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Best Famous Punctuality Poems

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

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Written by Lewis Carroll | Create an image from this poem

Punctuality

 Man Naturally loves delay,
And to procrastinate;
Business put off from day to day
Is always done to late.
Let ever hour be in its place Firm fixed, nor loosely shift, And well enjoy the vacant space, As though a birthday gift.
And when the hour arrives, be there, Where'er that "there" may be; Uncleanly hands or ruffled hair Let no one ever see.
If dinner at "half-past" be placed, At "half-past" then be dressed.
If at a "quarter-past" make haste To be down with the rest Better to be before you time, Than e're to be behind; To open the door while strikes the chime, That shows a punctual mind.
Moral: Let punctuality and care Seize every flitting hour, So shalt thou cull a floweret fair, E'en from a fading flower


Written by Emily Dickinson | Create an image from this poem

The Robin is a Gabriel

 The Robin is a Gabriel
In humble circumstances --
His Dress denotes him socially,
Of Transport's Working Classes --
He has the punctuality
Of the New England Farmer --
The same oblique integrity,
A Vista vastly warmer --

A small but sturdy Residence
A self denying Household,
The Guests of Perspicacity
Are all that cross his Threshold --
As covert as a Fugitive,
Cajoling Consternation
By Ditties to the Enemy
And Sylvan Punctuation --
Written by Joseph Brodsky | Create an image from this poem

Dutch Mistress

A hotel in whose ledgers departures are more prominent than arrivals.
With wet Koh-i-noors the October rain strokes what's left of the naked brain.
In this country laid flat for the sake of rivers, beer smells of Germany and the seaguls are in the air like a page's soiled corners.
Morning enters the premises with a coroner's punctuality, puts its ear to the ribs of a cold radiator, detects sub-zero: the afterlife has to start somewhere.
Correspondingly, the angelic curls grow more blond, the skin gains its distant, lordly white, while the bedding already coils desperately in the basement laundry.

Book: Shattered Sighs