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Best Famous Rattlesnake Poems

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

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Written by Lewis Carroll | Create an image from this poem

A Strange Wild Song

 He thought he saw an Elephant
That practised on a fife:
He looked again, and found it was
A letter from his wife.
"At length I realize," he said, "The bitterness of life!" He thought he saw a Buffalo Upon the chimney-piece: He looked again, and found it was His Sister's Husband's Niece.
"Unless you leave this house," he said, "I'll send for the police!" he thought he saw a Rattlesnake That questioned him in Greek: He looked again, and found it was The Middle of Next Week.
"The one thing I regret," he said, "Is that it cannot speak!" He thought he saw a Banker's Clerk Descending from the bus: He looked again, and found it was A Hippopotamus.
"If this should stay to dine," he said, "There won't be much for us!" He thought he saw a Kangaroo That worked a Coffee-mill: He looked again, and found it was A Vegetable-Pill.
"Were I to swallow this," he said, "I should be very ill!" He thought he saw a Coach-and-Four That stood beside his bed: He looked again, and found it was A Bear without a Head.
"Poor thing," he said, "poor silly thing! It's waiting to be fed!"


Written by Robert William Service | Create an image from this poem

My Childhood God

 When I was small the Lord appeared
 Unto my mental eye
A gentle giant with a beard
 Who homed up in the sky.
But soon that vasty vision blurred, And faded in the end, Till God is just another word I cannot comprehend.
I envy those of simple faith Who bend the votive knee; Who do not doubt divinely death Will set their spirits free.
Oh could I be like you and you, Sweet souls who scan this line, And by dim altar worship too A Deity Divine! Alas! Mid passions that appal I ask with bitter woe Is God responsible for all Our horror here below? He made the hero and the saint, But did He also make The cannibal in battle paint, The shark and rattlesnake? If I believe in God I should Believe in Satan too; The one the source of all our good, The other of our rue .
.
.
Oh could I second childhood gain! For then it might be, I Once more would see that vision plain,-- Fond Father in the sky.
Written by Lewis Carroll | Create an image from this poem

The Mad Gardeners Song

 He thought he saw an Elephant,
That practised on a fife:
He looked again, and found it was
A letter from his wife.
'At length I realise,' he said, The bitterness of Life!' He thought he saw a Buffalo Upon the chimney-piece: He looked again, and found it was His Sister's Husband's Niece.
'Unless you leave this house,' he said, "I'll send for the Police!' He thought he saw a Rattlesnake That questioned him in Greek: He looked again, and found it was The Middle of Next Week.
'The one thing I regret,' he said, 'Is that it cannot speak!' He thought he saw a Banker's Clerk Descending from the bus: He looked again, and found it was A Hippopotamus.
'If this should stay to dine,' he said, 'There won't be much for us!' He thought he saw a Kangaroo That worked a coffee-mill: He looked again, and found it was A Vegetable-Pill.
'Were I to swallow this,' he said, 'I should be very ill!' He thought he saw a Coach-and-Four That stood beside his bed: He looked again, and found it was A Bear without a Head.
'Poor thing,' he said, 'poor silly thing! It's waiting to be fed!' He thought he saw an Albatross That fluttered round the lamp: He looked again, and found it was A Penny-Postage Stamp.
'You'd best be getting home,' he said: 'The nights are very damp!' He thought he saw a Garden-Door That opened with a key: He looked again, and found it was A Double Rule of Three: 'And all its mystery,' he said, 'Is clear as day to me!' He thought he saw a Argument That proved he was the Pope: He looked again, and found it was A Bar of Mottled Soap.
'A fact so dread,' he faintly said, 'Extinguishes all hope!'
Written by Vladimir Mayakovsky | Create an image from this poem

