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Best Famous Pollution Poems

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

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Written by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow | Create an image from this poem


THERE is no flock however watched and tended  
But one dead lamb is there! 
There is no fireside howsoe'er defended  
But has one vacant chair! 

The air is full of farewells to the dying 5 
And mournings for the dead; 
The heart of Rachel for her children crying  
Will not be comforted! 

Let us be patient! These severe afflictions 
Not from the ground arise 10 
But oftentimes celestial benedictions 
Assume this dark disguise.
We see but dimly through the mists and vapors; Amid these earthly damps What seem to us but sad funereal tapers 15 May be heaven's distant lamps.
There is no Death! What seems so is transition; This life of mortal breath Is but a suburb of the life elysian Whose portal we call Death.
20 She is not dead ¡ªthe child of our affection ¡ª But gone unto that school Where she no longer needs our poor protection And Christ himself doth rule.
In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion 25 By guardian angels led Safe from temptation safe from sin's pollution She lives whom we call dead Day after day we think what she is doing In those bright realms of air; 30 Year after year her tender steps pursuing Behold her grown more fair.
Thus do we walk with her and keep unbroken The bond which nature gives Thinking that our remembrance though unspoken 35 May reach her where she lives.
Not as a child shall we again behold her; For when with raptures wild In our embraces we again enfold her She will not be a child; 40 But a fair maiden in her Father's mansion Clothed with celestial grace; And beautiful with all the soul's expansion Shall we behold her face.
And though at times impetuous with emotion 45 And anguish long suppressed The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean That cannot be at rest ¡ª We will be patient and assuage the feeling We may not wholly stay; 50 By silence sanctifying not concealing The grief that must have way.

Written by Stephen Crane | Create an image from this poem

A little ink more or less!

 A little ink more or less!
I surely can't matter?
Even the sky and the opulent sea,
The plains and the hills, aloof,
Hear the uproar of all these books.
But it is only a little ink more or less.
What? You define me God with these trinkets? Can my misery meal on an ordered walking Of surpliced numskulls? And a fanfare of lights? Or even upon the measured pulpitings Of the familiar false and true? Is this God? Where, then, is hell? Show me some bastard mushroom Sprung from a pollution of blood.
It is better.
Where is God?
Written by Rg Gregory | Create an image from this poem

from Proverbs of Hell

 (a) radical

ban all fires
and places where people congregate
to create comfort
put an end to sleep
good cooking
and the delectation of wine
tear lovers apart
piss on the sun and moon
degut all heavenly harmony
strike out across the bitter ice
and the poisonous marshes

make (if you dare) a better world

(b) expect poison from standing water
lake erie
why not as a joke one night
pick up your bed and walk
to washington – sleep
your damned sleep in its streets
so that one bright metallic morning
it can wake up to the stench
and fermentation of flesh
the gutrot of nerves – the blood’s
green effervescence so active
your skin has a job to keep it all in

isn’t that what things with the palsy
are supposed to do – lovely lake
give the world the miracle it waits for
what a laugh that would be

especially if washington lost its temper
and screamed christ lake erie
i don’t even know what to do
with my own garbage

pollution is just one of those things

go on lake erie
do it tonight

(c) drive your cart and your plow over the bones of the dead

isn't the next one
easter egg

  i don't want to live any more in an old way

yes it is

  to be a socialist wearing capitalism's cap
  a teacher in the shadow of a dead headmaster
  a tree using somebody else's old sap

  i want to build my future out of new emotions
  to seek more than my own in a spring surround
  to move amongst people keen to move outwards
  putting love and ideas into fresh ground

  who will come with me across this border
  not anywhere but in the bonds we make
  taking the old apart to find new order
  living ourselves boldly for each other's sake

then love is

  if you ask me today what love is
  i should have to name the people i love
  and perhaps because it's spring
  and i cannot control the knife that's in me
  their names would surprise me as much as you

  for years i have assumed that love is bloody
  a thing locked up in house and a family tree
  but suddenly its ache goes out beyond me
  and the first love is greater for the new

  this year more than any other
  the winter has savaged my deepest roots
  and the easter sun is banging hard against the window
  the arms of my loves are flowering widely
  and over the fields a new definition is running

  even though the streets we walk cannot be altered
  and faces there are that will not understand
  we have a sun born of our mutual longings
  whose shine is a hard fact - love is a new land

