10 Best Famous Pride Poems

Here is a collection of the top 10 all-time best famous Pride poems. This is a select list of the best famous Pride poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Pride poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of pride poems.

• All Famous Pride Poems

 THE worm, the rich worm, has a noble domain
In the field that is stored with its millions of slain ;
The charnel-grounds widen, to me they belong,
With the vaults of the sepulchre, sculptured and strong.
The tower of ages in fragments is laid,
Moss grows on the stones, and I lurk in its shade ;
And the hand of the giant and heart of the brave
Must turn weak and submit to the worm and the grave.

Daughters of earth, if I happen to meet
Your bloom-plucking fingers and sod-treading feet--
Oh ! turn not away with the shriek of disgust
From the thing you must mate with in darkness and dust.
Your eyes may be flashing in pleasure and pride,
'Neath the crown of a Queen or the wreath of a bride ;
Your lips may be fresh and your cheeks may be fair--
Let a few years pass over, and I shall be there.

Cities of splendour, where palace and gate,
Where the marble of strength and the purple of state ;
Where the mart and arena, the olive and vine,
Once flourished in glory ; oh ! are ye not mine ?
Go look for famed Carthage, and I shall be found
In the desolate ruin and weed-covered mound ;
And the slime of my trailing discovers my home,
'Mid the pillars of Tyre and the temples of Rome.

I am sacredly sheltered and daintily fed
Where the velvet bedecks, and the white lawn is spread ;
I may feast undisturbed, I may dwell and carouse
On the sweetest of lips and the smoothest of brows.
The voice of the sexton, the chink of the spade,
Sound merrily under the willow's dank shade.
They are carnival notes, and I travel with glee
To learn what the churchyard has given to me.

Oh ! the worm, the rich worm, has a noble domain,
For where monarchs are voiceless I revel and reign ;
I delve at my ease and regale where I may ;
None dispute with the worm in his will or his way.
The high and the bright for my feasting must fall--
Youth, Beauty, and Manhood, I prey on ye all :
The Prince and the peasant, the despot and slave ;
All, all must bow down to the worm and the grave.

 EXULTING BEAUTY,­phantom of an hour, 
Whose magic spells enchain the heart, 
Ah ! what avails thy fascinating pow'r, 
Thy thrilling smile, thy witching art ? 
Thy lip, where balmy nectar glows; 
Thy cheek, where round the damask rose 
A thousand nameless Graces move, 
Thy mildly speaking azure eyes, 
Thy golden hair, where cunning Love 
In many a mazy ringlet lies? 
Soon as thy radiant form is seen, 
Thy native blush, thy timid mien, 
Thy hour is past ! thy charms are vain! 
ILL-NATURE haunts thee with her sallow train, 
Mean JEALOUSY deceives thy list'ning ear, 
And SLANDER stains thy cheek with many a bitter tear. 

In calm retirement form'd to dwell, 
NATURE, thy handmaid fair and kind, 
For thee, a beauteous garland twin'd; 
The vale-nurs'd Lily's downcast bell 
Thy modest mien display'd, 
The snow-drop, April's meekest child, 
With myrtle blossoms undefil'd, 
Thy mild and spotless mind pourtray'd; 
Dear blushing maid, of cottage birth, 
'Twas thine, o'er dewy meads to stray, 
While sparkling health, and frolic mirth 
Led on thy laughing Day. 

Lur'd by the babbling tongue of FAME, 
Too soon, insidious FLATT'RY came; 
Flush'd VANITY her footsteps led, 
To charm thee from thy blest repose, 
While Fashion twin'd about thy head 
A wreath of wounding woes; 
See Dissipation smoothly glide, 
Cold Apathy, and puny Pride, 
Capricious Fortune, dull, and blind, 
O'er splendid Folly throws her veil, 
While Envy's meagre tribe assail 
Thy gentle form, and spotless mind. 

Their spells prevail! no more those eyes 
Shoot undulating fires; 
On thy wan cheek, the young rose dies, 
Thy lip's deep tint expires; 
Dark Melancholy chills thy mind; 
Thy silent tear reveals thy woe; 
TIME strews with thorns thy mazy way, 
Where'er thy giddy footsteps stray, 
Thy thoughtless heart is doom'd to find 
An unrelenting foe. 