My Soviet Passport

 I'd tear
 like a wolf
 at bureaucracy.
For mandates my respect's but the slightest.
To the devil himself I'd chuck without mercy every red-taped paper.
But this .
.
.
Down the long front of coupés and cabins File the officials politely.
They gather up passports and I give in My own vermilion booklet.
For one kind of passport - smiling lips part For others - an attitude scornful.
They take with respect, for instance, the passport From a sleeping-car English Lionel.
The good fellows eyes almost slip like pips when, bowing as low as men can, they take, as if they were taking a tip, the passport from an American.
At the Polish, they dolefully blink and wheeze in dumb police elephantism - where are they from, and what are these geographical novelties? And without a turn of their cabbage heads, their feelings hidden in lower regions, they take without blinking, the passports from Swedes and various old Norwegians.
Then sudden as if their mouths were aquake those gentlemen almost whine Those very official gentlemen take that red-skinned passport of mine.
Take- like a bomb take - like a hedgehog, like a razor double-edge stropped, take - like a rattlesnake huge and long with at least 20 fangs poison-tipped.
The porter's eyes give a significant flick (I'll carry your baggage for nix, mon ami.
.
.
) The gendarmes enquiringly look at the tec, the tec, - at the gendarmerie.
With what delight that gendarme caste would have me strung-up and whipped raw because I hold in my hands hammered-fast sickle-clasped my red Soviet passport.
I'd tear like a wolf at bureaucracy.
For mandates my respect's but the slightest.
To the devil himself I'd chuck without mercy every red-taped paper, But this .
.
.
I pull out of my wide trouser-pockets duplicate of a priceless cargo.
You now: read this and envy, I'm a citizen of the Soviet Socialist Union! Transcribed: by Liviu Iacob.
Written by Amy Lowell | Create an image from this poem

