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Best Famous Primly Poems

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

Search and read the best famous Primly poems, articles about Primly poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Primly poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

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Written by Laurie Lee | Create an image from this poem

Home From Abroad

 Far-fetched with tales of other worlds and ways, 
My skin well-oiled with wines of the Levant, 
I set my face into a filial smile 
To greet the pale, domestic kiss of Kent. 

But shall I never learn? That gawky girl, 
Recalled so primly in my foreign thoughts, 
Becomes again the green-haired queen of love 
Whose wanton form dilates as it delights. 

Her rolling tidal landscape floods the eye 
And drowns Chianti in a dusky stream; 
he flower-flecked grasses swim with simple horses, 
The hedges choke with roses fat as cream. 

So do I breathe the hayblown airs of home, 
And watch the sea-green elms drip birds and shadows, 
And as the twilight nets the plunging sun 
My heart's keel slides to rest among the meadows.


Written by Henrik Ibsen | Create an image from this poem

Wildflowers And Hothouse-plants

 "GOOD Heavens, man, what a freak of taste! 
What blindness to form and feature! 
The girl's no beauty, and might be placed 
As a hoydenish kind of creature." 

No doubt it were more in the current tone 
And the tide today we move in, 
If I could but choose me to make my own 
A type of our average woman. 

Like winter blossoms they all unfold 
Their primly maturing glory; 
Like pot-grown plants in the tepid mould 
Of a window conservatory. 

They sleep by rule and by rule they wake, 
Each tendril is taught its duties; 
Were I worldly-wise, yes, my choice I'd make 
From our stock of average beauties. 

For worldly wisdom what do I care? 
I am sick of its prating mummers; 
She breathes of the field and the open air, 
And the fragrance of sixteen summers.
Written by John Crowe Ransom | Create an image from this poem

Bells For John Whitesides Daughter

 There was such speed in her little body, 
And such lightness in her footfall, 
It is no wonder her brown study Astonishes us all 

Her wars were bruited in our high window. 
We looked among orchard trees and beyond 
Where she took arms against her shadow, 
Or harried unto the pond 

The lazy geese, like a snow cloud 
Dripping their snow on the green grass, 
Tricking and stopping, sleepy and proud, 
Who cried in goose, Alas, 

For the tireless heart within the little 
Lady with rod that made them rise 
From their noon apple-dreams and scuttle 
Goose-fashion under the skies! 

But now go the bells, and we are ready, 
In one house we are sternly stopped 
To say we are vexed at her brown study, 
Lying so primly propped.
Written by Edna St. Vincent Millay | Create an image from this poem

Menses

 (He speaks, but to himself, being aware how it is with her)
Think not I have not heard.
Well-fanged the double word
And well-directed flew.

I felt it. Down my side
Innocent as oil I see the ugly venom slide:
Poison enough to stiffen us both, and all our friends;
But I am not pierced, so there the mischief ends.

There is more to be said: I see it coiling;
The impact will be pain.
Yet coil; yet strike again.
You cannot riddle the stout mail I wove
Long since, of wit and love.

As for my answer . . . stupid in the sun
He lies, his fangs drawn:
I will not war with you.

You know how wild you are. You are willing to be turned
To other matters; you would be grateful, even.
You watch me shyly. I (for I have learned
More things than one in our few years together)
Chafe at the churlish wind, the unseasonable weather.

"Unseasonable?" you cry, with harsher scorn
Than the theme warrants; "Every year it is the same!
'Unseasonable!' they whine, these stupid peasants!—and never
since they were born
Have they known a spring less wintry! Lord, the shame,
The crying shame of seeing a man no wiser than the beasts he
feeds—
His skull as empty as a shell!"

("Go to. You are unwell.")

Such is my thought, but such are not my words.

"What is the name," I ask, "of those big birds
With yellow breast and low and heavy flight,
That make such mournful whistling?"

 "Meadowlarks,"
You answer primly, not a little cheered.
"Some people shoot them." Suddenly your eyes are wet
And your chin trembles. On my breast you lean,
And sob most pitifullly for all the lovely things that are not and
have been.

"How silly I am!—and I know how silly I am!"
You say; "You are very patient. You are very kind.
I shall be better soon. Just Heaven consign and damn
To tedious Hell this body with its muddy feet in my mind!"
Written by Robert William Service | Create an image from this poem

Lowly Laureate

 O Sacred Muse, my lyre excuse! -
My verse is vagrant singing;
Rhyme I invoke for simple folk
Of penny-wise upbringing:
For Grannies grey to paste away
Within an album cover;
For maids in class to primly pass,
And lads to linger over.

I take the clay of every day
And mould it in my fashion;
I seek to trace the commonplace
With humor and compassion.
Of earth am I, and meekly try
To be supremely human:
To please, I plan, the little man,
And win the little women.

No evil theme shall daunt my dream
Of fellow-love and pity;
I tune my lute to prostitute,
To priest I pipe my ditty.
Through gutter-grime be in my rhyme,
I bow to altars holy. . . .
Lord, humble me, so I may be
A Laureate of the Lowly.



Book: Reflection on the Important Things