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Best Famous Refreshing Poems

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

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Written by Ralph Waldo Emerson | Create an image from this poem

Ode to Beauty

 EXULTING BEAUTY,­phantom of an hour, 
Whose magic spells enchain the heart, 
Ah ! what avails thy fascinating pow'r, 
Thy thrilling smile, thy witching art ? 
Thy lip, where balmy nectar glows; 
Thy cheek, where round the damask rose 
A thousand nameless Graces move, 
Thy mildly speaking azure eyes, 
Thy golden hair, where cunning Love 
In many a mazy ringlet lies? 
Soon as thy radiant form is seen, 
Thy native blush, thy timid mien, 
Thy hour is past ! thy charms are vain! 
ILL-NATURE haunts thee with her sallow train, 
Mean JEALOUSY deceives thy list'ning ear, 
And SLANDER stains thy cheek with many a bitter tear.
In calm retirement form'd to dwell, NATURE, thy handmaid fair and kind, For thee, a beauteous garland twin'd; The vale-nurs'd Lily's downcast bell Thy modest mien display'd, The snow-drop, April's meekest child, With myrtle blossoms undefil'd, Thy mild and spotless mind pourtray'd; Dear blushing maid, of cottage birth, 'Twas thine, o'er dewy meads to stray, While sparkling health, and frolic mirth Led on thy laughing Day.
Lur'd by the babbling tongue of FAME, Too soon, insidious FLATT'RY came; Flush'd VANITY her footsteps led, To charm thee from thy blest repose, While Fashion twin'd about thy head A wreath of wounding woes; See Dissipation smoothly glide, Cold Apathy, and puny Pride, Capricious Fortune, dull, and blind, O'er splendid Folly throws her veil, While Envy's meagre tribe assail Thy gentle form, and spotless mind.
Their spells prevail! no more those eyes Shoot undulating fires; On thy wan cheek, the young rose dies, Thy lip's deep tint expires; Dark Melancholy chills thy mind; Thy silent tear reveals thy woe; TIME strews with thorns thy mazy way, Where'er thy giddy footsteps stray, Thy thoughtless heart is doom'd to find An unrelenting foe.
'Tis thus, the infant Forest flow'r Bespangled o'er with glitt'ring dew, At breezy morn's refreshing hour, Glows with pure tints of varying hue, Beneath an aged oak's wide spreading shade, Where no rude winds, or beating storms invade.
Transplanted from its lonely bed, No more it scatters perfumes round, No more it rears its gentle head, Or brightly paints the mossy ground; For ah! the beauteous bud, too soon, Scorch'd by the burning eye of day; Shrinks from the sultry glare of noon, Droops its enamell'd brow, and blushing, dies away.


Written by Hermogénes Irisarri | Create an image from this poem

Love

Fair maid! believe me, love is like a lake,
Whose crystal depths reflect thy brow of snow;
The roses on thy cheek that come and go,
When in thy azure eyes the smiles awake,

No passing winds the liquid mirror wake,
The cool refreshing airs so softly blow.
But hidden currents in the depths below
The angry surface in an instant shake.

Gaze then in safety from the emerald shore;
Nor launch thy shallop on the treacherous wave.
Even the gentle touch of thy light oar
May rouse the slumbering peril from its grave.
Thy fragile bark is on rough waters tossed;
The picture fades, thou sinkest, and art lost.
Written by Emily Dickinson | Create an image from this poem

No Brigadier throughout the Year

 No Brigadier throughout the Year
So civic as the Jay --
A Neighbor and a Warrior too
With shrill felicity
Pursuing Winds that censure us
A February Day,
The Brother of the Universe
Was never blown away --
The Snow and he are intimate --
I've often seem them play
When Heaven looked upon us all
With such severity
I felt apology were due
To an insulted sky
Whose pompous frown was Nutriment
To their Temerity --
The Pillow of this daring Head
Is pungent Evergreens --
His Larder -- terse and Militant --
Unknown -- refreshing things --
His Character -- a Tonic --
His future -- a Dispute --
Unfair an Immortality
That leaves this Neighbor out --
Written by Walt Whitman | Create an image from this poem

