Best Famous Reminiscent Poems

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

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• All Famous Reminiscent Poems

Written by Edgar Bowers | Elegy: Walking the Line Every month or so, Sundays, we walked the line, The limit and the boundary. Past the sweet gum Superb above the cabin, along the wall— Stones gathered from the level field nearby When first we cleared it. (Angry bumblebees Stung the two mules. They kicked. Thirteen, I ran.) And then the field: thread-leaf maple, deciduous Magnolia, hybrid broom, and, further down, In light shade, one Franklinia Alatamaha In solstice bloom, all white, most graciously. On the sunnier slope, the wild plums that my mother Later would make preserves of, to give to friends Or sell, in autumn, with the foxgrape, quince, Elderberry, and muscadine. Around The granite overhang, moist den of foxes; Gradually up a long hill, high in pine, Park-like, years of dry needles on the ground, And dogwood, slopes the settlers terraced; pine We cut at Christmas, berries, hollies, anise, And cones for sale in Mister Haymore’s yard In town, below the Courthouse Square. James Haymore, One of the two good teachers at Boys’ High, Ironic and demanding, chemistry; Mary Lou Culver taught us English: essays, Plot summaries, outlines, meters, kinds of clauses (Noun, adjective, and adverb, five at a time), Written each day and then revised, and she Up half the night to read them once again Through her pince-nez, under a single lamp. Across the road, on a steeper hill, the settlers Set a house, unpainted, the porch fallen in, The road a red clay strip without a bridge, A shallow stream that liked to overflow. Oliver Brand’s mules pulled our station wagon Out of the gluey mire, earth’s rust. Then, here And there, back from the road, the specimen Shrubs and small trees my father planted, some Taller than we were, some in bloom, some berried, And some we still brought water to. We always Paused at the weed-filled hole beside the beech That, one year, brought forth beech nuts by the thousands, A hole still reminiscent of the man Chewing tobacco in among his whiskers My father happened on, who, discovered, told Of dreaming he should dig there for the gold And promised to give half of what he found. During the wars with Germany and Japan, Descendents of the settlers, of Oliver Brand And of that man built Flying Fortresses For Lockheed, in Atlanta; now they build Brick mansions in the woods they left, with lawns To paved and lighted streets, azaleas, camellias Blooming among the pines and tulip trees— Mercedes Benz and Cadillac Republicans. There was another stream further along Divided through a marsh, lined by the fence We stretched to posts with Mister Garner’s help The time he needed cash for his son’s bail And offered all his place. A noble spring Under the oak root cooled his milk and butter. He called me “honey,” working with us there (My father bought three acres as a gift), His wife pale, hair a country orange, voice Uncanny, like a ghost’s, through the open door Behind her, chickens scratching on the floor. Barred Rocks, our chickens; one, a rooster, splendid Sliver and grey, red comb and long sharp spurs, Once chased Aunt Jennie as far as the daphne bed The two big king snakes were familiars of. My father’s dog would challenge him sometimes To laughter and applause. Once, in Stone Mountain, Travelers, stopped for gas, drove off with Smokey; Angrily, grievingly, leaving his work, my father Traced the car and found them way far south, Had them arrested and, bringing Smokey home, Was proud as Sherlock Holmes, and happier. Above the spring, my sister’s cats, black Amy, Grey Junior, down to meet us. The rose trees, Domestic, Asiatic, my father’s favorites. The bridge, marauding dragonflies, the bullfrog, Camellias cracked and blackened by the freeze, Bay tree, mimosa, mountain laurel, apple, Monkey pine twenty feet high, banana shrub, The owls’ tall pine curved like a flattened S. The pump house Mort and I built block by block, Smooth concrete floor, roof pale aluminum Half-covered by a clematis, the pump Thirty feet down the mountain’s granite foot. Mort was the hired man sent to us by Fortune, Childlike enough to lead us. He brought home, Although he could not even drive a tractor, Cheated, a worthless car, which we returned. When, at the trial to garnishee his wages, Frank Guess, the judge, Grandmother’s longtime neighbor, Whose children my mother taught in Cradle Roll, Heard Mort’s examination, he broke in As if in disbelief on the bank’s attorneys: “Gentlemen, must we continue this charade?” Finally, past the compost heap, the garden, Tomatoes and sweet corn for succotash, Okra for frying, Kentucky Wonders, limas, Cucumbers, squashes, leeks heaped round with soil, Lavender, dill, parsley, and rosemary, Tithonia and zinnias between the rows; The greenhouse by the rock wall, used for cuttings In late spring, frames to grow them strong for planting Through winter into summer. Early one morning Mort called out, lying helpless by the bridge. His ashes we let drift where the magnolia We planted as a stem divides the path The others lie, too young, at Silver Hill, Except my mother. Ninety-five, she lives Three thousand miles away, beside the bare Pacific, in rooms that overlook the Mission, The Riviera, and the silver range La Cumbre east. Magnolia grandiflora And one druidic live oak guard the view. Proudly around the walls, she shows her paintings Of twenty years ago: the great oak’s arm Extended, Zeuslike, straight and strong, wisteria Tangled among the branches, amaryllis Around the base; her cat, UC, at ease In marigolds; the weeping cherry, pink And white arms like a blessing to the blue Bird feeder Mort made; cabin, scarlet sweet gum Superb when tribes migrated north and south. Alert, still quick of speech, a little blind, Active, ready for laughter, open to fear, Pity, and wonder that such things may be, Some Sundays, I think, she must walk the line, Aunt Jennie, too, if she were still alive, And Eleanor, whose story is untold, Their presences like muses, prompting me In my small study, all listening to the sea, All of one mind, the true posterity.

