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Best Famous Reassured Poems

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

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Written by Edward Field | Create an image from this poem

Frankenstein

 The monster has escaped from the dungeon
where he was kept by the Baron,
who made him with knobs sticking out from each side of his neck
where the head was attached to the body
and stitching all over
where parts of cadavers were sewed together.
He is pursued by the ignorant villagers, who think he is evil and dangerous because he is ugly and makes ugly noises.
They wave firebrands at him and cudgels and rakes, but he escapes and comes to the thatched cottage of an old blind man playing on the violin Mendelssohn's "Spring Song.
" Hearing him approach, the blind man welcomes him: "Come in, my friend," and takes him by the arm.
"You must be weary," and sits him down inside the house.
For the blind man has long dreamed of having a friend to share his lonely life.
The monster has never known kindness ‹ the Baron was cruel -- but somehow he is able to accept it now, and he really has no instincts to harm the old man, for in spite of his awful looks he has a tender heart: Who knows what cadaver that part of him came from? The old man seats him at table, offers him bread, and says, "Eat, my friend.
" The monster rears back roaring in terror.
"No, my friend, it is good.
Eat -- gooood" and the old man shows him how to eat, and reassured, the monster eats and says, "Eat -- gooood," trying out the words and finding them good too.
The old man offers him a glass of wine, "Drink, my friend.
Drink -- gooood.
" The monster drinks, slurping horribly, and says, "Drink -- gooood," in his deep nutty voice and smiles maybe for the first time in his life.
Then the blind man puts a cigar in the monster's mouth and lights a large wooden match that flares up in his face.
The monster, remembering the torches of the villagers, recoils, grunting in terror.
"No, my friend, smoke -- gooood," and the old man demonstrates with his own cigar.
The monster takes a tentative puff and smiles hugely, saying, "Smoke -- gooood," and sits back like a banker, grunting and puffing.
Now the old man plays Mendelssohn's "Spring Song" on the violin while tears come into our dear monster s eyes as he thinks of the stones of the mob the pleasures of meal-time, the magic new words he has learned and above all of the friend he has found.
It is just as well that he is unaware -- being simple enough to believe only in the present -- that the mob will find him and pursue him for the rest of his short unnatural life, until trapped at the whirlpool's edge he plunges to his death.


