10 Best Famous Recklessly Poems

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

• All Famous Recklessly Poems

 We bought an electric monkey, experimenting rather 
recklessly with funds carefully gathered since 
grandfather's time for the purchase of a steam monkey. 

We had either, by this time, the choice of an electric 
or gas monkey. 

The steam monkey is no longer being made, said the monkey 
merchant. 

But the family always planned on a steam monkey. 

Well, said the monkey merchant, just as the wind-up monkey 
gave way to the steam monkey, the steam monkey has given way 
to the gas and electric monkeys. 

Is that like the grandfather clock being replaced by the 
grandchild clock? 

Sort of, said the monkey merchant. 

So we bought the electric monkey, and plugged its umbilical 
cord into the wall. 

The smoke coming out of its fur told us something was wrong. 

We had electrocuted the family monkey.

 The cruelty of P. L. Brown—
(He had ten toes as good as mine)
Was known to every one in town,
And, if he never harmed a noun,
He loved to make verbs shriek and whine.

The “To be” family’s just complaints—
(Brown had ten toes as good as mine)
Made Brown cast off the last restraints:
He smashed the “Is nots” into “Ain’ts”
And kicked both mood and tense supine.

Infinitives were Brown’s dislike—
(Brown, as I said, had ten good toes)
And he would pinch and shake and strike
Infinitives, or, with a pike,
Prod them and then laugh at their woes.

At length this Brown more cruel grew—
(Ten toes, all good ones, then had Brown)
And to his woodshed door he drew
A young infinitive and threw
The poor, meek creature roughly down,

And while the poor thing weakly flopped,
Brown (ten good toes he had, the brute!)
Got out his chopping block and dropped
The martyr on it and then propped
His victim firmly with his boot.

He raised his axe! He brandished it!
(Ye gods of grammar, interpose!)
He brought it down full force all fit
The poor infinitive to split—
* * * * *
(Brown after that had but six toes!

 Warning

Infinitives, by this we see.
Should not he split too recklessly.

 Too far away, oh love, I know, 
To save me from this haunted road, 
Whose lofty roses break and blow 
On a night-sky bent with a load 

Of lights: each solitary rose, 
Each arc-lamp golden does expose 
Ghost beyond ghost of a blossom, shows 
Night blenched with a thousand snows. 

Of hawthorn and of lilac trees, 
White lilac; shows discoloured night 
Dripping with all the golden lees 
Laburnum gives back to light. 

And shows the red of hawthorn set 
On high to the purple heaven of night, 
Like flags in blenched blood newly wet, 
Blood shed in the noiseless fight. 

Of life for love and love for life, 
Of hunger for a little food, 
Of kissing, lost for want of a wife 
Long ago, long ago wooed.
 . . . . . . 
Too far away you are, my love, 
To steady my brain in this phantom show 
That passes the nightly road above 
And returns again below. 

The enormous cliff of horse-chestnut trees 
 Has poised on each of its ledges 
An erect small girl looking down at me; 
White-night-gowned little chits I see, 
 And they peep at me over the edges 
Of the leaves as though they would leap, should I call 
 Them down to my arms; 
"But, child, you're too small for me, too small 
 Your little charms." 

White little sheaves of night-gowned maids, 
 Some other will thresh you out! 
And I see leaning from the shades 
A lilac like a lady there, who braids 
 Her white mantilla about 
Her face, and forward leans to catch the sight 
 Of a man's face, 
Gracefully sighing through the white 
 Flowery mantilla of lace. 

And another lilac in purple veiled 
 Discreetly, all recklessly calls 
In a low, shocking perfume, to know who has hailed 
Her forth from the night: my strength has failed 
 In her voice, my weak heart falls: 
Oh, and see the laburnum shimmering 
 Her draperies down, 
As if she would slip the gold, and glimmering 
 White, stand naked of gown.
 . . . . . . 
The pageant of flowery trees above 
 The street pale-passionate goes, 
And back again down the pavement, Love 
 In a lesser pageant flows. 

