Best Famous Regalia Poems

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

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• All Famous Regalia Poems

Written by Rudyard Kipling | The Mother-Lodge There was Rundle, Station Master, An' Beazeley of the Rail, An' 'Ackman, Commissariat, An' Donkin' o' the Jail; An' Blake, Conductor-Sargent, Our Master twice was 'e, With 'im that kept the Europe-shop, Old Framjee Eduljee. Outside -- "Sergeant! Sir! Salute! Salaam!" Inside -- "Brother", an' it doesn't do no 'arm. We met upon the Level an' we parted on the Square, An' I was Junior Deacon in my Mother-Lodge out there! We'd Bola Nath, Accountant, An' Saul the Aden Jew, An' Din Mohammed, draughtsman Of the Survey Office too; There was Babu Chuckerbutty, An' Amir Singh the Sikh, An' Castro from the fittin'-sheds, The Roman Catholick! We 'adn't good regalia, An' our Lodge was old an' bare, But we knew the Ancient Landmarks, An' we kep' 'em to a hair; An' lookin' on it backwards It often strikes me thus, There ain't such things as infidels, Excep', per'aps, it's us. For monthly, after Labour, We'd all sit down and smoke (We dursn't give no banquits, Lest a Brother's caste were broke), An' man on man got talkin' Religion an' the rest, An' every man comparin' Of the God 'e knew the best. So man on man got talkin', An' not a Brother stirred Till mornin' waked the parrots An' that dam' brain-fever-bird; We'd say 'twas 'ighly curious, An' we'd all ride 'ome to bed, With Mo'ammed, God, an' Shiva Changin' pickets in our 'ead. Full oft on Guv'ment service This rovin' foot 'ath pressed, An' bore fraternal greetin's To the Lodges east an' west, Accordin' as commanded From Kohat to Singapore, But I wish that I might see them In my Mother-Lodge once more! I wish that I might see them, My Brethren black an' brown, With the trichies smellin' pleasant An' the hog-darn passin' down; [Cigar-lighter.] An' the old khansamah snorin' [Butler.] On the bottle-khana floor, [Pantry.] Like a Master in good standing With my Mother-Lodge once more! Outside -- "Sergeant! Sir! Salute! Salaam!" Inside -- "Brother", an' it doesn't do no 'arm. We met upon the Level an' we parted on the Square, An' I was Junior Deacon in my Mother-Lodge out there!

Written by Elizabeth Barrett Browning | De Profundis I The face, which, duly as the sun, Rose up for me with life begun, To mark all bright hours of the day With hourly love, is dimmed away— And yet my days go on, go on. II The tongue which, like a stream, could run Smooth music from the roughest stone, And every morning with ' Good day' Make each day good, is hushed away, And yet my days go on, go on. III The heart which, like a staff, was one For mine to lean and rest upon, The strongest on the longest day With steadfast love, is caught away, And yet my days go on, go on. IV And cold before my summer's done, And deaf in Nature's general tune, And fallen too low for special fear, And here, with hope no longer here, While the tears drop, my days go on. V The world goes whispering to its own, ‘This anguish pierces to the bone;’ And tender friends go sighing round, ‘What love can ever cure this wound ?' My days go on, my days go on. VI The past rolls forward on the sun And makes all night. O dreams begun, Not to be ended! Ended bliss, And life that will not end in this! My days go on, my days go on. VII Breath freezes on my lips to moan: As one alone, once not alone, I sit and knock at Nature's door, Heart-bare, heart-hungry, very poor, Whose desolated days go on. VIII I knock and cry, —Undone, undone! Is there no help, no comfort, —none? No gleaning in the wide wheat plains Where others drive their loaded wains? My vacant days go on, go on. IX This Nature, though the snows be down, Thinks kindly of the bird of June: The little red hip on the tree Is ripe for such. What is for me, Whose days so winterly go on? X No bird am I, to sing in June, And dare not ask an equal boon. Good nests and berries red are Nature's To give away to better creatures, — And yet my days go on, go on. XI I ask less kindness to be done, — Only to loose these pilgrim shoon, (Too early worn and grimed) with sweet Cool deadly touch to these tired feet. Till days go out which now go on. XII Only to lift the turf unmown From off the earth where it has grown, Some cubit-space, and say ‘Behold, Creep in, poor Heart, beneath that fold, Forgetting how the days go on.’ XIII What harm would that do? Green anon The sward would quicken, overshone By skies as blue; and crickets might Have leave to chirp there day and night While my new rest went on, went on. XIV From gracious Nature have I won Such liberal bounty? may I run So, lizard-like, within her side, And there be safe, who now am tried By days that painfully go on? XV —A Voice reproves me thereupon, More sweet than Nature's when the drone Of bees is sweetest, and more deep Than when the rivers overleap The shuddering pines, and thunder on. XVI God's Voice, not Nature's! Night and noon He sits upon the great white throne And listens for the creatures' praise. What babble we of days and days? The Day-spring He, whose days go on. XVII He reigns above, He reigns alone; Systems burn out and have his throne; Fair mists of seraphs melt and fall Around Him, changeless amid all, Ancient of Days, whose days go on. XVIII He reigns below, He reigns alone, And, having life in love forgone Beneath the crown of sovran thorns, He reigns the Jealous God. Who mourns Or rules with Him, while days go on? XIX By anguish which made pale the sun, I hear Him charge his saints that none Among his creatures anywhere Blaspheme against Him with despair, However darkly days go on. XX Take from my head the thorn-wreath brown! No mortal grief deserves that crown. O supreme Love, chief misery, The sharp regalia are for Thee Whose days eternally go on! XXI For us, —whatever's undergone, Thou knowest, willest what is done, Grief may be joy misunderstood; Only the Good discerns the good. I trust Thee while my days go on. XXII Whatever's lost, it first was won; We will not struggle nor impugn. Perhaps the cup was broken here, That Heaven's new wine might show more clear. I praise Thee while my days go on. XXIII I praise Thee while my days go on; I love Thee while my days go on: Through dark and dearth, through fire and frost, With emptied arms and treasure lost, I thank Thee while my days go on. XXIV And having in thy life-depth thrown Being and suffering (which are one), As a child drops his pebble small Down some deep well, and hears it fall Smiling—so I. THY DAYS GO ON.