'Tis thus, the infant Forest flow'r 
Bespangled o'er with glitt'ring dew, 
At breezy morn's refreshing hour, 
Glows with pure tints of varying hue, 
Beneath an aged oak's wide spreading shade, 
Where no rude winds, or beating storms invade. 
Transplanted from its lonely bed, 
No more it scatters perfumes round, 
No more it rears its gentle head, 
Or brightly paints the mossy ground; 
For ah! the beauteous bud, too soon, 
Scorch'd by the burning eye of day; 
Shrinks from the sultry glare of noon, 
Droops its enamell'd brow, and blushing, dies away.

  Achilles' wrath, to Greece the direful spring
  Of woes unnumber'd, heavenly goddess, sing!
  That wrath which hurl'd to Pluto's gloomy reign
  The souls of mighty chiefs untimely slain;
  Whose limbs unburied on the naked shore,
  Devouring dogs and hungry vultures tore.(41)
  Since great Achilles and Atrides strove,
  Such was the sovereign doom, and such the will of Jove!(42)

  Declare, O Muse! in what ill-fated hour(43)
  Sprung the fierce strife, from what offended power
  Latona's son a dire contagion spread,(44)
  And heap'd the camp with mountains of the dead;
  The king of men his reverent priest defied,(45)
  And for the king's offence the people died.

  For Chryses sought with costly gifts to gain
  His captive daughter from the victor's chain.
  Suppliant the venerable father stands;
  Apollo's awful ensigns grace his hands
  By these he begs; and lowly bending down,
  Extends the sceptre and the laurel crown
  He sued to all, but chief implored for grace
  The brother-kings, of Atreus' royal race(46)

  "Ye kings and warriors! may your vows be crown'd,
  And Troy's proud walls lie level with the ground.
  May Jove restore you when your toils are o'er
  Safe to the pleasures of your native shore.
  But, oh! relieve a wretched parent's pain,
  And give Chryseis to these arms again;
  If mercy fail, yet let my presents move,
  And dread avenging Phoebus, son of Jove."

  The Greeks in shouts their joint assent declare,
  The priest to reverence, and release the fair.
  Not so Atrides; he, with kingly pride,
  Repulsed the sacred sire, and thus replied:

  "Hence on thy life, and fly these hostile plains,
  Nor ask, presumptuous, what the king detains
  Hence, with thy laurel crown, and golden rod,
  Nor trust too far those ensigns of thy god.
  Mine is thy daughter, priest, and shall remain;
  And prayers, and tears, and bribes, shall plead in vain;
  Till time shall rifle every youthful grace,
  And age dismiss her from my cold embrace,
  In daily labours of the loom employ'd,
  Or doom'd to deck the bed she once enjoy'd
  Hence then; to Argos shall the maid retire,
  Far from her native soil and weeping sire."

 I think awhile of Love, and while I think, 
Love is to me a world, 
Sole meat and sweetest drink, 
And close connecting link 
Tween heaven and earth. 
I only know it is, not how or why, 
My greatest happiness; 
However hard I try, 
Not if I were to die, 
Can I explain. 

I fain would ask my friend how it can be, 
But when the time arrives, 
Then Love is more lovely 
Than anything to me, 
And so I'm dumb. 

For if the truth were known, Love cannot speak, 
But only thinks and does; 
Though surely out 'twill leak 
Without the help of Greek, 
Or any tongue. 

A man may love the truth and practise it, 
Beauty he may admire, 
And goodness not omit, 
As much as may befit 
To reverence. 

But only when these three together meet, 
As they always incline, 
And make one soul the seat, 
And favorite retreat, 
Of loveliness; 

When under kindred shape, like loves and hates 
And a kindred nature, 
Proclaim us to be mates, 
Exposed to equal fates 
Eternally; 

And each may other help, and service do, 
Drawing Love's bands more tight, 
Service he ne'er shall rue 
While one and one make two, 
And two are one; 

In such case only doth man fully prove 
Fully as man can do, 
What power there is in Love 
His inmost soul to move 
Resistlessly. 
________________________________

Two sturdy oaks I mean, which side by side, 
Withstand the winter's storm, 
And spite of wind and tide, 
Grow up the meadow's pride, 
For both are strong 

Above they barely touch, but undermined 
Down to their deepest source, 
Admiring you shall find 
Their roots are intertwined 
Insep'rably.

All thoughts, all passions, all delights,
Whatever stirs this mortal frame,
All are but ministers of Love,
And feed his sacred flame.

Oft in my waking dreams do I
Live o’er again that happy hour,
When midway on the mount I lay,
Beside the ruined tower.

The moonshine, stealing o’er the scene
Had blended with the lights of eve;
And she was there, my hope, my joy,
My own dear Genevieve!