Mystic Trumpeter The

 1
HARK! some wild trumpeter—some strange musician, 
Hovering unseen in air, vibrates capricious tunes to-night.
I hear thee, trumpeter—listening, alert, I catch thy notes, Now pouring, whirling like a tempest round me, Now low, subdued—now in the distance lost.
2 Come nearer, bodiless one—haply, in thee resounds Some dead composer—haply thy pensive life Was fill’d with aspirations high—unform’d ideals, Waves, oceans musical, chaotically surging, That now, ecstatic ghost, close to me bending, thy cornet echoing, pealing, Gives out to no one’s ears but mine—but freely gives to mine, That I may thee translate.
3 Blow, trumpeter, free and clear—I follow thee, While at thy liquid prelude, glad, serene, The fretting world, the streets, the noisy hours of day, withdraw; A holy calm descends, like dew, upon me, I walk, in cool refreshing night, the walks of Paradise, I scent the grass, the moist air, and the roses; Thy song expands my numb’d, imbonded spirit—thou freest, launchest me, Floating and basking upon Heaven’s lake.
4 Blow again, trumpeter! and for my sensuous eyes, Bring the old pageants—show the feudal world.
What charm thy music works!—thou makest pass before me, Ladies and cavaliers long dead—barons are in their castle halls—the troubadours are singing; Arm’d knights go forth to redress wrongs—some in quest of the Holy Grail: I see the tournament—I see the contestants, encased in heavy armor, seated on stately, champing horses; I hear the shouts—the sounds of blows and smiting steel: I see the Crusaders’ tumultuous armies—Hark! how the cymbals clang! Lo! where the monks walk in advance, bearing the cross on high! 5 Blow again, trumpeter! and for thy theme, Take now the enclosing theme of all—the solvent and the setting; Love, that is pulse of all—the sustenace and the pang; The heart of man and woman all for love; No other theme but love—knitting, enclosing, all-diffusing love.
O, how the immortal phantoms crowd around me! I see the vast alembic ever working—I see and know the flames that heat the world; The glow, the blush, the beating hearts of lovers, So blissful happy some—and some so silent, dark, and nigh to death: Love, that is all the earth to lovers—Love, that mocks time and space; Love, that is day and night—Love, that is sun and moon and stars; Love, that is crimson, sumptuous, sick with perfume; No other words, but words of love—no other thought but Love.
6 Blow again, trumpeter—conjure war’s Wild alarums.
Swift to thy spell, a shuddering hum like distant thunder rolls; Lo! where the arm’d men hasten—Lo! mid the clouds of dust, the glint of bayonets; I see the grime-faced cannoniers—I mark the rosy flash amid the smoke—I hear the cracking of the guns: —Nor war alone—thy fearful music-song, wild player, brings every sight of fear, The deeds of ruthless brigands—rapine, murder—I hear the cries for help! I see ships foundering at sea—I behold on deck, and below deck, the terrible tableaux.
7 O trumpeter! methinks I am myself the instrument thou playest! Thou melt’st my heart, my brain—thou movest, drawest, changest them, at will: And now thy sullen notes send darkness through me; Thou takest away all cheering light—all hope: I see the enslaved, the overthrown, the hurt, the opprest of the whole earth; I feel the measureless shame and humiliation of my race—it becomes all mine; Mine too the revenges of humanity—the wrongs of ages—baffled feuds and hatreds; Utter defeat upon me weighs—all lost! the foe victorious! (Yet ’mid the ruins Pride colossal stands, unshaken to the last; Endurance, resolution, to the last.
) 8 Now, trumpeter, for thy close, Vouchsafe a higher strain than any yet; Sing to my soul—renew its languishing faith and hope; Rouse up my slow belief—give me some vision of the future; Give me, for once, its prophecy and joy.
O glad, exulting, culminating song! A vigor more than earth’s is in thy notes! Marches of victory—man disenthrall’d—the conqueror at last! Hymns to the universal God, from universal Man—all joy! A reborn race appears—a perfect World, all joy! Women and Men, in wisdom, innocence and health—all joy! Riotous, laughing bacchanals, fill’d with joy! War, sorrow, suffering gone—The rank earth purged—nothing but joy left! The ocean fill’d with joy—the atmosphere all joy! Joy! Joy! in freedom, worship, love! Joy in the ecstacy of life! Enough to merely be! Enough to breathe! Joy! Joy! all over Joy!
Written by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | Create an image from this poem

