is refin'd by it A quintessence of goodness and of wit. Thus have your raptures reach'd to that degree In love's philosophy, That you can figure to yourself a fire Void of all heat, a love without desire. Nor in divinity do you go less; You think, and you profess, That souls may have a plenitude of joy, Although their bodies meet not to employ. But I must needs confess, I do not find The motions of my mind So purified as yet, but at the best My body claims in them an interest. I hold that perfect joy makes all our parts As joyful as our hearts. Our senses tell us, if we please not them, Our love is but a dotage or a dream. How shall we then agree? you may descend, But will not, to my end. I fain would tune my fancy to your key, But cannot reach to that obstructed way. There rests but this, that whilst we sorrow here, Our bodies may draw near; And, when no more their joys they can extend, Then let our souls begin where they did end.

Written by Paul Laurence Dunbar | Unexpressed Deep in my heart that aches with the repression, And strives with plenitude of bitter pain, There lives a thought that clamors for expression, And spends its undelivered force in vain. What boots it that some other may have thought it? The right of thoughts' expression is divine; The price of pain I pay for it has bought it, I care not who lays claim to it—'t is mine! And yet not mine until it be delivered; The manner of its birth shall prove the test. Alas, alas, my rock of pride is shivered— [Pg 26]I beat my brow—the thought still unexpressed.

Written by Robert William Service | Atoll The woes of men beyond my ken Mean nothing more to me. Behold my world, and Eden hurled From Heaven to the Sea; A jeweled home, in fending foam Tempestuously tossed; A virgin isle none dare defile, Far-flung, forgotten, lost. And here I dwell, where none may tell Me tales of mortal strife; Let millions die, immune am I, And radiant with life. No echo comes of evil drums, To vex my dawns divine; Aloof, alone I hold my throne, And Majesty is mine. Ghost ships pass by, and glad am I They make no sign to me. The green corn springs, the gilt vine clings, The net is in the sea. My paradise around me lies, Remote from wrath and wrong; My isle is clean, unsought, unseen, And innocent with song. Here let me dwell in beauty's spell, As tranquil as a tree; Here let me bide, where wind and tide Bourdon that I am free; Here let me know from human woe The rapture of release: The rich caress of Loveliness, The plenitude of Peace.