10 Best Famous Pur Poems

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

• All Famous Pur Poems

Written by Charles Bukowski | Bluebird there's a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out but I'm too tough for him, I say, stay in there, I'm not going to let anybody see you. there's a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out but I pur whiskey on him and inhale cigarette smoke and the whores and the bartenders and the grocery clerks never know that he's in there. there's a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out but I'm too tough for him, I say, stay down, do you want to mess me up? you want to screw up the works? you want to blow my book sales in Europe? there's a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out but I'm too clever, I only let him out at night sometimes when everybody's asleep. I say, I know that you're there, so don't be sad. then I put him back, but he's singing a little in there, I haven't quite let him die and we sleep together like that with our secret pact and it's nice enough to make a man weep, but I don't weep, do you?

Written by Mihai Eminescu | The Murmur Of The Forest On the pond bright sparks are falling, Wavelets in the sunlight glisten ; Gazing on the woods with rapture , Do I let my spirit capture Drowsiness, and lie and listen... Quails are calling. All the silent water sleeping Of the streams and of the rivers ; Only where the sun is shining Thousand circles there designing As with fright its surface shivers, Swiftly leaping. Pipe the birds midst woods concealing, Which of us their language guessing ? Birds of endless kinds and races Chirp amidst its leafy places And what wisdom they expressing And what feeling. Asks the cuckoo: "Who has seen Our beloved summer idol , Beautiful beyond all praising Through her languid lashes gazing, Pur most lovely, tender, bridal, Forest queen ?" Bends the lime with gentle care Her sweet body to embower ; In the breeze his branches singing Lift her in their arms upswinging, While a hundred blossoms shower On her hair. Asks the brooklet as it flows : " Where has gone my lovely lady ? She, who evening hour beguiling, In my silver surface smiling, Broke its mirror deep and shady With her toes ?" I replied:" O forest, she Comes no more, no more returning ! Only you, great oaks, still dreaming Violet eyes, like flowers gleaming, That the summer through were yearning Just for me." Happy then, alone we twain, Through the forest brush-wood striding ! Sweet enchanted tale of wonder That the darkness broke asunder... Dear, wherever you'd be hiding, Come again ! English version by Corneliu M. Popescu Transcribed by Monica Dima School No. 10, Focsani, Romania

Written by Barry Tebb | Without The Wherewithall To Thushari Williams Dear Thushie, the six months you spent with us Will never be forgotten, the long days you laboured In the care home, your care-worn comings home To sit with Brenda Williams, po?te maudit sang pur, Labouring together to bring to light poems buried alive And turn them into a book, the living text Proof enough of your divine gift as muse And enchantress of both word and screen. Now in far Indonesia you strive to strike a bargain With an uncaring world, webmaster with magic fingertips You engrave the words of us, careworn poets of our age, In blue and scarlet on a canvas alabaster page. Simulacrum more real than reality itself, Should reality exist in cyberspace. My Pr?vert, my Nerval, I never thought to see So handsomely orthographed, like Li Po scrolled In Chinese water by a blue pagoda. Indeed if anyone could write in troubled water It would be you, my dearest daughter. Whether this world will grant you a living Only time’s indifference and your subtle craft will tell, Artists like poets live on other’s bounty, as you know so well.

Written by Francesco Petrarch | Sonnet CCXVI [Pg 221] SONNET CCXVI. I' pur ascolto, e non odo novella. HEARING NO TIDINGS OF HER, HE BEGINS TO DESPAIR. Still do I wait to hear, in vain still wait,Of that sweet enemy I love so well:What now to think or say I cannot tell,'Twixt hope and fear my feelings fluctuate:The beautiful are still the marks of fate;And sure her worth and beauty most excel:What if her God have call'd her hence, to dwellWhere virtue finds a more congenial state?If so, she will illuminate that sphereEven as a sun: but I—'tis done with me!I then am nothing, have no business here!O cruel absence! why not let me seeThe worst? my little tale is told, I fear,My scene is closed ere it accomplish'd be. Morehead. No tidings yet—I listen, but in vain;Of her, my beautiful belovèd foe,What or to think or say I nothing know,So thrills my heart, my fond hopes so sustain,Danger to some has in their beauty lain;Fairer and chaster she than others show;God haply seeks to snatch from earth belowVirtue's best friend, that heaven a star may gain,Or rather sun. If what I dread be nigh,My life, its trials long, its brief reposeAre ended all. O cruel absence! whyDidst thou remove me from the menaced woes?My short sad story is already done,And midway in its course my vain race run. Macgregor.

Written by Francesco Petrarch | Sonnet CLXVII SONNET CLXVII. Non pur quell' una bella ignuda mano. HE RETURNS THE GLOVE, BEWAILING THE EFFECT OF HER BEAUTY. Not of one dear hand only I complain,Which hides it, to my loss, again from view,But its fair fellow and her soft arms tooAre prompt my meek and passive heart to pain.Love spreads a thousand toils, nor one in vain,Amid the many charms, bright, pure, and new,That so her high and heavenly part endue,No style can equal it, no mind attain.That starry forehead and those tranquil eyes,The fair angelic mouth, where pearl and roseContrast each other, whence rich music flows,These fill the gazer with a fond surprise,The fine head, the bright tresses which defiedThe sun to match them in his noonday pride. Macgregor.

Written by Francesco Petrarch | Sonnet V SONNET V. Che fai? che pensi? che pur dietro guardi. HE ENCOURAGES HIS SOUL TO LIFT ITSELF TO GOD, AND TO ABANDON THE VANITIES OF EARTH. What dost thou? think'st thou? wherefore bend thine eyeBack on the time that never shall return?The raging fire, where once 'twas thine to burn,Why with fresh fuel, wretched soul, supply?Those thrilling tones, those glances of the sky,Which one by one thy fond verse strove to adorn,Are fled; and—well thou knowest, poor forlorn!—To seek them here were bootless industry.Then toil not bliss so fleeting to renew;To chase a thought so fair, so faithless, cease:Thou rather that unwavering good pursue,Which guides to heaven; since nought below can please.Fatal for us that beauty's torturing view,Living or dead alike which desolates our peace. Wrangham.