She leant against the arméd man,
The statue of the arméd knight;
She stood and listened to my lay,
Amid the lingering light.

Few sorrows hath she of her own,
My hope! my joy! my Genevieve!
She loves me best, whene’er I sing
The songs that make her grieve.

I played a soft and doleful air,
I sang an old and moving story—
An old rude song, that suited well
That ruin wild and hoary.

She listened with a flitting blush,
With downcast eyes and modest grace;
For well she knew, I could not choose
But gaze upon her face.

I told her of the Knight that wore
Upon his shield a burning brand;
And that for ten long years he wooed
The Lady of the Land.

I told her how he pined: and ah!
The deep, the low, the pleading tone
With which I sang another’s love,
Interpreted my own.

She listened with a flitting blush,
With downcast eyes, and modest grace;
And she forgave me, that I gazed
Too fondly on her face!

But when I told the cruel scorn
That crazed that bold and lovely Knight,
And that he crossed the mountain-woods,
Nor rested day nor night;

That sometimes from the savage den,
And sometimes from the darksome shade,
And sometimes starting up at once
In green and sunny glade,—

There came and looked him in the face
An angel beautiful and bright;
And that he knew it was a Fiend,
This miserable Knight!

And that unknowing what he did,
He leaped amid a murderous band,
And saved from outrage worse than death
The Lady of the Land!

And how she wept, and clasped his knees;
And how she tended him in vain—
And ever strove to expiate
The scorn that crazed his brain;—

And that she nursed him in a cave;
And how his madness went away,
When on the yellow forest-leaves
A dying man he lay;—

His dying words—but when I reached
That tenderest strain of all the ditty,
My faultering voice and pausing harp
Disturbed her soul with pity!

All impulses of soul and sense
Had thrilled my guileless Genevieve;
The music and the doleful tale,
The rich and balmy eve;

And hopes, and fears that kindle hope,
An undistinguishable throng,
And gentle wishes long subdued,
Subdued and cherished long!

She wept with pity and delight,
She blushed with love, and virgin-shame;
And like the murmur of a dream,
I heard her breathe my name.

Her bosom heaved—she stepped aside,
As conscious of my look she stepped—
Then suddenly, with timorous eye
She fled to me and wept.

She half enclosed me with her arms,
She pressed me with a meek embrace;
And bending back her head, looked up,
And gazed upon my face.

‘Twas partly love, and partly fear,
And partly ’twas a bashful art,
That I might rather feel, than see,
The swelling of her heart.

I calmed her fears, and she was calm,
And told her love with virgin pride;
And so I won my Genevieve,
My bright and beauteous Bride.

Can You See the Pride In the Panther
As he grows in splendor and grace
Topling obstacles placed in the way,
of the progression of his race.
Can You See the Pride In the Panther
as she nurtures her young all alone
The seed must grow regardless
of the fact that it is planted in stone.
Can You See the Pride In the Panthers
as they unify as one.
The flower blooms with brilliance,
and outshines the rays of the sun. 

 I do not love you as if you were a salt rose, or topaz
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
So I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

The outlook wasn't brilliant for the Mudville nine that day, 
The score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play. 

And then when Cooney died at first, and Barrows did the same, 
A pall-like silence fell upon the patrons of the game. 

A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. 
The rest clung to that hope which springs eternal in the human breast. 
They thought, "if only Casey could but get a whack at that. 
We'd put up even money now, with Casey at the bat." 

But Flynn preceded Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake; 
and the former was a hoodoo, while the latter was a cake. 

So upon that stricken multitude, grim melancholy sat; 
for there seemed but little chance of Casey getting to the bat. 

But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all. 
And Blake, the much despised, tore the cover off the ball. 

And when the dust had lifted, 
and men saw what had occurred, 
there was Jimmy safe at second and Flynn a-hugging third. 

Then from five thousand throats and more there rose a lusty yell; 
it rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell; 

it pounded through on the mountain and recoiled upon the flat; 
for Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat. 

There was ease in Casey's manner as he stepped into his place, 
there was pride in Casey's bearing and a smile lit Casey's face. 

And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat, 
no stranger in the crowd could doubt t'was Casey at the bat. 

Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt. 
Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt. 

Then, while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip, 
defiance flashed in Casey's eye, a sneer curled Casey's lip. 

And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air, 
and Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there. 

Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped -- 
"That ain't my style," said Casey. 

"Strike one!" the umpire said. 
From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar, 
like the beating of the storm waves on a stern and distant shore. 

"Kill him! Kill the umpire!" shouted someone on the stand, 
and it's likely they'd have killed him had not Casey raised his hand. 