Written by Mahmoud Darwish | Create an image from this poem

Under Siege

 Here on the slopes of hills, facing the dusk and the cannon of time 
Close to the gardens of broken shadows, 
We do what prisoners do, 
And what the jobless do: 
We cultivate hope.
*** A country preparing for dawn.
We grow less intelligent For we closely watch the hour of victory: No night in our night lit up by the shelling Our enemies are watchful and light the light for us In the darkness of cellars.
*** Here there is no "I".
Here Adam remembers the dust of his clay.
*** On the verge of death, he says: I have no trace left to lose: Free I am so close to my liberty.
My future lies in my own hand.
Soon I shall penetrate my life, I shall be born free and parentless, And as my name I shall choose azure letters.
.
.
*** You who stand in the doorway, come in, Drink Arabic coffee with us And you will sense that you are men like us You who stand in the doorways of houses Come out of our morningtimes, We shall feel reassured to be Men like you! *** When the planes disappear, the white, white doves Fly off and wash the cheeks of heaven With unbound wings taking radiance back again, taking possession Of the ether and of play.
Higher, higher still, the white, white doves Fly off.
Ah, if only the sky Were real [a man passing between two bombs said to me].
*** Cypresses behind the soldiers, minarets protecting The sky from collapse.
Behind the hedge of steel Soldiers piss—under the watchful eye of a tank— And the autumnal day ends its golden wandering in A street as wide as a church after Sunday mass.
.
.
*** [To a killer] If you had contemplated the victim’s face And thought it through, you would have remembered your mother in the Gas chamber, you would have been freed from the reason for the rifle And you would have changed your mind: this is not the way to find one’s identity again.
*** The siege is a waiting period Waiting on the tilted ladder in the middle of the storm.
*** Alone, we are alone as far down as the sediment Were it not for the visits of the rainbows.
*** We have brothers behind this expanse.
Excellent brothers.
They love us.
They watch us and weep.
Then, in secret, they tell each other: "Ah! if this siege had been declared.
.
.
" They do not finish their sentence: "Don’t abandon us, don’t leave us.
" *** Our losses: between two and eight martyrs each day.
And ten wounded.
And twenty homes.
And fifty olive trees.
.
.
Added to this the structural flaw that Will arrive at the poem, the play, and the unfinished canvas.
*** A woman told the cloud: cover my beloved For my clothing is drenched with his blood.
*** If you are not rain, my love Be tree Sated with fertility, be tree If you are not tree, my love Be stone Saturated with humidity, be stone If you are not stone, my love Be moon In the dream of the beloved woman, be moon [So spoke a woman to her son at his funeral] *** Oh watchmen! Are you not weary Of lying in wait for the light in our salt And of the incandescence of the rose in our wound Are you not weary, oh watchmen? *** A little of this absolute and blue infinity Would be enough To lighten the burden of these times And to cleanse the mire of this place.
*** It is up to the soul to come down from its mount And on its silken feet walk By my side, hand in hand, like two longtime Friends who share the ancient bread And the antique glass of wine May we walk this road together And then our days will take different directions: I, beyond nature, which in turn Will choose to squat on a high-up rock.
*** On my rubble the shadow grows green, And the wolf is dozing on the skin of my goat He dreams as I do, as the angel does That life is here.
.
.
not over there.
*** In the state of siege, time becomes space Transfixed in its eternity In the state of siege, space becomes time That has missed its yesterday and its tomorrow.
*** The martyr encircles me every time I live a new day And questions me: Where were you? Take every word You have given me back to the dictionaries And relieve the sleepers from the echo’s buzz.
*** The martyr enlightens me: beyond the expanse I did not look For the virgins of immortality for I love life On earth, amid fig trees and pines, But I cannot reach it, and then, too, I took aim at it With my last possession: the blood in the body of azure.
*** The martyr warned me: Do not believe their ululations Believe my father when, weeping, he looks at my photograph How did we trade roles, my son, how did you precede me.
I first, I the first one! *** The martyr encircles me: my place and my crude furniture are all that I have changed.
I put a gazelle on my bed, And a crescent of moon on my finger To appease my sorrow.
*** The siege will last in order to convince us we must choose an enslavement that does no harm, in fullest liberty! *** Resisting means assuring oneself of the heart’s health, The health of the testicles and of your tenacious disease: The disease of hope.
*** And in what remains of the dawn, I walk toward my exterior And in what remains of the night, I hear the sound of footsteps inside me.
*** Greetings to the one who shares with me an attention to The drunkenness of light, the light of the butterfly, in the Blackness of this tunnel! *** Greetings to the one who shares my glass with me In the denseness of a night outflanking the two spaces: Greetings to my apparition.
*** My friends are always preparing a farewell feast for me, A soothing grave in the shade of oak trees A marble epitaph of time And always I anticipate them at the funeral: Who then has died.
.
.
who? *** Writing is a puppy biting nothingness Writing wounds without a trace of blood.
*** Our cups of coffee.
Birds green trees In the blue shade, the sun gambols from one wall To another like a gazelle The water in the clouds has the unlimited shape of what is left to us Of the sky.
And other things of suspended memories Reveal that this morning is powerful and splendid, And that we are the guests of eternity.
Written by Thomas Hardy | Create an image from this poem