new spartans

  i haven't felt this young for twenty years
  yesterday i felt twenty years older
  then i had the curtains drawn over recluse fears
  today the sun comes in and instantly it's colder

  must shave and get dressed - i'm being nagged
  to shove my suspicions in a corner and get out
  what use the sun if being plagued with new life
  i can't throw off this centrally-heated doubt

  accept people with ice in their brows
  are the new spartans - they wait
      shall i go with them
  indoor delights that slowly breed into lies
  need to be dumped out of doors - and paralysis with them

no leave it
there's still one more
the need now

  the need now is to chronicle new times
  by their own statutes not as ***-ends of the old
  ideas stand out bravely against the surrounding grey
  seeking their own order in what themselves proclaim
  fortresses no longer belong by right to an older day

  i want to gather in my hands things i believe in
  not to be told that other rules prevail - there is
  a treading forward to be done of great excitement
  and people to be found who by the old laws
  should be little more than dead
      this enlightment

  is cutting like spring into a bitter winter
  and there is this smashing of many concrete shells
  a dream with the cheek to be aggressive has assumed
  its own flesh and bone and will not put up with sleep
  as its prime condition - life out of death is exhumed

it's the other side
is so disappointing
no thanks
leave it for now


there follows a brief interlude in honour of mr vasko popa
(the yugoslav poet who in a short visit to this country
has stayed a long time)
and it will not now take place

  this game is called x
  no one else can play

  when the game is over
  we have all joined in

  those who have not been playing
  have to give in an ear

  if you don't have an ear
  use one of those lying about

  left over from the last time
  the game wasn't played

  this game is not to do with ears
  shooting must be done from the heart

  x sits in the middle of the ring - he
  has gone for a stroll up his left nostril

  how can he seize a left-over ear
  and drag it under the ground

  hands up if you have been shot from the heart
  x comes up in the middle of himself

  in this way the game is over before
  it began and everyone willy-nilly

  has had to go home
  before he could put a foot outside

(d) enough! – or too much

   reading popa
   i let fly
   too many words

   i bang away
   at the seed
   but can’t break it

   hurt i turn to
   castles with cards

   if you can’t split
   the atom
   man stop writing
Written by Algernon Charles Swinburne | Create an image from this poem

An Appeal

 Art thou indeed among these,
Thou of the tyrannous crew,
The kingdoms fed upon blood,
O queen from of old of the seas,
England, art thou of them too
That drink of the poisonous flood,
That hide under poisonous trees?

Nay, thy name from of old,
Mother, was pure, or we dreamed
Purer we held thee than this,
Purer fain would we hold;
So goodly a glory it seemed,
A fame so bounteous of bliss,
So more precious than gold.
A praise so sweet in our ears, That thou in the tempest of things As a rock for a refuge shouldst stand, In the bloodred river of tears Poured forth for the triumph of kings; A safeguard, a sheltering land, In the thunder and torrent of years.
Strangers came gladly to thee, Exiles, chosen of men, Safe for thy sake in thy shade, Sat down at thy feet and were free.
So men spake of thee then; Now shall their speaking be stayed? Ah, so let it not be! Not for revenge or affright, Pride, or a tyrannous lust, Cast from thee the crown of thy praise.
Mercy was thine in thy might; Strong when thou wert, thou wert just; Now, in the wrong-doing days, Cleave thou, thou at least, to the right.
How should one charge thee, how sway, Save by the memories that were? Not thy gold nor the strength of thy ships, Nor the might of thine armies at bay, Made thee, mother, most fair; But a word from republican lips Said in thy name in thy day.
Hast thou said it, and hast thou forgot? Is thy praise in thine ears as a scoff? Blood of men guiltless was shed, Children, and souls without spot, Shed, but in places far off; Let slaughter no more be, said Milton; and slaughter was not.
Was it not said of thee too, Now, but now, by thy foes, By the slaves that had slain their France, And thee would slay as they slew - "Down with her walls that enclose Freemen that eye us askance, Fugitives, men that are true!" This was thy praise or thy blame From bondsman or freeman--to be Pure from pollution of slaves, Clean of their sins, and thy name Bloodless, innocent, free; Now if thou be not, thy waves Wash not from off thee thy shame.
Freeman he is not, but slave, Whoso in fear for the State Cries for surety of blood, Help of gibbet and grave; Neither is any land great Whom, in her fear-stricken mood, These things only can save.
Lo, how fair from afar, Taintless of tyranny, stands Thy mighty daughter, for years Who trod the winepress of war; Shines with immaculate hands; Slays not a foe, neither fears; Stains not peace with a scar.
Be not as tyrant or slave, England; be not as these, Thou that wert other than they.
Stretch out thine hand, but to save; Put forth thy strength, and release; Lest there arise, if thou slay, Thy shame as a ghost from the grave.
Written by Gary Snyder | Create an image from this poem

