Best Famous Poi Poems

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

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• All Famous Poi Poems

Written by John Milton | Sonnet 06 VI Giovane piano, e semplicetto amante Poi che fuggir me stesso in dubbio sono, Madonna a voi del mio cuor l'humil dono Faro divoto; io certo a prove tante L'hebbi fedele, intrepido, costante, De pensieri leggiadro, accorto, e buono; Quando rugge il gran mondo, e scocca il tuono, S 'arma di se, e d' intero diamante, Tanto del forse, e d' invidia sicuro, Di timori, e speranze al popol use Quanto d'ingegno, e d' alto valor vago, E di cetra sonora, e delle muse: Sol troverete in tal parte men duro Ove amor mise l 'insanabil ago.

Written by T S (Thomas Stearns) Eliot | What The Thunder Said After the torchlight red on sweaty faces After the frosty silence in the gardens After the agony in stony places The shouting and the crying Prison and palace and reverberation Of thunder of spring over distant mountains He who was living is now dead We who were living are now dying With a little patience 330 Here is no water but only rock Rock and no water and the sandy road The road winding above among the mountains Which are mountains of rock without water If there were water we should stop and drink Amongst the rock one cannot stop or think Sweat is dry and feet are in the sand If there were only water amongst the rock Dead mountain mouth of carious teeth that cannot spit Here one can neither stand nor lie nor sit 340 There is not even silence in the mountains But dry sterile thunder without rain There is not even solitude in the mountains But red sullen faces sneer and snarl From doors of mudcracked houses If there were water And no rock If there were rock And also water And water 350 A spring A pool among the rock If there were the sound of water only Not the cicada And dry grass singing But sound of water over a rock Where the hermit-thrush sings in the pine trees Drip drop drip drop drop drop drop But there is no water Who is the third who walks always beside you? 360 When I count, there are only you and I together But when I look ahead up the white road There is always another one walking beside you Gliding wrapt in a brown mantle, hooded I do not know whether a man or a woman —But who is that on the other side of you? What is that sound high in the air Murmur of maternal lamentation Who are those hooded hordes swarming Over endless plains, stumbling in cracked earth 370 Ringed by the flat horizon only What is the city over the mountains Cracks and reforms and bursts in the violet air Falling towers Jerusalem Athens Alexandria Vienna London Unreal A woman drew her long black hair out tight And fiddled whisper music on those strings And bats with baby faces in the violet light 380 Whistled, and beat their wings And crawled head downward down a blackened wall And upside down in air were towers Tolling reminiscent bells, that kept the hours And voices singing out of empty cisterns and exhausted wells. In this decayed hole among the mountains In the faint moonlight, the grass is singing Over the tumbled graves, about the chapel There is the empty chapel, only the wind's home. It has no windows, and the door swings, 390 Dry bones can harm no one. Only a cock stood on the rooftree Co co rico co co rico In a flash of lightning. Then a damp gust Bringing rain Ganga was sunken, and the limp leaves Waited for rain, while the black clouds Gathered far distant, over Himavant. The jungle crouched, humped in silence. Then spoke the thunder 400 DA Datta: what have we given? My friend, blood shaking my heart The awful daring of a moment's surrender Which an age of prudence can never retract By this, and this only, we have existed Which is not to be found in our obituaries Or in memories draped by the beneficent spider Or under seals broken by the lean solicitor In our empty rooms 410 DA Dayadhvam: I have heard the key Turn in the door once and turn once only We think of the key, each in his prison Thinking of the key, each confirms a prison Only at nightfall, aetherial rumours Revive for a moment a broken Coriolanus DA Damyata: The boat responded Gaily, to the hand expert with sail and oar 420 The sea was calm, your heart would have responded Gaily, when invited, beating obedient To controlling hands I sat upon the shore Fishing, with the arid plain behind me Shall I at least set my lands in order? London Bridge is falling down falling down falling down Poi s'ascose nel foco che gli affina Quando fiam ceu chelidon— O swallow swallow Le Prince d'Aquitaine a la tour abolie 430 These fragments I have shored against my ruins Why then Ile fit you. Hieronymo's mad againe. Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata. Shantih shantih shantih Line 416 aetherial] aethereal Line 429 ceu] uti— Editor