The Peasants Confession

 Good Father!… ’Twas an eve in middle June,
And war was waged anew 
By great Napoleon, who for years had strewn 
Men’s bones all Europe through.
Three nights ere this, with columned corps he’d crossed The Sambre at Charleroi, To move on Brussels, where the English host Dallied in Parc and Bois.
The yestertide we’d heard the gloomy gun Growl through the long-sunned day From Quatre-Bras and Ligny; till the dun Twilight suppressed the fray; Albeit therein—as lated tongues bespoke— Brunswick’s high heart was drained, And Prussia’s Line and Landwehr, though unbroke, Stood cornered and constrained.
And at next noon-time Grouchy slowly passed With thirty thousand men: We hoped thenceforth no army, small or vast, Would trouble us again.
My hut lay deeply in a vale recessed, And never a soul seemed nigh When, reassured at length, we went to rest— My children, wife, and I.
But what was this that broke our humble ease? What noise, above the rain, Above the dripping of the poplar trees That smote along the pane? —A call of mastery, bidding me arise, Compelled me to the door, At which a horseman stood in martial guise— Splashed—sweating from every pore.
Had I seen Grouchy? Yes? Which track took he? Could I lead thither on?— Fulfilment would ensure gold pieces three, Perchance more gifts anon.
“I bear the Emperor’s mandate,” then he said, “Charging the Marshal straight To strike between the double host ahead Ere they co-operate, “Engaging Bl?cher till the Emperor put Lord Wellington to flight, And next the Prussians.
This to set afoot Is my emprise to-night.
” I joined him in the mist; but, pausing, sought To estimate his say, Grouchy had made for Wavre; and yet, on thought, I did not lead that way.
I mused: “If Grouchy thus instructed be, The clash comes sheer hereon; My farm is stript.
While, as for pieces three, Money the French have none.
“Grouchy unwarned, moreo’er, the English win, And mine is left to me— They buy, not borrow.
”—Hence did I begin To lead him treacherously.
By Joidoigne, near to east, as we ondrew, Dawn pierced the humid air; And eastward faced I with him, though I knew Never marched Grouchy there.
Near Ottignies we passed, across the Dyle (Lim’lette left far aside), And thence direct toward Pervez and Noville Through green grain, till he cried: “I doubt thy conduct, man! no track is here I doubt they gag?d word!” Thereat he scowled on me, and pranced me near, And pricked me with his sword.
“Nay, Captain, hold! We skirt, not trace the course Of Grouchy,” said I then: “As we go, yonder went he, with his force Of thirty thousand men.
” —At length noon nighed, when west, from Saint-John’s-Mound, A hoarse artillery boomed, And from Saint-Lambert’s upland, chapel-crowned, The Prussian squadrons loomed.
Then to the wayless wet gray ground he leapt; “My mission fails!” he cried; “Too late for Grouchy now to intercept, For, peasant, you have lied!” He turned to pistol me.
I sprang, and drew The sabre from his flank, And ’twixt his nape and shoulder, ere he knew, I struck, and dead he sank.
I hid him deep in nodding rye and oat— His shroud green stalks and loam; His requiem the corn-blade’s husky note— And then I hastened home….
—Two armies writhe in coils of red and blue, And brass and iron clang From Goumont, past the front of Waterloo, To Pap’lotte and Smohain.
The Guard Imperial wavered on the height; The Emperor’s face grew glum; “I sent,” he said, “to Grouchy yesternight, And yet he does not come!” ’Twas then, Good Father, that the French espied, Streaking the summer land, The men of Bl?cher.
But the Emperor cried, “Grouchy is now at hand!” And meanwhile Vand’leur, Vivian, Maitland, Kempt, Met d’Erlon, Friant, Ney; But Grouchy—mis-sent, blamed, yet blame-exempt— Grouchy was far away.
Be even, slain or struck, Michel the strong, Bold Travers, Dnop, Delord, Smart Guyot, Reil-le, l’Heriter, Friant.
Scattered that champaign o’er.
Fallen likewise wronged Duhesme, and skilled Lobau Did that red sunset see; Colbert, Legros, Blancard!… And of the foe Picton and Ponsonby; With Gordon, Canning, Blackman, Ompteda, L’Estrange, Delancey, Packe, Grose, D’Oyly, Stables, Morice, Howard, Hay, Von Schwerin, Watzdorf, Boek, Smith, Phelips, Fuller, Lind, and Battersby, And hosts of ranksmen round… Memorials linger yet to speak to thee Of those that bit the ground! The Guards’ last column yielded; dykes of dead Lay between vale and ridge, As, thinned yet closing, faint yet fierce, they sped In packs to Genappe Bridge.
Safe was my stock; my capple cow unslain; Intact each cock and hen; But Grouchy far at Wavre all day had lain, And thirty thousand men.
O Saints, had I but lost my earing corn And saved the cause once prized! O Saints, why such false witness had I borne When late I’d sympathized!… So, now, being old, my children eye askance My slowly dwindling store, And crave my mite; till, worn with tarriance, I care for life no more.
To Almighty God henceforth I stand confessed, And Virgin-Saint Marie; O Michael, John, and Holy Ones in rest, Entreat the Lord for me!
Written by Amy Lowell | Create an image from this poem

