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Best Famous Quite An Poems

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

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jack – beyond the digits

 so here we are at last at the ten-boy
never to be the single-figure-aged-again boy
and all the trailing clouds that cling to the not-big child
can be blown away - you're up in your own sky now
clear-blue on some days (if on others windy and wild)

now you'll have to see yourself as the tall-boy
the take-it-on-the-chin and care-for-all boy
and looking at what's to be done and getting down
to doing it without boring parents laying down the law
it's your walk from hereon to your own new town

then you'll be able to grow into that free-boy
not hankering to be that sit-on-your-mother's-knee boy
and you'll find yourself with keys to fit in every door
you've been denied or dreamed of (keys towards the man)
and a richer jack will sprout from the jack you were before

so aquarian and water-dog and feb-the-fourth-boy
the i've-got-to-figure-out-my-south-from-north-boy
now you've double-jumped may your life bloom well
be kind to sweet matthew and let that deep sun shine
that's been nuzzling inside you in its young-boy shell

and we wish a happy birthday to the ten-boy
to the video-games and freaky-foresters'-den-boy
to the boy who takes pity on his dad's bald head
whose laziness is legion - seasoned with sharp wit
a boy who's perfect when he's fast asleep in bed
and awake not quite an angel but at least well-fed

Written by Katherine Mansfield |

The Family

 Hinemoa, Tui, Maina,
All of them were born together;
They are quite an extra special
Set of babies--wax and leather.

Every day they took an airing;
Mummy made them each a bonnet;
Two were cherry, one was yellow
With a bow of ribbon on it.

Really, sometimes we would slap them,
For if ever we were talking,
They would giggle and be silly,
Saying, "Mamma, take us walking."

But we never really loved them
Till one day we left them lying
In the garden--through a hail-storm,
And we heard the poor dears crying.

Half-Past-Six said--"You're a mother!
What if Mummy did forget you?"
So I said, "Well, you're their Father.
Get them!" but I wouldn't let you.

Written by Victor Hugo |

To Little Jeanne

 ("Vous eûtes donc hier un an.") 
 
 {September, 1870.} 


 You've lived a year, then, yesterday, sweet child, 
 Prattling thus happily! So fledglings wild, 
 New-hatched in warmer nest 'neath sheltering bough, 
 Chirp merrily to feel their feathers grow. 
 Your mouth's a rose, Jeanne! In these volumes grand 
 Whose pictures please you—while I trembling stand 
 To see their big leaves tattered by your hand— 
 Are noble lines; but nothing half your worth, 
 When all your tiny frame rustles with mirth 
 To welcome me. No work of author wise 
 Can match the thought half springing to your eyes, 
 And your dim reveries, unfettered, strange, 
 Regarding man with all the boundless range 
 Of angel innocence. Methinks, 'tis clear 
 That God's not far, Jeanne, when I see you here. 
 
 Ah! twelve months old: 'tis quite an age, and brings 
 Grave moments, though your soul to rapture clings, 
 You're at that hour of life most like to heaven, 
 When present joy no cares, no sorrows leaven 
 When man no shadow feels: if fond caress 
 Round parent twines, children the world possess. 
 Your waking hopes, your dreams of mirth and love 
 From Charles to Alice, father to mother, rove; 
 No wider range of view your heart can take 
 Than what her nursing and his bright smiles make; 
 They two alone on this your opening hour 
 Can gleams of tenderness and gladness pour: 
 They two—none else, Jeanne! Yet 'tis just, and I, 
 Poor grandsire, dare but to stand humbly by. 
 You come—I go: though gloom alone my right, 
 Blest be the destiny which gives you light. 
 
 Your fair-haired brother George and you beside 
 Me play—in watching you is all my pride; 
 And all I ask—by countless sorrows tried— 
 The grave; o'er which in shadowy form may show 
 Your cradles gilded by the morning's glow. 
 
 Pure new-born wonderer! your infant life 
 Strange welcome found, Jeanne, in this time of strife. 
 Like wild-bee humming through the woods your play, 
 And baby smiles have dared a world at bay: 
 Your tiny accents lisp their gentle charms 
 To mighty Paris clashing mighty arms. 
 Ah! when I see you, child, and when I hear 
 You sing, or try, with low voice whispering near, 
 And touch of fingers soft, my grief to cheer, 
 I dream this darkness, where the tempests groan, 
 Trembles, and passes with half-uttered moan. 
 For though these hundred towers of Paris bend, 
 Though close as foundering ship her glory's end, 
 Though rocks the universe, which we defend; 
 Still to great cannon on our ramparts piled, 
 God sends His blessing by a little child. 
 
 MARWOOD TUCKER.