Two and two are the folk that walk, 
 They pass in a half embrace 
Of linked bodies, and they talk 
 With dark face leaning to face. 

Come then, my love, come as you will 
 Along this haunted road, 
Be whom you will, my darling, I shall 
 Keep with you the troth I trowed.

 Tired of waiting, you burst your bonds, impatient flowers, before
the winter had gone. Glimpses of the unseen comer reached your
wayside watch, and you rushed out running and panting, impulsive
jasmines, troops of riotous roses.
You were the first to march to the breach of death, your
clamour of colour and perfume troubled the air. You laughed and
pressed and pushed each other, bared your breast and dropped in
heaps.
The Summer will come in its time, sailing in the flood-tide
of the south wind. But you never counted slow moments to be sure
of him. You recklessly spent your all in the road, in the terrible
joy of faith.
You heard his footsteps from afar, and flung your mantle of
death for him to tread upon. Your bonds break even before the
rescuer is seen, you make him your own ere he can come and claim
you.

There's a fabulous story
Full of splendor and glory,
That Arabian legends transcends;
Of the wealth without measure,
The coffers of treasure,
At the place where the rainbow ends.
Oh, many have sought it,
And all would have bought it,
With the blood we so recklessly spend;
But none has uncovered,
The gold, nor discovered
The spot at the rainbow's end.
They have sought it in battle,
And e'en where the rattle
Of dice with man's blasphemy blends;
But howe'er persuasive,
It still proves evasive,
This place where the rainbow ends.
I own for my pleasure,
I yearn not for treasure,
Though gold has a power it lends;
And I have a notion,
To find without motion,
The place where the rainbow ends.
The pot may hold pottage,
The place be a cottage,
That a humble contentment defends,
Only joy fills its coffer,
But spite of the scoffer,
There's the place where the rainbow ends.
Where care shall be quiet,
[Pg 247]And love shall run riot,
And I shall find wealth in my friends;
Then truce to the story,
Of riches and glory;
There's the place where the rainbow ends.

 The sheep were shorn and the wool went down 
At the time of our local racing; 
And I'd earned a spell -- I was burnt and brown -- 
So I rolled my swag for a trip to town 
And a look at the steeplechasing. 
Twas rough and ready--an uncleared course 
As rough as the blacks had found it; 
With barbed-wire fences, topped with gorse, 
And a water-jump that would drown a horse, 
And the steeple three times round it. 

There was never a fence the tracks to guard, -- 
Some straggling posts defined 'em: 
And the day was hot, and the drinking hard, 
Till none of the stewards could see a yard 
Before nor yet behind 'em! 

But the bell was rung and the nags were out, 
Excepting an old outsider 
Whose trainer started an awful rout, 
For his boy had gone on a drinking bout 
And left him without a rider. 

"Is there not a man in the crowd," he cried, 
"In the whole of the crowd so clever, 
Is there not one man that will take a ride 
On the old white horse from the Northern side 
That was bred on the Mooki River?" 

Twas an old white horse that they called The Cow, 
And a cow would look well beside him; 
But I was pluckier then than now 
(And I wanted excitement anyhow), 
So at last I agreed to ride him. 

And the trainer said,"Well, he's dreadful slow, 
And he hasn't a chance whatever; 
But I'm stony broke, so it's time to show 
A trick or two that the trainers know 
Who train by the Mooki River. 

"The first time round at the further side, 
With the trees and the scrub about you, 
Just pull behind them and run out wide 
And then dodge into the scrub and hide, 
And let them go round without you. 

"At the third time round, for the final spin 
With the pace and the dust to blind 'em, 
They'll never notice if you chip in 
For the last half-mile -- you'll be sure to win, 
And they'll think you raced behind 'em. 

"At the water-jump you may have to swim -- 
He hasn't a hope to clear it, 
Unless he skims like the swallows skim 
At full speed over -- but not for him! 
He'll never go next or near it. 

