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Best Famous Provided With Poems

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

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Written by A E Housman | Create an image from this poem

Fragment of a Greek Tragedy

 CHORUS: O suitably-attired-in-leather-boots
Head of a traveller, wherefore seeking whom
Whence by what way how purposed art thou come
To this well-nightingaled vicinity?
My object in inquiring is to know.
But if you happen to be deaf and dumb And do not understand a word I say, Then wave your hand, to signify as much.
ALCMAEON: I journeyed hither a Boetian road.
CHORUS: Sailing on horseback, or with feet for oars? ALCMAEON: Plying with speed my partnership of legs.
CHORUS: Beneath a shining or a rainy Zeus? ALCMAEON: Mud's sister, not himself, adorns my shoes.
CHORUS: To learn your name would not displease me much.
ALCMAEON: Not all that men desire do they obtain.
CHORUS: Might I then hear at what thy presence shoots.
ALCMAEON: A shepherd's questioned mouth informed me that-- CHORUS: What? for I know not yet what you will say.
ALCMAEON: Nor will you ever, if you interrupt.
CHORUS: Proceed, and I will hold my speechless tongue.
ALCMAEON: This house was Eriphyle's, no one else's.
CHORUS: Nor did he shame his throat with shameful lies.
ALCMAEON: May I then enter, passing through the door? CHORUS: Go chase into the house a lucky foot.
And, O my son, be, on the one hand, good, And do not, on the other hand, be bad; For that is much the safest plan.
ALCMAEON: I go into the house with heels and speed.
CHORUS Strophe In speculation I would not willingly acquire a name For ill-digested thought; But after pondering much To this conclusion I at last have come: LIFE IS UNCERTAIN.
This truth I have written deep In my reflective midriff On tablets not of wax, Nor with a pen did I inscribe it there, For many reasons: LIFE, I say, IS NOT A STRANGER TO UNCERTAINTY.
Not from the flight of omen-yelling fowls This fact did I discover, Nor did the Delphine tripod bark it out, Nor yet Dodona.
Its native ingunuity sufficed My self-taught diaphragm.
Antistrophe Why should I mention The Inachean daughter, loved of Zeus? Her whom of old the gods, More provident than kind, Provided with four hoofs, two horns, one tail, A gift not asked for, And sent her forth to learn The unfamiliar science Of how to chew the cud.
She therefore, all about the Argive fields, Went cropping pale green grass and nettle-tops, Nor did they disagree with her.
But yet, howe'er nutritious, such repasts I do not hanker after: Never may Cypris for her seat select My dappled liver! Why should I mention Io? Why indeed? I have no notion why.
Epode But now does my boding heart, Unhired, unaccompanied, sing A strain not meet for the dance.
Yes even the palace appears To my yoke of circular eyes (The right, nor omit I the left) Like a slaughterhouse, so to speak, Garnished with woolly deaths And many sphipwrecks of cows.
I therefore in a Cissian strain lament: And to the rapid Loud, linen-tattering thumps upon my chest Resounds in concert The battering of my unlucky head.
ERIPHYLE (within): O, I am smitten with a hatchet's jaw; And that in deed and not in word alone.
CHORUS: I thought I heard a sound within the house Unlike the voice of one that jumps for joy.
ERIPHYLE: He splits my skull, not in a friendly way, Once more: he purposes to kill me dead.
CHORUS: I would not be reputed rash, but yet I doubt if all be gay within the house.
ERIPHYLE: O! O! another stroke! that makes the third.
He stabs me to the heart against my wish.
CHORUS: If that be so, thy state of health is poor; But thine arithmetic is quite correct.


Written by Vachel Lindsay | Create an image from this poem

Epitaphs For Two Players

 I.
EDWIN BOOTH An old actor at the Player's Club told me that Edwin Booth first impersonated Hamlet when a barnstormer in California.
There were few theatres, but the hotels were provided with crude assembly rooms for strolling players.
The youth played in the blear hotel.
The rafters gleamed with glories strange.
And winds of mourning Elsinore Howling at chance and fate and change; Voices of old Europe's dead Disturbed the new-built cattle-shed, The street, the high and solemn range.
The while the coyote barked afar All shadowy was the battlement.
The ranch-boys huddled and grew pale, Youths who had come on riot bent.
Forgot were pranks well-planned to sting.
Behold there rose a ghostly king, And veils of smoking Hell were rent.
When Edwin Booth played Hamlet, then The camp-drab's tears could not but flow.
Then Romance lived and breathed and burned.
She felt the frail queen-mother's woe, Thrilled for Ophelia, fond and blind, And Hamlet, cruel, yet so kind, And moaned, his proud words hurt her so.
A haunted place, though new and harsh! The Indian and the Chinaman And Mexican were fain to learn What had subdued the Saxon clan.
Why did they mumble, brood, and stare When the court-players curtsied fair And the Gonzago scene began? And ah, the duel scene at last! They cheered their prince with stamping feet.
A death-fight in a palace! Yea, With velvet hangings incomplete, A pasteboard throne, a pasteboard crown, And yet a monarch tumbled down, A brave lad fought in splendor meet.
Was it a palace or a barn? Immortal as the gods he flamed.
There in his last great hour of rage His foil avenged a mother shamed.
In duty stern, in purpose deep He drove that king to his black sleep And died, all godlike and untamed.
I was not born in that far day.
I hear the tale from heads grown white.
And then I walk that earlier street, The mining camp at candle-light.
I meet him wrapped in musings fine Upon some whispering silvery line He yet resolves to speak aright.
II.
EPITAPH FOR JOHN BUNNY, MOTION PICTURE COMEDIAN In which he is remembered in similitude, by reference to Yorick, the king's jester, who died when Hamlet and Ophelia were children.
Yorick is dead.
Boy Hamlet walks forlorn Beneath the battlements of Elsinore.
Where are those oddities and capers now That used to "set the table on a roar"? And do his bauble-bells beyond the clouds Ring out, and shake with mirth the planets bright? No doubt he brings the blessed dead good cheer, But silence broods on Elsinore tonight.
That little elf, Ophelia, eight years old, Upon her battered doll's staunch bosom weeps.
("O best of men, that wove glad fairy-tales.
") With tear-burned face, at last the darling sleeps.
Hamlet himself could not give cheer or help, Though firm and brave, with his boy-face controlled.
For every game they started out to play Yorick invented, in the days of old.
The times are out of joint! O cursed spite! The noble jester Yorick comes no more.
And Hamlet hides his tears in boyish pride By some lone turret-stair of Elsinore.