Written by Henry Lawson | Freedom on the Wallaby Australia's a big country An' Freedom's humping bluey, An' Freedom's on the wallaby Oh! don't you hear 'er cooey? She's just begun to boomerang, She'll knock the tyrants silly, She's goin' to light another fire And boil another billy. Our fathers toiled for bitter bread While loafers thrived beside 'em, But food to eat and clothes to wear, Their native land denied 'em. An' so they left their native land In spite of their devotion, An' so they came, or if they stole, Were sent across the ocean. Then Freedom couldn't stand the glare O' Royalty's regalia, She left the loafers where they were, An' came out to Australia. But now across the mighty main The chains have come ter bind her – She little thought to see again The wrongs she left behind her. Our parents toil'd to make a home – Hard grubbin 'twas an' clearin' – They wasn't crowded much with lords When they was pioneering. But now that we have made the land A garden full of promise, Old Greed must crook 'is dirty hand And come ter take it from us. So we must fly a rebel flag, As others did before us, And we must sing a rebel song And join in rebel chorus. We'll make the tyrants feel the sting O' those that they would throttle; They needn't say the fault is ours If blood should stain the wattle!

Written by Barry Tebb | For James Simmons Sitting in outpatients With my own minor ills Dawn’s depression lifts To the lilt of amitryptilene, A double dose for a day’s journey To a distant ward. The word was out that Simmons Had died eighteen months after An aneurism at sixty seven. The meeting he proposed in his second letter Could never happen: a few days later A Christmas card in Gaelic - Nollaig Shona - Then silence, an unbearable chasm Of wondering if I’d inadvertently offended. A year later a second card explained the silence: I joined the queue of mourners: It was August when I saw the Guardian obituary Behind glass in the Poetry Library. How astonishing the colour photo, The mane of white hair, The proud mien, the wry smile, Perfect for a bust by Epstein Or Gaudier Brjeska a century earlier. I stood by the shelves Leafing through your books With their worn covers, Remarking the paucity Of recent borrowings And the ommisions From the anthologies. “I’m a bit out of fashion But still bringing out books Armitage didn’t put me in at all The egregarious Silkin Tried to get off with my wife - May he rest in peace. I can’t remember what angered me About Geoffrey Hill, quite funny In a nervous, melancholic way, A mask you wouldn’t get behind. Harrison and I were close for years But it sort of faded when he wrote He wanted to hear no more Of my personal life. I went to his reading in Galway Where he walked in his cosy regalia Crossed the length of the bar To embrace me, manic about the necessity Of doing big shows in the Balkans. I taught him all he knows, says aging poet! And he’s forgotten the best bits, He knows my work, how quickly vanity will undo a man. Tom Blackburn was Gregory Fellow In my day, a bit mad But a good and kind poet.” I read your last book The Company of Children, You sent me to review - Your best by so far It seemed an angel Had stolen your pen - The solitary aging singer Whispering his last song.

Written by Philip Larkin | To My Wife Choice of you shuts up that peacock-fan The future was, in which temptingly spread All that elaborative nature can. Matchless potential! but unlimited Only so long as I elected nothing; Simply to choose stopped all ways up but one, And sent the tease-birds from the bushes flapping. No future now. I and you now, alone. So for your face I have exchanged all faces, For your few properties bargained the brisk Baggage, the mask-and-magic-man's regalia. Now you become my boredom and my failure, Another way of suffering, a risk, A heavier-than-air hypostasis.

Written by Henry Lawson | The Song of Australia The centuries found me to nations unknown – My people have crowned me and made me a throne; My royal regalia is love, truth, and light – A girl called Australia – I've come to my right. Though no fields of conquest grew red at my birth, My dead were the noblest and bravest on earth; Their strong sons are worthy to stand with the best – My brave Overlanders ride west of the west. My cities are seeking the clean and the right; My Statesmen are speaking in London to-night; The voice of my Bushmen is heard oversea; My army and navy are coming to me. By all my grim headlands my flag is unfurled, My artists and singers are charming the world; The White world shall know its young outpost with pride; The fame of my poets goes ever more wide. By old tow'r and steeple of nation grown grey The name of my people is spreading to-day; Through all the old nations my learners go forth; My youthful inventors are startling the north. In spite of all Asia, and safe from her yet, Through wide Australasia my standards I'll set; A grand world and bright world to rise in an hour – The Wings of the White world, the Balance of Power. Through storm, or serenely – whate'er I go through – God grant I be queenly! God grant I be true! To suffer in silence, and strike at a sign, Till all the fair islands of these seas are mine.