The Red Lacquer Music-Stand

 A music-stand of crimson lacquer, long since brought
In some fast clipper-ship from China, quaintly wrought
With bossed and carven flowers and fruits in blackening gold,
The slender shaft all twined about and thickly scrolled
With vine leaves and young twisted tendrils, whirling, curling,
Flinging their new shoots over the four wings, and swirling
Out on the three wide feet in golden lumps and streams;
Petals and apples in high relief, and where the seams
Are worn with handling, through the polished crimson sheen,
Long streaks of black, the under lacquer, shine out clean.
Four desks, adjustable, to suit the heights of players Sitting to viols or standing up to sing, four layers Of music to serve every instrument, are there, And on the apex a large flat-topped golden pear.
It burns in red and yellow, dusty, smouldering lights, When the sun flares the old barn-chamber with its flights And skips upon the crystal knobs of dim sideboards, Legless and mouldy, and hops, glint to glint, on hoards Of scythes, and spades, and dinner-horns, so the old tools Are little candles throwing brightness round in pools.
With Oriental splendour, red and gold, the dust Covering its flames like smoke and thinning as a gust Of brighter sunshine makes the colours leap and range, The strange old music-stand seems to strike out and change; To stroke and tear the darkness with sharp golden claws; To dart a forked, vermilion tongue from open jaws; To puff out bitter smoke which chokes the sun; and fade Back to a still, faint outline obliterate in shade.
Creeping up the ladder into the loft, the Boy Stands watching, very still, prickly and hot with joy.
He sees the dusty sun-mote slit by streaks of red, He sees it split and stream, and all about his head Spikes and spears of gold are licking, pricking, flicking, Scratching against the walls and furniture, and nicking The darkness into sparks, chipping away the gloom.
The Boy's nose smarts with the pungence in the room.
The wind pushes an elm branch from before the door And the sun widens out all along the floor, Filling the barn-chamber with white, straightforward light, So not one blurred outline can tease the mind to fright.
"O All ye Works of the Lord, Bless ye the Lord; Praise Him, and Magnify Him for ever.
O let the Earth Bless the Lord; Yea, let it Praise Him, and Magnify Him for ever.
O ye Mountains and Hills, Bless ye the Lord; Praise Him, and Magnify Him for ever.
O All ye Green Things upon the Earth, Bless ye the Lord; Praise Him, and Magnify Him for ever.
" The Boy will praise his God on an altar builded fair, Will heap it with the Works of the Lord.
In the morning air, Spices shall burn on it, and by their pale smoke curled, Like shoots of all the Green Things, the God of this bright World Shall see the Boy's desire to pay his debt of praise.
The Boy turns round about, seeking with careful gaze An altar meet and worthy, but each table and chair Has some defect, each piece is needing some repair To perfect it; the chairs have broken legs and backs, The tables are uneven, and every highboy lacks A handle or a drawer, the desks are bruised and worn, And even a wide sofa has its cane seat torn.
Only in the gloom far in the corner there The lacquer music-stand is elegant and rare, Clear and slim of line, with its four wings outspread, The sound of old quartets, a tenuous, faint thread, Hanging and floating over it, it stands supreme -- Black, and gold, and crimson, in one twisted scheme! A candle on the bookcase feels a draught and wavers, Stippling the white-washed walls with dancing shades and quavers.
A bed-post, grown colossal, jigs about the ceiling, And shadows, strangely altered, stain the walls, revealing Eagles, and rabbits, and weird faces pulled awry, And hands which fetch and carry things incessantly.
Under the Eastern window, where the morning sun Must touch it, stands the music-stand, and on each one Of its broad platforms is a pyramid of stones, And metals, and dried flowers, and pine and hemlock cones, An oriole's nest with the four eggs neatly blown, The rattle of a rattlesnake, and three large brown Butternuts uncracked, six butterflies impaled With a green luna moth, a snake-skin freshly scaled, Some sunflower seeds, wampum, and a bloody-tooth shell, A blue jay feather, all together piled pell-mell The stand will hold no more.
The Boy with humming head Looks once again, blows out the light, and creeps to bed.
The Boy keeps solemn vigil, while outside the wind Blows gustily and clear, and slaps against the blind.
He hardly tries to sleep, so sharp his ecstasy It burns his soul to emptiness, and sets it free For adoration only, for worship.
Dedicate, His unsheathed soul is naked in its novitiate.
The hours strike below from the clock on the stair.
The Boy is a white flame suspiring in prayer.
Morning will bring the sun, the Golden Eye of Him Whose splendour must be veiled by starry cherubim, Whose Feet shimmer like crystal in the streets of Heaven.
Like an open rose the sun will stand up even, Fronting the window-sill, and when the casement glows Rose-red with the new-blown morning, then the fire which flows From the sun will fall upon the altar and ignite The spices, and his sacrifice will burn in perfumed light.
Over the music-stand the ghosts of sounds will swim, `Viols d'amore' and `hautbois' accorded to a hymn.
The Boy will see the faintest breath of angels' wings Fanning the smoke, and voices will flower through the strings.
He dares no farther vision, and with scalding eyes Waits upon the daylight and his great emprise.
The cold, grey light of dawn was whitening the wall When the Boy, fine-drawn by sleeplessness, started his ritual.
He washed, all shivering and pointed like a flame.
He threw the shutters open, and in the window-frame The morning glimmered like a tarnished Venice glass.
He took his Chinese pastilles and put them in a mass Upon the mantelpiece till he could seek a plate Worthy to hold them burning.
Alas! He had been late In thinking of this need, and now he could not find Platter or saucer rare enough to ease his mind.
The house was not astir, and he dared not go down Into the barn-chamber, lest some door should be blown And slam before the draught he made as he went out.
The light was growing yellower, and still he looked about.
A flash of almost crimson from the gilded pear Upon the music-stand, startled him waiting there.
The sun would rise and he would meet it unprepared, Labelled a fool in having missed what he had dared.
He ran across the room, took his pastilles and laid Them on the flat-topped pear, most carefully displayed To light with ease, then stood a little to one side, Focussed a burning-glass and painstakingly tried To hold it angled so the bunched and prismed rays Should leap upon each other and spring into a blaze.
Sharp as a wheeling edge of disked, carnation flame, Gem-hard and cutting upward, slowly the round sun came.
The arrowed fire caught the burning-glass and glanced, Split to a multitude of pointed spears, and lanced, A deeper, hotter flame, it took the incense pile Which welcomed it and broke into a little smile Of yellow flamelets, creeping, crackling, thrusting up, A golden, red-slashed lily in a lacquer cup.
"O ye Fire and Heat, Bless ye the Lord; Praise Him, and Magnify Him for ever.
O ye Winter and Summer, Bless ye the Lord; Praise Him, and Magnify Him for ever.
O ye Nights and Days, Bless ye the Lord; Praise Him, and Magnify Him for ever.
O ye Lightnings and Clouds, Bless ye the Lord; Praise Him, and Magnify Him for ever.
" A moment so it hung, wide-curved, bright-petalled, seeming A chalice foamed with sunrise.
The Boy woke from his dreaming.
A spike of flame had caught the card of butterflies, The oriole's nest took fire, soon all four galleries Where he had spread his treasures were become one tongue Of gleaming, brutal fire.
The Boy instantly swung His pitcher off the wash-stand and turned it upside down.
The flames drooped back and sizzled, and all his senses grown Acute by fear, the Boy grabbed the quilt from his bed And flung it over all, and then with aching head He watched the early sunshine glint on the remains Of his holy offering.
The lacquer stand had stains Ugly and charred all over, and where the golden pear Had been, a deep, black hole gaped miserably.
His dear Treasures were puffs of ashes; only the stones were there, Winking in the brightness.
The clock upon the stair Struck five, and in the kitchen someone shook a grate.
The Boy began to dress, for it was getting late.
Written by Walt Whitman | Create an image from this poem