"But don't you worry -- just plunge across, 
For he swims like a well-trained setter. 
Then hide away in the scrub and gorse 
The rest will be far ahead, of course -- 
The further ahead the better. 

"You must rush the jumps in the last half-round 
For fear that he might refuse 'em; 
He'll try to baulk with you, I'11 be bound; 
Take whip and spurs to the mean old hound, 
And don't be afraid to use 'em. 

"At the final round, when the field are slow 
And you are quite fresh to meet 'em, 
Sit down, and hustle him all you know 
With the whip and spurs, and he'll have to go -- 
Remember, you've got to beat 'em!" 

* 

The flag went down, and we seemed to fly, 
And we made the timbers shiver 
Of the first big fence, as the stand dashed by, 
And I caught the ring of the trainer's cry; 
"Go on, for the Mooki River!" 

I jammed him in with a well-packed crush, 
And recklessly -- out for slaughter -- 
Like a living wave over fence and brush 
We swept and swung with a flying rush, 
Till we came to the dreaded water. 

Ha, ha! I laugh at it now to think 
Of the way I contrived to work it 
Shut in amongst them, before you'd wink, 
He found himself on the water's brink, 
With never a chance to shirk it! 

The thought of the horror he felt beguiles 
The heart of this grizzled rover! 
He gave a snort you could hear for miles, 
And a spring would have cleared the Channel Isles, 
And carried me safely over! 

Then we neared the scrub, and I pulled him back 
In the shade where the gum-leaves quiver: 
And I waited there in the shadows black 
While the rest of the horses, round the track, 
Went on like a rushing river! 

At the second round, as the field swept by, 
I saw that the pace was telling; 
But on they thundered, and by-and-by 
As they passed the stand I could hear the cry 
Of the folk in the distance, yelling! 

Then the last time round! And the hoofbeats rang! 
And I said, "Well, it's now or never!" 
And out on the heels of the throng I sprang, 
And the spurs bit deep and the whipcord sang 
As I rode. For the Mooki River! 

We raced for home in a cloud of dust 
And the curses rose in chorus. 
'Twas flog, and hustle, and jump you must! 
And The Cow ran well -- but to my disgust 
There was one got home before us. 

Twas a big black horse, that I had not seen 
In the part of the race I'd ridden; 
And his coat was cool and his rider clean -- 
And I thought that perhaps I had not been 
The only one that had hidden. 

And the trainer came with a visage blue 
With rage, when the race concluded: 
Said he, "I thought you'd have pulled us through, 
But the man on the black horse planted too, 
And nearer to home than you did!" 

Alas to think that those times so gay 
Have vanished and passed for ever! 
You don't believe in the yarn, you say? 
Why, man, 'twas a matter of every day 
When we raced on the Mooki River!

SONNET VI.
 
Sì traviato è 'l folle mio desio.
 
OF HIS FOOLISH PASSION FOR LAURA.
 
 
So wayward now my will, and so unwise,To follow her who turns from me in flight,And, from love's fetters free herself and light,Before my slow and shackled motion flies,[Pg 6]That less it lists, the more my sighs and criesWould point where passes the safe path and right,Nor aught avails to check or to excite,For Love's own nature curb and spur defies.Thus, when perforce the bridle he has won,And helpless at his mercy I remain,Against my will he speeds me to mine end'Neath yon cold laurel, whose false boughs uponHangs the harsh fruit, which, tasted, spreads the painI sought to stay, and mars where it should mend.
 
Macgregor. 
 
My tameless will doth recklessly pursueHer, who, unshackled by love's heavy chain,Flies swiftly from its chase, whilst I in vainMy fetter'd journey pantingly renew;The safer track I offer to its view,But hopeless is my power to restrain,It rides regardless of the spur or rein;Love makes it scorn the hand that would subdue.The triumph won, the bridle all its own,Without one curb I stand within its power,And my destruction helplessly presage:It guides me to that laurel, ever known,To all who seek the healing of its flower,To aggravate the wound it should assuage.
 