With a smile of Christian charity, great Casey's visage shone, 
he stilled the rising tumult, he bade the game go on. 

He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the dun sphere flew, 
but Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said, "Strike two!" 

"Fraud!" cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered "Fraud!" 
But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed. 

They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain, 
and they knew that Casey wouldn't let that ball go by again. 

The sneer has fled from Casey's lip, the teeth are clenched in hate. 
He pounds, with cruel violence, his bat upon the plate. 

And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go, 
and now the air is shattered by the force of Casey's blow. 

Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright. 
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light. 
And, somewhere men are laughing, and little children shout, 

but there is no joy in Mudville 
mighty Casey has struck out. 

 Epilogue to "A Vision'

MIDNIGHT has come, and the great Christ Church Bell
And may a lesser bell sound through the room;
And it is All Souls' Night,
And two long glasses brimmed with muscatel
Bubble upon the table. A ghost may come;
For it is a ghost's right,
His element is so fine
Being sharpened by his death,
To drink from the wine-breath
While our gross palates drink from the whole wine.

I need some mind that, if the cannon sound
From every quarter of the world, can stay
Wound in mind's pondering
As mummies in the mummy-cloth are wound;
Because I have a marvellous thing to say,
A certain marvellous thing
None but the living mock,
Though not for sober ear;
It may be all that hear
Should laugh and weep an hour upon the clock.

Horton's the first I call. He loved strange thought
And knew that sweet extremity of pride
That's called platonic love,
And that to such a pitch of passion wrought
Nothing could bring him, when his lady died,
Anodyne for his love.
Words were but wasted breath;
One dear hope had he:
The inclemency
Of that or the next winter would be death.

Two thoughts were so mixed up I could not tell
Whether of her or God he thought the most,
But think that his mind's eye,
When upward turned, on one sole image fell;
And that a slight companionable ghost,
Wild with divinity,
Had so lit up the whole
Immense miraculous house
The Bible promised us,
It seemed a gold-fish swimming in a bowl.

On Florence Emery I call the next,
Who finding the first wrinkles on a face
Admired and beautiful,
And knowing that the future would be vexed
With 'minished beauty, multiplied commonplace,
preferred to teach a school
Away from neighbour or friend,
Among dark skins, and there
permit foul years to wear
Hidden from eyesight to the unnoticed end.

Before that end much had she ravelled out
From a discourse in figurative speech
By some learned Indian
On the soul's journey. How it is whirled about,
Wherever the orbit of the moon can reach,
Until it plunge into the sun;
And there, free and yet fast,
Being both Chance and Choice,
Forget its broken toys
And sink into its own delight at last.

And I call up MacGregor from the grave,
For in my first hard springtime we were friends.
Although of late estranged.
I thought him half a lunatic, half knave,
And told him so, but friendship never ends;
And what if mind seem changed,
And it seem changed with the mind,
When thoughts rise up unbid
On generous things that he did
And I grow half contented to be blind!

He had much industry at setting out,
Much boisterous courage, before loneliness
Had driven him crazed;
For meditations upon unknown thought
Make human intercourse grow less and less;
They are neither paid nor praised.
but he d object to the host,
The glass because my glass;
A ghost-lover he was
And may have grown more arrogant being a ghost.

But names are nothing. What matter who it be,
So that his elements have grown so fine
The fume of muscatel
Can give his sharpened palate ecstasy
No living man can drink from the whole wine.
I have mummy truths to tell
Whereat the living mock,
Though not for sober ear,
For maybe all that hear
Should laugh and weep an hour upon the clock.

Such thought -- such thought have I that hold it tight
Till meditation master all its parts,
Nothing can stay my glance
Until that glance run in the world's despite
To where the damned have howled away their hearts,
And where the blessed dance;
Such thought, that in it bound
I need no other thing,
Wound in mind's wandering
As mummies in the mummy-cloth are wound.

 Oxford, Autumn 1920

Today is filled with anger
fueled with hidden hate
scared of being outcast
afraid of common fate
Today is built on tragedies
which no one wants 2 face
nightmares 2 humanities
and morally disgraced
Tonight is filled with rage
violence in the air
children bred with ruthlessness
because no one at home cares
Tonight I lay my head down
but the pressure never stops
knawing at my sanity
content when I am dropped
But 2morrow I c change
a chance 2 build a new
Built on spirit intent of Heart
and ideals
based on truth
and tomorrow I wake with second wind
and strong because of pride
2 know I fought with all my heart 2 keep my
dream alive