Autumn Feelings

 FLOURISH greener, as ye clamber,
Oh ye leaves, to seek my chamber,

Up the trellis'd vine on high!
May ye swell, twin-berries tender,
Juicier far,--and with more splendour

Ripen, and more speedily!
O'er ye broods the sun at even
As he sinks to rest, and heaven

Softly breathes into your ear
All its fertilising fullness,
While the moon's refreshing coolness,

Magic-laden, hovers near;
And, alas! ye're watered ever

By a stream of tears that rill
From mine eyes--tears ceasing never,

Tears of love that nought can still!

1775.
*


Written by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | Create an image from this poem

Anniversary Song

 [This little song describes the different members 
of the party just spoken of.
] WHY pacest thou, my neighbour fair, The garden all alone? If house and land thou seek'st to guard, I'd thee as mistress own.
My brother sought the cellar-maid, And suffered her no rest; She gave him a refreshing draught, A kiss, too, she impress'd.
My cousin is a prudent wight, The cook's by him ador'd; He turns the spit round ceaselessly, To gain love's sweet reward.
We six together then began A banquet to consume, When lo! a fourth pair singing came, And danced into the room.
Welcome were they,--and welcome too Was a fifth jovial pair.
Brimful of news, and stored with tales And jests both new and rare.
For riddles, spirit, raillery, And wit, a place remain'd; A sixth pair then our circle join'd, And so that prize was gain'd.
And yet to make us truly blest, One miss'd we, and full sore; A true and tender couple came,-- We needed them no more.
The social banquet now goes on, Unchequer'd by alloy; The sacred double-numbers then Let us at once enjoy! 1802.
Written by Eugene Field | Create an image from this poem

Chicago Weather

 To-day, fair Thisbe, winsome girl!
Strays o'er the meads where daisies blow, 
Or, ling'ring where the brooklets purl, 
Laves in the cool, refreshing flow.
To-morrow, Thisbe, with a host Of amorous suitors in her train, Comes like a goddess forth to coast Or skate upon the frozen main.
To-day, sweet posies mark her track, While birds sing gayly in the trees; To-morrow morn, her sealskin sack Defies the piping polar breeze.
So Doris is to-day enthused By Thisbe's soft, responsive sighs, And on the morrow is confused By Thisbe's cold, repellent eyes.
Written by Jane Taylor | Create an image from this poem

The Apple-Tree

 Old John had an apple-tree, healthy and green,
Which bore the best codlins that ever were seen,
So juicy, so mellow, and red;
And when they were ripe, he disposed of his store,
To children or any who pass'd by his door, 
To buy him a morsel of bread.
Little Dick, his next neighbour, one often might see, With longing eye viewing this fine apple-tree, And wishing a codlin might fall: One day as he stood in the heat of the sun, He began thinking whether he might not take one, And then he look'd over the wall.
And as he again cast his eye on the tree, He said to himself, "Oh, how nice they would be, So cool and refreshing to-day! The tree is so full, and one only I'll take, And John cannot see if I give it a shake, And nobody is in the way.
But stop, little boy, take your hand from the bough, Remember, though John cannot see you just now, And no one to chide you is nigh, There is One, who by night, just as well as by day, Can see all you do, and can hear all you say, From his glorious throne in the sky.
O then little boy, come away from the tree, Lest tempted to this wicked act you should be: 'Twere better to starve than to steal; For the great GOD, who even through darkness can look, Writes down every crime we commit, in His book; Nor forgets what we try to conceal.
Written by James Thomson | Create an image from this poem