Written by Francesco Petrarch | Sonnet XXXIV SONNET XXXIV. Ma poi che 'l dolce riso umile e piano. HER RETURN GLADDENS THE EARTH AND CALMS THE SKY. But when her sweet smile, modest and benign,No longer hides from us its beauties rare,At the spent forge his stout and sinewy armsPlieth that old Sicilian smith in vain,For from the hands of Jove his bolts are takenTemper'd in Ætna to extremest proof;And his cold sister by degrees grows calmAnd genial in Apollo's kindling beams.Moves from the rosy west a summer breath,Which safe and easy wafts the seaward bark,And wakes the sweet flowers in each grassy mead.Malignant stars on every side depart,Dispersed before that bright enchanting face,For which already many tears are shed. Macgregor.

Written by John Milton | Sonnet 05 V Per certo i bei vostr'occhi Donna mia Esser non puo che non fian lo mio sole Si mi percuoton forte, come ci suole Per l'arene di Libia chi s'invia, Mentre un caldo vapor (ne senti pria) Da quel lato si spinge ove mi duole, Che forsi amanti nelle lor parole Chiaman sospir; io non so che si sia: Parte rinchiusa, e turbida si cela Scosso mi il petto, e poi n'uscendo poco Quivi d' attorno o s'agghiaccia, o s'ingiela; Ma quanto a gli occhi giunge a trovar loco Tutte le notti a me suol far piovose Finche mia Alba rivien colma di rose.

Written by Francesco Petrarch | Sonnet LXXVIII SONNET LXXVIII. Poi che voi ed io più volte abbiam provato. TO A FRIEND, COUNSELLING HIM TO ABANDON EARTHLY PLEASURES. Still has it been our bitter lot to proveHow hope, or e'er it reach fruition, flies!Up then to that high good, which never dies,Lift we the heart—to heaven's pure bliss above.[Pg 95]On earth, as in a tempting mead, we rove,Where coil'd 'mid flowers the traitor serpent lies;And, if some casual glimpse delight our eyes,'Tis but to grieve the soul enthrall'd by Love.Oh! then, as thou wouldst wish ere life's last dayTo taste the sweets of calm unbroken rest,Tread firm the narrow, shun the beaten way—Ah! to thy friend too well may be address'd:"Thou show'st a path, thyself most apt to stray,Which late thy truant feet, fond youth, have never press'd." Wrangham. Friend, as we both in confidence complainTo see our ill-placed hopes return in vain,Let that chief good which must for ever pleaseExalt our thought and fix our happiness.This world as some gay flowery field is spread,Which hides a serpent in its painted bed,And most it wounds when most it charms our eyes,At once the tempter and the paradise.And would you, then, sweet peace of mind restore,And in fair calm expect your parting hour,Leave the mad train, and court the happy few.Well may it be replied, "O friend, you showOthers the path, from which so often youHave stray'd, and now stray farther than before." Basil Kennet.

Written by Francesco Petrarch | Sonnet LXXXII SONNET LXXXII. Vinse Annibal, e non seppe usar poi. TO STEFANO COLONNA, COUNSELLING HIM TO FOLLOW UP HIS VICTORY OVER THE ORSINI. Hannibal conquer'd oft, but never knewThe fruits and gain of victory to get,Wherefore, dear lord, be wise, take care that yetA like misfortune happen not to you.Still in their lair the cubs and she-bear,[Q] whoRough pasturage and sour in May have met,With mad rage gnash their teeth and talons whet,And vengeance of past loss on us pursue:While this new grief disheartens and appalls,Replace not in its sheath your honour'd sword,But, boldly following where your fortune calls,E'en to its goal be glory's path explored,Which fame and honour to the world may giveThat e'en for centuries after death will live. Macgregor.