Smoky the Bear Sutra

Smokey the Bear Sutra

Once in the Jurassic about 150 million years ago,
 the Great Sun Buddha in this corner of the Infinite
 Void gave a Discourse to all the assembled elements
 and energies: to the standing beings, the walking beings,
 the flying beings, and the sitting beings -- even grasses,
 to the number of thirteen billion, each one born from a
 seed, assembled there: a Discourse concerning
 Enlightenment on the planet Earth. 

 "In some future time, there will be a continent called
 America. It will have great centers of power called
 such as Pyramid Lake, Walden Pond, Mt. Rainier, Big Sur,
 Everglades, and so forth; and powerful nerves and channels
 such as Columbia River, Mississippi River, and Grand Canyon
 The human race in that era will get into troubles all over
 its head, and practically wreck everything in spite of
 its own strong intelligent Buddha-nature." 

 "The twisting strata of the great mountains and the pulsings
 of volcanoes are my love burning deep in the earth.
 My obstinate compassion is schist and basalt and
 granite, to be mountains, to bring down the rain. In that
 future American Era I shall enter a new form; to cure
 the world of loveless knowledge that seeks with blind hunger:
 and mindless rage eating food that will not fill it." 

 And he showed himself in his true form of 


•A handsome smokey-colored brown bear standing on his hind legs, showing that he is aroused and

•Bearing in his right paw the Shovel that digs to the truth beneath appearances; cuts the roots of useless
 attachments, and flings damp sand on the fires of greed and war; 

•His left paw in the Mudra of Comradely Display -- indicating that all creatures have the full right to live to their limits and that deer, rabbits, chipmunks, snakes, dandelions, and lizards all grow in the realm of the Dharma; 

•Wearing the blue work overalls symbolic of slaves and laborers, the countless men oppressed by a
 civilization that claims to save but often destroys; 

•Wearing the broad-brimmed hat of the West, symbolic of the forces that guard the Wilderness, which is the Natural State of the Dharma and the True Path of man on earth: all true paths lead through mountains -- 

•With a halo of smoke and flame behind, the forest fires of the kali-yuga, fires caused by the stupidity of
 those who think things can be gained and lost whereas in truth all is contained vast and free in the Blue Sky and Green Earth of One Mind; 

•Round-bellied to show his kind nature and that the great earth has food enough for everyone who loves her and trusts her; 

•Trampling underfoot wasteful freeways and needless suburbs; smashing the worms of capitalism and

•Indicating the Task: his followers, becoming free of cars, houses, canned foods, universities, and shoes;
 master the Three Mysteries of their own Body, Speech, and Mind; and fearlessly chop down the rotten
 trees and prune out the sick limbs of this country America and then burn the leftover trash. 

Wrathful but Calm. Austere but Comic. Smokey the Bear will
 Illuminate those who would help him; but for those who would hinder or
 slander him, 


Thus his great Mantra: 

Namah samanta vajranam chanda maharoshana
 Sphataya hum traka ham nam 


And he will protect those who love woods and rivers,
 Gods and animals, hobos and madmen, prisoners and sick
 people, musicians, playful women, and hopeful children: 

 And if anyone is threatened by advertising, air pollution, television,
 or the police, they should chant SMOKEY THE BEAR'S WAR SPELL: 


And SMOKEY THE BEAR will surely appear to put the enemy out
 with his vajra-shovel. 

•Now those who recite this Sutra and then try to put it in practice will accumulate merit as countless as the sands of Arizona and Nevada. 

•Will help save the planet Earth from total oil slick. 

•Will enter the age of harmony of man and nature. 

•Will win the tender love and caresses of men, women, and beasts. 

•Will always have ripe blackberries to eat and a sunny spot under a pine tree to sit at. 


 thus have we heard. 