A Poem Sacred to the Memory of Sir Isaac Newton

 Shall the great soul of Newton quit this earth, 
To mingle with his stars; and every muse,
Astonish'd into silence, shun the weight
Of honours due to his illustrious name?
But what can man?--Even now the sons of light,
In strains high-warbled to seraphic lyre,
Hail his arrival on the coast of bliss.
Yet am not I deterr'd, though high the theme, And sung to harps of angels, for with you, Ethereal flames! ambitious, I aspire In Nature's general symphony to join.
And what new wonders can ye show your guest! Who, while on this dim spot, where mortals toil Clouded in dust, from motion's simple laws, Could trace the secret hand of Providence, Wide-working through this universal frame.
Have ye not listen'd while he bound the suns And planets to their spheres! th' unequal task Of humankind till then.
Oft had they roll'd O'er erring man the year, and oft disgrac'd The pride of schools, before their course was known Full in its causes and effects to him, All-piercing sage! who sat not down and dream'd Romantic schemes, defended by the din Of specious words, and tyranny of names; But, bidding his amazing mind attend, And with heroic patience years on years Deep-searching, saw at last the system dawn, And shine, of all his race, on him alone.
What were his raptures then! how pure! how strong! And what the triumphs of old Greece and Rome, By his diminish'd, but the pride of boys In some small fray victorious! when instead Of shatter'd parcels of this earth usurp'd By violence unmanly, and sore deeds Of cruelty and blood, Nature herself Stood all subdu'd by him, and open laid Her every latent glory to his view.
All intellectual eye, our solar-round First gazing through, he by the blended power Of gravitation and projection saw The whole in silent harmony revolve.
From unassisted vision hid, the moons To cheer remoter planets numerous pour'd, By him in all their mingled tracts were seen.
He also fix'd the wandering Queen of Night, Whether she wanes into a scanty orb, Or, waxing broad, with her pale shadowy light, In a soft deluge overflows the sky.
Her every motion clear-discerning, he Adjusted to the mutual main, and taught Why now the mighty mass of water swells Resistless, heaving on the broken rocks, And the full river turning; till again The tide revertive, unattracted, leaves A yellow waste of idle sands behind.
Then breaking hence, he took his ardent flight Through the blue infinite; and every star, Which the clear concave of a winter's night Pours on the eye, or astronomic tube, Far-stretching, snatches from the dark abyss, Or such as farther in successive skies To fancy shine alone, at his approach Blaz'd into suns, the living centre each Of an harmonious system: all combin'd, And rul'd unerring by that single power, Which draws the stone projected to the ground.
O unprofuse magnificence divine! O wisdom truly perfect! thus to call From a few causes such a scheme of things, Effects so various, beautiful, and great, An universe complete! and O belov'd Of Heaven! whose well-purg'd penetrative eye, The mystic veil transpiercing, inly scann'd The rising, moving, wide-establish'd frame.
He, first of men, with awful wing pursu'd The comet through the long elliptic curve, As round innumerous worlds he wound his way, Till, to the forehead of our evening sky Return'd, the blazing wonder glares anew, And o'er the trembling nations shakes dismay.
The heavens are all his own, from the wild rule Of whirling vortices and circling spheres To their first great simplicity restor'd.
The schools astonish'd stood; but found it vain To keep at odds with demonstration strong, And, unawaken'd, dream beneath the blaze Of truth.
At once their pleasing visions fled, With the gay shadows of the morning mix'd, When Newton rose, our philosophic sun! Th' aërial flow of sound was known to him, From whence it first in wavy circles breaks, Till the touch'd organ takes the message in.
Nor could the darting beam of speed immense Escape his swift pursuit and measuring eye.
Ev'n Light itself, which every thing displays, Shone undiscover'd, till his brighter mind Untwisted all the shining robe of day; And, from the whitening undistinguish'd blaze, Collecting every ray into his kind, To the charm'd eye educ'd the gorgeous train Of parent colours.
First the flaming red Sprung vivid forth; the tawny orange next; And next delicious yellow; by whose side Fell the kind beams of all-refreshing green.
Then the pure blue, that swells autumnal skies Ethereal played; and then, of sadder hue, Emerg'd the deepen'd indigo, as when The heavy-skirted evening droops with frost; While the last gleamings of refracted light Died in the fainting violet away.