Wollaston.

The spot is flaked with mist, that fills,
Thickening into rolls more dank,
The thresholds and the window-sills,
And smokes on every bank.


The river stagnates, pestilent
With carrion by the current sent
This way and that—and yonder lies
The moon, just like a woman dead,
That they have smothered overhead,
Deep in the skies.


In a few boats alone there gleam
Lamps that light up and magnify
The backs, bent over stubbornly,
Of the old fishers of the stream,
Who since last evening, steadily,
—For God knows what night-fishery—
Have let their black nets downward slow
Into the silent water go.
The noisome water there below.


Down in the river's deeps, ill-fate
And black mischances breed and hatch.
Unseen of them, and lie in wait
As for their prey. And these they catch
With weary toil—believing still
That simple, honest work is best—
At night, beneath the shifting mist
Unkind and chill.


So hard and harsh, yon clock-towers tell.
With muffled hammers, like a knell,
The midnight hour.
From tower to tower
So hard and harsh the midnights chime.
The midnights harsh of autumn time,
The weary midnights' bell.


The crew
Of fishers black have on their back
Nought save a nameless rag or two;
And their old hats distil withal,
And drop by drop let crumbling fall
Into their necks, the mist-flakes all.


The hamlets and their wretched huts
Are numb and drowsy, and all round
The willows too, and walnut trees,
'Gainst which the Easterly fierce breeze
Has waged its feud.
No bayings from the forest sound,
No cry the empty midnight cuts—
The midnight space that grows imbrued
With damp breaths from the ashy ground.


The fishers hail each other not—
Nor help—in their fraternal lot;
Doing but that which must be done.
Each fishes for himself alone.


And this one gathers in his net,
Drawing it tighter yet,
His freight of petty misery;
And that one drags up recklessly
Diseases from their slimy bed;
While others still their meshes spread
Out to the sorrows that drift by
Threateningly nigh;
And the last hauls aboard with force
The wreckage dark of his remorse.



The river, round its corners bending,
And with the dyke-heads intertwined.
Goes hence—since what times out of mind?—
Toward the far horizon wending
Of weariness unending.
Upon the banks, the skins of wet
Black ooze-heaps nightly poison sweat.
And the mists are their fleeces light
That curl up to the houses' height.


In their dark boats, where nothing stirs,
Not even the red-flamed torch that blurs
With halos huge, as if of blood.
The thick felt of the mist's white hood,
Death with his silence seals the sere
Old fishermen of madness here.


The isolated, they abide
Deep in the mist—still side by side.
But seeing one another never;
Weary are both their arms—and yet
Their work their ruin doth beget.


Each for himself works desperately,
He knows not why—no dreams has he;
Long have they worked, for long, long years,
While every instant brings its fears;
Nor have they ever
Quitted the borders of their river,
Where 'mid the moonlit mists they strain
To fish misfortune up amain.


If but in this their night they hailed each other
And brothers' voices might console a brother!


But numb and sullen, on they go,
With heavy brows and backs bent low,
While their small lights beside them gleam,
Flickering feebly on the stream.


Like blocks of shadow they are there.
Nor ever do their eyes divine
That far away beyond the mists
Acrid and spongy—there exists
A firmament where 'mid the night.
Attractive as a loadstone, bright
Prodigious planets shine.


The fishers black of that black plague,
They are the lost immeasurably,
Among the knells, the distance vague,
The yonder of those endless plains
That stretch more far than eye can see:
And the damp autumn midnight rains
Into their souls' monotony.

 NOT my enemies ever invade me—no harm to my pride from them I fear; 
But the lovers I recklessly love—lo! how they master me! 
Lo! me, ever open and helpless, bereft of my strength! 
Utterly abject, grovelling on the ground before them.