Best Famous Pretensions Poems

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

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• All Famous Pretensions Poems

Written by William Cowper | On Receipt Of My Mothers Picture Oh that those lips had language! Life has pass'd With me but roughly since I heard thee last. Those lips are thine--thy own sweet smiles I see, The same that oft in childhood solaced me; Voice only fails, else, how distinct they say, "Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!" The meek intelligence of those dear eyes (Blest be the art that can immortalize, The art that baffles time's tyrannic claim To quench it) here shines on me still the same. Faithful remembrancer of one so dear, Oh welcome guest, though unexpected, here! Who bidd'st me honour with an artless song, Affectionate, a mother lost so long, I will obey, not willingly alone, But gladly, as the precept were her own; And, while that face renews my filial grief, Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief-- Shall steep me in Elysian reverie, A momentary dream, that thou art she. My mother! when I learn'd that thou wast dead, Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed? Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, Wretch even then, life's journey just begun? Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unseen, a kiss; Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss-- Ah that maternal smile! it answers--Yes. I heard the bell toll'd on thy burial day, I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away, And, turning from my nurs'ry window, drew A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu! But was it such?--It was.--Where thou art gone Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown. May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, The parting sound shall pass my lips no more! Thy maidens griev'd themselves at my concern, Oft gave me promise of a quick return. What ardently I wish'd, I long believ'd, And, disappointed still, was still deceiv'd; By disappointment every day beguil'd, Dupe of to-morrow even from a child. Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went, Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent, I learn'd at last submission to my lot; But, though I less deplor'd thee, ne'er forgot. Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more, Children not thine have trod my nurs'ry floor; And where the gard'ner Robin, day by day, Drew me to school along the public way, Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapt In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capt, 'Tis now become a history little known, That once we call'd the past'ral house our own. Short-liv'd possession! but the record fair That mem'ry keeps of all thy kindness there, Still outlives many a storm that has effac'd A thousand other themes less deeply trac'd. Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, That thou might'st know me safe and warmly laid; Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, The biscuit, or confectionary plum; The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestow'd By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glow'd; All this, and more endearing still than all, Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall, Ne'er roughen'd by those cataracts and brakes That humour interpos'd too often makes; All this still legible in mem'ry's page, And still to be so, to my latest age, Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay Such honours to thee as my numbers may; Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere, Not scorn'd in heav'n, though little notic'd here. Could time, his flight revers'd, restore the hours, When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flow'rs, The violet, the pink, and jessamine, I prick'd them into paper with a pin, (And thou wast happier than myself the while, Would'st softly speak, and stroke my head and smile) Could those few pleasant hours again appear, Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here? I would not trust my heart--the dear delight Seems so to be desir'd, perhaps I might.-- But no--what here we call our life is such, So little to be lov'd, and thou so much, That I should ill requite thee to constrain Thy unbound spirit into bonds again. Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast (The storms all weather'd and the ocean cross'd) Shoots into port at some well-haven'd isle, Where spices breathe and brighter seasons smile, There sits quiescent on the floods that show Her beauteous form reflected clear below, While airs impregnated with incense play Around her, fanning light her streamers gay; So thou, with sails how swift! hast reach'd the shore "Where tempests never beat nor billows roar," And thy lov'd consort on the dang'rous tide Of life, long since, has anchor'd at thy side. But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest, Always from port withheld, always distress'd-- Me howling winds drive devious, tempest toss'd, Sails ript, seams op'ning wide, and compass lost, And day by day some current's thwarting force Sets me more distant from a prosp'rous course. But oh the thought, that thou art safe, and he! That thought is joy, arrive what may to me. My boast is not that I deduce my birth From loins enthron'd, and rulers of the earth; But higher far my proud pretensions rise-- The son of parents pass'd into the skies. And now, farewell--time, unrevok'd, has run His wonted course, yet what I wish'd is done. By contemplation's help, not sought in vain, I seem t' have liv'd my childhood o'er again; To have renew'd the joys that once were mine, Without the sin of violating thine: And, while the wings of fancy still are free, And I can view this mimic shew of thee, Time has but half succeeded in his theft-- Thyself remov'd, thy power to sooth me left.