These, when the clouds distil the rosy shower, Shine out distinct adown the wat'ry bow; While o'er our heads the dewy vision bends Delightful, melting on the fields beneath.
Myriads of mingling dyes from these result, And myriads still remain--infinite source Of beauty, ever flushing, ever new.
Did ever poet image aught so fair, Dreaming in whisp'ring groves by the hoarse brook? Or prophet, to whose rapture heaven descends? Ev'n now the setting sun and shifting clouds, Seen, Greenwich, from thy lovely heights, declare How just, how beauteous the refractive law.
The noiseless tide of time, all bearing down To vast eternity's unbounded sea, Where the green islands of the happy shine, He stemm'd alone; and, to the source (involv'd Deep in primeval gloom) ascending, rais'd His lights at equal distances, to guide Historian wilder'd on his darksome way.
But who can number up his labours? who His high discoveries sing? When but a few Of the deep-studying race can stretch their minds To what he knew--in fancy's lighter thought How shall the muse then grasp the mighty theme? What wonder thence that his devotion swell'd Responsive to his knowledge? For could he, Whose piercing mental eye diffusive saw The finish'd university of things In all its order, magnitude, and parts, Forbear incessant to adore that Power Who fills, sustains, and actuates the whole? Say, ye who best can tell, ye happy few, Who saw him in the softest lights of life, All unwithheld, indulging to his friends The vast unborrow'd treasures of his mind, oh, speak the wondrous man! how mild, how calr How greatly humble, how divinely good, How firm establish'd on eternal truth; Fervent in doing well, with every nerve Still pressing on, forgetful of the past, And panting for perfection; far above Those little cares and visionary joys That so perplex the fond impassion'd heart Of ever-cheated, ever-trusting man.
This, Conduitt, from thy rural hours we hope; As through the pleasing shade where nature pours Her every sweet in studious ease you walk, The social passions smiling at thy heart That glows with all the recollected sage.
And you, ye hopeless gloomy-minded tribe, You who, unconscious of those nobler flights That reach impatient at immortal life, Against the prime endearing privilege Of being dare contend,--say, can a soul Of such extensive, deep, tremendous powers, Enlarging still, be but a finer breath Of spirits dancing through their tubes awhile, And then for ever lost in vacant air? But hark! methinks I hear a warning voice, Solemn as when some awful change is come, Sound through the world--" 'Tis done!--the measure's full; And I resign my charge.
"--Ye mouldering stones That build the towering pyramid, the proud Triumphal arch, the monument effac'd By ruthless ruin, and whate'er supports The worship'd name of hoar antiquity-- Down to the dust! What grandeur can ye boast While Newton lifts his column to the skies, Beyond the waste of time.
Let no weak drop Be shed for him.
The virgin in her bloom Cut off, the joyous youth, and darling child-- These are the tombs that claim the tender tear And elegiac song.
But Newton calls For other notes of gratulation high, That now he wanders through those endless worlds He here so well descried, and wondering talks, And hymns their Author with his glad compeers.
O Britain's boast! whether with angels thou Sittest in dread discourse, or fellow-blest, Who joy to see the honour of their kind; Or whether, mounted on cherubic wing, Thy swift career is with the whirling orbs, Comparing things with things, in rapture lost, And grateful adoration for that light So plenteous ray'd into thy mind below From Light Himself; oh, look with pity down On humankind, a frail erroneous race! Exalt the spirit of a downward world! O'er thy dejected country chief preside, And be her Genius call'd! her studies raise, Correct her manners, and inspire her youth; For, though deprav'd and sunk, she brought thee forth, And glories in thy name! she points thee out To all her sons, and bids them eye thy star: While, in expectance of the second life, When time shall be no more, thy sacred dust Sleeps with her kings, and dignifies the scene.
Written by Elinor Wylie | Create an image from this poem

Love Song

 Lovers eminent in love 
Ever diversities combine; 
The vocal chords of the cushat-dove, 
The snake's articulated spine.
Such elective elements Educate the eye and lip With one's refreshing innocence, The other's claim to scholarship.
The serpent's knowledge of the world Learn, and the dove's more naïve charm; Whether your ringlets should be curled, And why he likes his claret warm.

Book: Reflection on the Important Things