Written by Francesco Petrarch | Sonnet LXXXI SONNET LXXXI. Cesare, poi che 'l traditor d' Egitto. THE COUNTENANCE DOES NOT ALWAYS TRULY INDICATE THE HEART. When Egypt's traitor Pompey's honour'd headTo Cæsar sent; then, records so relate,To shroud a gladness manifestly great,Some feigned tears the specious monarch shed:And, when misfortune her dark mantle spreadO'er Hannibal, and his afflicted state,He laugh'd 'midst those who wept their adverse fate,That rank despite to wreak defeat had bred.Thus doth the mind oft variously concealIts several passions by a different veil;Now with a countenance that's sad, now gay:So mirth and song if sometimes I employ,'Tis but to hide those sorrows that annoy,'Tis but to chase my amorous cares away. Nott. Cæsar, when Egypt's cringing traitor broughtThe gory gift of Pompey's honour'd head,Check'd the full gladness of his instant thought,And specious tears of well-feign'd pity shed:And Hannibal, when adverse Fortune wroughtOn his afflicted empire evils dread,'Mid shamed and sorrowing friends, by laughter, soughtTo ease the anger at his heart that fed.Thus, as the mind its every feeling hides,Beneath an aspect contrary, the mien,Bright'ning with hope or charged with gloom, is seen.Thus ever if I sing, or smile betides,[Pg 98]The outward joy serves only to concealThe inner ail and anguish that I feel. Macgregor.

Written by Francesco Petrarch | Sonnet CLXXX SONNET CLXXX. Tutto 'l di piango; e poi la notte, quando. HER CRUELTY RENDERS LIFE WORSE THAN DEATH TO HIM. Through the long lingering day, estranged from rest,My sorrows flow unceasing; doubly flow,Painful prerogative of lover's woe!In that still hour, when slumber soothes th' unblest.With such deep anguish is my heart opprest,So stream mine eyes with tears! Of things belowMost miserable I; for Cupid's bowHas banish'd quiet from this heaving breast.Ah me! while thus in suffering, morn to mornAnd eve to eve succeeds, of death I view(So should this life be named) one-half gone by—Yet this I weep not, but another's scorn;That she, my friend, so tender and so true,Should see me hopeless burn, and yet her aid deny. Wrangham.

Written by Francesco Petrarch | Sonnet C SONNET C. Poi che 'l cammin m' è chiuso di mercede. THOUGH FAR FROM LAURA, SOLITARY AND UNHAPPY, ENVY STILL PURSUES HIM. Since mercy's door is closed, alas! to me,And hopeless paths my poor life separateFrom her in whom, I know not by what fate,The guerdon lay of all my constancy,My heart that lacks not other food, on sighsI feed: to sorrow born, I live on tears:Nor therefore mourn I: sweeter far appearsMy present grief than others can surmise.[Pg 130]On thy dear portrait rests alone my view,Which nor Praxiteles nor Xeuxis drew,But a more bold and cunning pencil framed.What shore can hide me, or what distance shield,If by my cruel exile yet untamedInsatiate Envy finds me here concealed? Macgregor.

Written by Francesco Petrarch | Sonnet LXVII SONNET LXVII. Poi che mia speme è lunga a venir troppo. HE COUNSELS LOVERS TO FLEE, RATHER THAN BE CONSUMED BY THE FLAMES OF LOVE. Since my hope's fruit yet faileth to arrive,And short the space vouchsafed me to survive,Betimes of this aware I fain would be,Swifter than light or wind from Love to flee:And I do flee him, weak albeit and lameO' my left side, where passion racked my frame.Though now secure yet bear I on my faceOf the amorous encounter signal trace.[Pg 88]Wherefore I counsel each this way who comes,Turn hence your footsteps, and, if Love consumes,Think not in present pain his worst is done;For, though I live, of thousand scapes not one!'Gainst Love my enemy was strong indeed—Lo! from his wounds e'en she is doom'd to bleed. Macgregor.