Written by Francis Scott Key | Create an image from this poem

Defence of Fort MHenry

O! say can you see, by the dawn's early light,
What so proudly we hail'd at the twilight's last gleaming,
Whose broad stripes and bright stars through the perilous fight,
O'er the ramparts we watch'd, were so gallantly streaming?
And the rockets' red glare, the bombs bursting in air,
Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there --
O! say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave
O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave?
On the shore, dimly seen through the mists of the deep,
Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes,
What is that which the breeze o'er the towering steep,
As it fitfully blows, half conceals, half discloses?
Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam,
In full glory reflected now shines on the stream --
'Tis the star-spangled banner, O! long may it wave
O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave.
And where is that band who so vauntingly swore That the havock of war and the battle's confusion A home and a country should leave us no more? Their blood has wash'd out their foul foot-steps' pollution, No refuge could save the hireling and slave, From the terror of flight or the gloom of the grave; And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave.
O! thus be it ever when freemen shall stand Between their lov'd home, and the war's desolation, Blest with vict'ry and peace, may the heav'n-rescued land Praise the power that hath made and preserv'd us a nation! Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just, And this be our motto -- "In God is our trust!" And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave.
Written by Robert Seymour Bridges | Create an image from this poem

Low Barometer

 The south-wind strengthens to a gale,
Across the moon the clouds fly fast,
The house is smitten as with a flail,
The chimney shudders to the blast.
On such a night, when Air has loosed Its guardian grasp on blood and brain, Old terrors then of god or ghost Creep from their caves to life again; And Reason kens he herits in A haunted house.
Tenants unknown Assert their squalid lease of sin With earlier title than his own.
Unbodied presences, the packed Pollution and remorse of Time, Slipped from oblivion re-enact The horrors of unhousehold crime.
Some men would quell the thing with prayer Whose sightless footsteps pad the floor, Whose fearful trespass mounts the stair Or burst the locked forbidden door.
Some have seen corpses long interred Escape from hallowing control, Pale charnel forms - nay even have heard The shrilling of a troubled soul, That wanders till the dawn has crossed The dolorous dark, or Earth has wound Closer her storm-spread cloak, and thrust The baleful phantoms underground.
Written by Robert Southey | Create an image from this poem

Inscription 07 - For A Tablet On The Banks Of A Stream

 Stranger! awhile upon this mossy bank
Recline thee.
If the Sun rides high, the breeze, That loves to ripple o'er the rivulet, Will play around thy brow, and the cool sound Of running waters soothe thee.
Mark how clear It sparkles o'er the shallows, and behold Where o'er its surface wheels with restless speed Yon glossy insect, on the sand below How the swift shadow flies.
The stream is pure In solitude, and many a healthful herb Bends o'er its course and drinks the vital wave: But passing on amid the haunts of man, It finds pollution there, and rolls from thence A tainted tide.
Seek'st thou for HAPPINESS? Go Stranger, sojourn in the woodland cot Of INNOCENCE, and thou shalt find her there.
Written by Isaac Watts | Create an image from this poem

Hymn 9

 The promises of the covenant of grace.
55:1,2; Zech.
13:1; Mic.
7:19; Ezek.
36:25, etc.
In vain we lavish out our lives To gather empty wind; The choicest blessings earth can yield Will starve a hungry mind.
Come, and the Lord shall feed our souls With more substantial meat, With such as saints in glory love, With such as angels eat.
Our God will every want supply, And fill our hearts with peace; He gives by cov'nant and by oath The riches of his grace.
Come, and he'll cleanse our spotted souls, And wash away our stains In the dear fountain that his Son Poured from his dying veins.
[Our guilt shall vanish all away, Though black as hell before; Our sins shall sink beneath the sea, And shall be found no more.
And, lest pollution should o'erspread Our inward powers again, His Spirit shall bedew our souls, Like purifying rain.
] Our heart, that flinty, stubborn thing, That terrors cannot move, That fears no threat'nings of his wrath, Shall be dissolved by love.
Or he can take the flint away That would not be refined; And from the treasures of his grace Bestow a softer mind.
There shall his sacred Spirit dwell, And deep engrave his law, And every motion of our souls To swift obedience draw.
Thus will he pour salvation down, And we shall render praise; We the dear people of his love, And he our God of grace.