Written by D. H. Lawrence | The Revolutionary Look at them standing there in authority The pale-faces, As if it could have any effect any more. Pale-face authority, Caryatids, Pillars of white bronze standing rigid, lest the skies fall. What a job they've got to keep it up. Their poor, idealist foreheads naked capitals To the entablature of clouded heaven. When the skies are going to fall, fall they will In a great chute and rush of d?b?cle downwards. Oh and I wish the high and super-gothic heavens would come down now, The heavens above, that we yearn to and aspire to. I do not yearn, nor aspire, for I am a blind Samson. And what is daylight to me that I should look skyward? Only I grope among you, pale-faces, caryatids, as among a forest of pillars that hold up the dome of high ideal heaven Which is my prison, And all these human pillars of loftiness, going stiff, metallic-stunned with the weight of their responsibility I stumble against them. Stumbling-blocks, painful ones. To keep on holding up this ideal civilisation Must be excruciating: unless you stiffen into metal, when it is easier to stand stock rigid than to move. This is why I tug at them, individually, with my arm round their waist The human pillars. They are not stronger than I am, blind Samson. The house sways. I shall be so glad when it comes down. I am so tired of the limitations of their Infinite. I am so sick of the pretensions of the Spirit. I am so weary of pale-face importance. Am I not blind, at the round-turning mill? Then why should I fear their pale faces? Or love the effulgence of their holy light, The sun of their righteousness? To me, all faces are dark, All lips are dusky and valved. Save your lips, O pale-faces, Which are slips of metal, Like slits in an automatic-machine, you columns of give-and-take. To me, the earth rolls ponderously, superbly Coming my way without forethought or afterthought. To me, men's footfalls fall with a dull, soft rumble, ominous and lovely, Coming my way. But not your foot-falls, pale-faces, They are a clicketing of bits of disjointed metal Working in motion. To me, men are palpable, invisible nearnesses in the dark Sending out magnetic vibrations of warning, pitch-dark throbs of invitation. But you, pale-faces, You are painful, harsh-surfaced pillars that give off nothing except rigidity, And I jut against you if I try to move, for you are everywhere, and I am blind, Sightless among all your visuality, You staring caryatids. See if I don't bring you down, and all your high opinion And all your ponderous roofed-in ******** of right and wrong Your particular heavens, With a smash. See if your skies aren't falling! And my head, at least, is thick enough to stand it, the smash. See if I don't move under a dark and nude, vast heaven When your world is in ruins, under your fallen skies. Caryatids, pale-faces. See if I am not Lord of the dark and moving hosts Before I die.

Written by Jack Gilbert | Poetry Is A Kind Of Lying Poetry is a kind of lying, necessarily. To profit the poet or beauty. But also in that truth may be told only so. Those who, admirably, refuse to falsify (as those who will not risk pretensions) are excluded from saying even so much. Degas said he didn't paint what he saw, but what would enable them to see the thing he had.

Written by Louis Untermeyer | The Flaming Circle Though for fifteen years you have chaffed me across the table, Slept in my arms and fingered my plunging heart, I scarcely know you; we have not known each other. For all the fierce and casual contacts, something keeps us apart. Are you struggling, perhaps, in a world that I see only dimly, Except as it sweeps toward the star on which I stand alone? Are we swung like two planets, compelled in our separate orbits, Yet held in a flaming circle far greater than our own? Last night we were single, a radiant core of completion, Surrounded by flames that embraced us but left no burns, To-day we are only ourselves; we have plans and pretensions; We move in dividing streets with our small and different concerns. Merging and rending, we wait for the miracle. Meanwhile The fire runs deeper, consuming these selves in its growth. Can this be the mystical marriage—this clash and communion; This pain of possession that frees and encircles us both?