The Dinner-Party

 Fish
"So .
.
.
" they said, With their wine-glasses delicately poised, Mocking at the thing they cannot understand.
"So .
.
.
" they said again, Amused and insolent.
The silver on the table glittered, And the red wine in the glasses Seemed the blood I had wasted In a foolish cause.
Game The gentleman with the grey-and-black whiskers Sneered languidly over his quail.
Then my heart flew up and laboured, And I burst from my own holding And hurled myself forward.
With straight blows I beat upon him, Furiously, with red-hot anger, I thrust against him.
But my weapon slithered over his polished surface, And I recoiled upon myself, Panting.
Drawing-Room In a dress all softness and half-tones, Indolent and half-reclined, She lay upon a couch, With the firelight reflected in her jewels.
But her eyes had no reflection, They swam in a grey smoke, The smoke of smouldering ashes, The smoke of her cindered heart.
Coffee They sat in a circle with their coffee-cups.
One dropped in a lump of sugar, One stirred with a spoon.
I saw them as a circle of ghosts Sipping blackness out of beautiful china, And mildly protesting against my coarseness In being alive.
Talk They took dead men's souls And pinned them on their breasts for ornament; Their cuff-links and tiaras Were gems dug from a grave; They were ghouls battening on exhumed thoughts; And I took a green liqueur from a servant So that he might come near me And give me the comfort of a living thing.
Eleven O'Clock The front door was hard and heavy, It shut behind me on the house of ghosts.
I flattened my feet on the pavement To feel it solid under me; I ran my hand along the railings And shook them, And pressed their pointed bars Into my palms.
The hurt of it reassured me, And I did it again and again Until they were bruised.
When I woke in the night I laughed to find them aching, For only living flesh can suffer.
Written by Sophie Hannah | Create an image from this poem

The Pros and Cons

 He’ll be pleased if I phone to ask him how he is.
It will make me look considerate and he likes considerate people.
He’ll be reassured to see that I haven’t lost interest, Which might make him happy and then I’ll have done him a favour.
If I phone him right now I’ll get to speak to him sooner Than I will if I sit around waiting for him to phone me.
He might not want to phone me from work in case someone hears And begins (or continues) to suspect that there’s something Between us.
If I want to and don’t, aren’t I being a bit immature? We’re both adults.
Does it matter, with adults, who makes the First move? But there’s always the chance he’ll back off if I come on too strong.
The less keen I appear, the more keen he’s likely to be, And I phoned him twice on Thursday and once on Friday.
He must therefore be fully aware that it’s his turn, not mine.
If I make it too easy for him, he’ll assume I’m too easy, While if I make no effort, that leaves him with more of a challenge.
I should demonstrate that I have a sense of proportion.
His work must come first for a while and I shouldn’t’ mind waiting.
For all I know he could have gone off me already And if I don’t phone I can always say, later, that I went off him first.


Written by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow | Create an image from this poem

Nature

 As a fond mother, when the day is o'er,
Leads by the hand her little child to bed,
Half willing, half reluctant to be led, 
And leave his broken playthings on the floor,
Still gazing at them through the open door, 
Nor wholly reassured and comforted
By promises of others in their stead,
Which though more splendid, may not please him more;
So Nature deals with us, and takes away
Our playthings one by one, and by the hand
Leads us to rest so gently, that we go
Scarce knowing if we wish to go or stay,
Being too full of sleep to understand 
How far the unknown transcends the what we know.
Written by Rg Gregory | Create an image from this poem

song and dance

 do you think an old heart can’t sing
do you think an old heart can’t dance
with a love that belongs to spring –
nor i – till i took this glance

in a mirror long put-by – denied
the least touch of light (there being
no cause but to let it hide)
yet now there’s this sudden seeing

this astonishing flow of longing
that gives the dulled glass a shine
and so many lost wants thronging
(must i fear the eyes aren’t mine)

dream has shaken its sheets out
a freshness (discarded) restored
muted rhythms let loud beats out
(scared hopes being reassured)

unfathomable scores its chances
(love’s fingers plucking the strings)
can’t you see – this lame heart dances
can’t you hear – this dried heart sings