Longings for Home

 O MAGNET-SOUTH! O glistening, perfumed South! My South! 
O quick mettle, rich blood, impulse, and love! Good and evil! O all dear to me! 
O dear to me my birth-things—All moving things, and the trees where I was
 born—the
 grains,
 plants, rivers; 
Dear to me my own slow sluggish rivers where they flow, distant, over flats of silvery
 sands,
 or
 through swamps; 
Dear to me the Roanoke, the Savannah, the Altamahaw, the Pedee, the Tombigbee, the Santee,
 the
 Coosa, and the Sabine;
O pensive, far away wandering, I return with my Soul to haunt their banks again; 
Again in Florida I float on transparent lakes—I float on the Okeechobee—I cross
 the
 hummock land, or through pleasant openings, or dense forests; 
I see the parrots in the woods—I see the papaw tree and the blossoming titi; 
Again, sailing in my coaster, on deck, I coast off Georgia—I coast up the Carolinas, 
I see where the live-oak is growing—I see where the yellow-pine, the scented
 bay-tree, the
 lemon and orange, the cypress, the graceful palmetto;
I pass rude sea-headlands and enter Pamlico Sound through an inlet, and dart my vision
 inland; 
O the cotton plant! the growing fields of rice, sugar, hemp! 
The cactus, guarded with thorns—the laurel-tree, with large white flowers; 
The range afar—the richness and barrenness—the old woods charged with mistletoe
 and
 trailing moss, 
The piney odor and the gloom—the awful natural stillness, (Here in these dense swamps
 the
 freebooter carries his gun, and the fugitive slave has his conceal’d hut;)
O the strange fascination of these half-known, half-impassable swamps, infested by
 reptiles,
 resounding with the bellow of the alligator, the sad noises of the night-owl and the
 wild-cat,
 and
 the whirr of the rattlesnake; 
The mocking-bird, the American mimic, singing all the forenoon—singing through the
 moon-lit
 night, 
The humming-bird, the wild turkey, the raccoon, the opossum; 
A Tennessee corn-field—the tall, graceful, long-leav’d corn—slender,
 flapping,
 bright
 green with tassels—with beautiful ears, each well-sheath’d in its husk; 
An Arkansas prairie—a sleeping lake, or still bayou;
O my heart! O tender and fierce pangs—I can stand them not—I will depart; 
O to be a Virginian, where I grew up! O to be a Carolinian! 
O longings irrepressible! O I will go back to old Tennessee, and never wander more!
Written by Vachel Lindsay | Create an image from this poem

What the Rattlesnake Said

 The moon's a little prairie-dog.
He shivers through the night.
He sits upon his hill and cries For fear that I will bite.
The sun's a broncho.
He's afraid Like every other thing, And trembles, morning, noon and night, Lest I should spring, and sting.


Written by Edward Lear | Create an image from this poem

R was a rattlesnake

R

was a rattlesnake,
Rolled up so tight,
Those who saw him ran quickly,
For fear he should bite.

r!

Rattlesnake bite!