Written by Paul Laurence Dunbar | Possum Trot I 've journeyed 'roun' consid'able, a-seein' men an' things, An' I 've learned a little of the sense that meetin' people brings; But in spite of all my travelling an' of all I think I know, I 've got one notion in my head, that I can't git to go; An' it is that the folks I meet in any other spot Ain't half so good as them I knowed back home in Possum Trot. I know you 've never heerd the name, it ain't a famous place, An' I reckon ef you 'd search the map you could n't find a trace Of any sich locality as this I 've named to you; But never mind, I know the place, an' I love it dearly too. It don't make no pretensions to bein' great or fine, The circuses don't come that way, they ain't no railroad line. It ain't no great big city, where the schemers plan an' plot, But jest a little settlement, this place called Possum Trot. But don't you think the folks that lived in that outlandish place Were ignorant of all the things that go for sense or grace. Why, there was Hannah Dyer, you may search this teemin' earth An' never find a sweeter girl, er one o' greater worth; An' Uncle Abner Williams, a-leanin' on his staff, It seems like I kin hear him talk, an' hear his hearty laugh. His heart was big an' cheery as a sunny acre lot, Why, that's the kind o' folks we had down there at Possum Trot. Good times? Well, now, to suit my taste,—an' I 'm some hard to suit,— There ain't been no sich pleasure sence, an' won't be none to boot, With huskin' bees in Harvest time, an' dances later on, An' singin' school, an taffy pulls, an' fun from night till dawn. Revivals come in winter time, baptizin's in the spring, You 'd ought to seen those people shout, an' heerd 'em pray an' sing;[Pg 148] You 'd ought to 've heard ole Parson Brown a-throwin' gospel shot Among the saints an' sinners in the days of Possum Trot. We live up in the city now, my wife was bound to come; I hear aroun' me day by day the endless stir an' hum. I reckon that it done me good, an' yet it done me harm, That oil was found so plentiful down there on my ole farm. We 've got a new-styled preacher, our church is new-styled too, An' I 've come down from what I knowed to rent a cushioned pew. But often when I 'm settin' there, it's foolish, like as not, To think of them ol' benches in the church at Possum Trot. I know that I 'm ungrateful, an' sich thoughts must be a sin, But I find myself a wishin' that the times was back agin. With the huskin's an' the frolics, an' the joys' I used to know, When I lived at the settlement, a dozen years ago. I don't feel this way often, I 'm scarcely ever glum, For life has taught me how to take her chances as they come. But now an' then my mind goes back to that ol' buryin' plot, That holds the dust of some I loved, down there at Possum Trot.

Written by Robert Burns | 548. The Dean of Faculty: A new Ballad DIRE was the hate at old Harlaw, That Scot to Scot did carry; And dire the discord Langside saw For beauteous, hapless Mary: But Scot to Scot ne’er met so hot, Or were more in fury seen, Sir, Than ’twixt Hal and Bob for the famous job, Who should be the Faculty’s Dean, Sir. This Hal for genius, wit and lore, Among the first was number’d; But pious Bob, ’mid learning’s store, Commandment the tenth remember’d: Yet simple Bob the victory got, And wan his heart’s desire, Which shews that heaven can boil the pot, Tho’ the devil piss in the fire. Squire Hal, besides, had in this case Pretensions rather brassy; For talents, to deserve a place, Are qualifications saucy. So their worships of the Faculty, Quite sick of merit’s rudeness, Chose one who should owe it all, d’ye see, To their gratis grace and goodness. As once on Pisgah purg’d was the sight Of a son of Circumcision, So may be, on this Pisgah height, Bob’s purblind mental vision— Nay, Bobby’s mouth may be opened yet, Till for eloquence you hail him, And swear that he has the angel met That met the ass of Balaam. In your heretic sins may you live and die, Ye heretic Eight-and-Tairty! But accept, ye sublime Majority, My congratulations hearty. With your honours, as with a certain king, In your servants this is striking, The more incapacity they bring, The more they’re to your liking.

Written by Robert William Service | Maternity There once was a Square, such a square little Square, And he loved a trim Triangle; But she was a flirt and around her skirt Vainly she made him dangle. Oh he wanted to wed and he had no dread Of domestic woes and wrangles; For he thought that his fate was to procreate Cute little Squares and Triangles. Now it happened one day on that geometric way There swaggered a big bold Cube. With a haughty stare and he made that Square Have the air of a perfect boob; To his solid spell the Triangle fell, And she thrilled with love's sweet sickness, For she took delight in his breadth and height - But how she adored his thickness! So that poor little Square just died of despair, For his love he could not strangle; While the bold Cube led to the bridal bed That cute and acute Triangle. The Square's sad lot she has long forgot, And his passionate pretensions . . . For she dotes on her kids-Oh such cute Pyramids In a world of three dimensions.