Written by Rainer Maria Rilke | The Apple Orchard Come let us watch the sun go down and walk in twilight through the orchard's green. Does it not seem as if we had for long collected, saved and harbored within us old memories? To find releases and seek new hopes, remembering half-forgotten joys, mingled with darkness coming from within, as we randomly voice our thoughts aloud wandering beneath these harvest-laden trees reminiscent of Durer woodcuts, branches which, bent under the fully ripened fruit, wait patiently, trying to outlast, to serve another season's hundred days of toil, straining, uncomplaining, by not breaking but succeeding, even though the burden should at times seem almost past endurance. Not to falter! Not to be found wanting! Thus must it be, when willingly you strive throughout a long and uncomplaining life, committed to one goal: to give yourself! And silently to grow and to bear fruit.

Written by T S (Thomas Stearns) Eliot | What The Thunder Said After the torchlight red on sweaty faces After the frosty silence in the gardens After the agony in stony places The shouting and the crying Prison and palace and reverberation Of thunder of spring over distant mountains He who was living is now dead We who were living are now dying With a little patience 330 Here is no water but only rock Rock and no water and the sandy road The road winding above among the mountains Which are mountains of rock without water If there were water we should stop and drink Amongst the rock one cannot stop or think Sweat is dry and feet are in the sand If there were only water amongst the rock Dead mountain mouth of carious teeth that cannot spit Here one can neither stand nor lie nor sit 340 There is not even silence in the mountains But dry sterile thunder without rain There is not even solitude in the mountains But red sullen faces sneer and snarl From doors of mudcracked houses If there were water And no rock If there were rock And also water And water 350 A spring A pool among the rock If there were the sound of water only Not the cicada And dry grass singing But sound of water over a rock Where the hermit-thrush sings in the pine trees Drip drop drip drop drop drop drop But there is no water Who is the third who walks always beside you? 360 When I count, there are only you and I together But when I look ahead up the white road There is always another one walking beside you Gliding wrapt in a brown mantle, hooded I do not know whether a man or a woman —But who is that on the other side of you? What is that sound high in the air Murmur of maternal lamentation Who are those hooded hordes swarming Over endless plains, stumbling in cracked earth 370 Ringed by the flat horizon only What is the city over the mountains Cracks and reforms and bursts in the violet air Falling towers Jerusalem Athens Alexandria Vienna London Unreal A woman drew her long black hair out tight And fiddled whisper music on those strings And bats with baby faces in the violet light 380 Whistled, and beat their wings And crawled head downward down a blackened wall And upside down in air were towers Tolling reminiscent bells, that kept the hours And voices singing out of empty cisterns and exhausted wells. In this decayed hole among the mountains In the faint moonlight, the grass is singing Over the tumbled graves, about the chapel There is the empty chapel, only the wind's home. It has no windows, and the door swings, 390 Dry bones can harm no one. Only a cock stood on the rooftree Co co rico co co rico In a flash of lightning. Then a damp gust Bringing rain Ganga was sunken, and the limp leaves Waited for rain, while the black clouds Gathered far distant, over Himavant. The jungle crouched, humped in silence. Then spoke the thunder 400 DA Datta: what have we given? My friend, blood shaking my heart The awful daring of a moment's surrender Which an age of prudence can never retract By this, and this only, we have existed Which is not to be found in our obituaries Or in memories draped by the beneficent spider Or under seals broken by the lean solicitor In our empty rooms 410 DA Dayadhvam: I have heard the key Turn in the door once and turn once only We think of the key, each in his prison Thinking of the key, each confirms a prison Only at nightfall, aetherial rumours Revive for a moment a broken Coriolanus DA Damyata: The boat responded Gaily, to the hand expert with sail and oar 420 The sea was calm, your heart would have responded Gaily, when invited, beating obedient To controlling hands I sat upon the shore Fishing, with the arid plain behind me Shall I at least set my lands in order? London Bridge is falling down falling down falling down Poi s'ascose nel foco che gli affina Quando fiam ceu chelidon— O swallow swallow Le Prince d'Aquitaine a la tour abolie 430 These fragments I have shored against my ruins Why then Ile fit you. Hieronymo's mad againe. Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata. Shantih shantih shantih Line 416 aetherial] aethereal Line 429 ceu] uti— Editor

Written by Robert Frost | A Star in a Stoneboat For Lincoln MacVeagh Never tell me that not one star of all That slip from heaven at night and softly fall Has been picked up with stones to build a wall. Some laborer found one faded and stone-cold, And saving that its weight suggested gold And tugged it from his first too certain hold, He noticed nothing in it to remark. He was not used to handling stars thrown dark And lifeless from an interrupted arc. He did not recognize in that smooth coal The one thing palpable besides the soul To penetrate the air in which we roll. He did not see how like a flying thing It brooded ant eggs, and bad one large wing, One not so large for flying in a ring, And a long Bird of Paradise's tail (Though these when not in use to fly and trail It drew back in its body like a snail); Nor know that be might move it from the spot— The harm was done: from having been star-shot The very nature of the soil was hot And burning to yield flowers instead of grain, Flowers fanned and not put out by all the rain Poured on them by his prayers prayed in vain. He moved it roughly with an iron bar, He loaded an old stoneboat with the star And not, as you might think, a flying car, Such as even poets would admit perforce More practical than Pegasus the horse If it could put a star back in its course. He dragged it through the plowed ground at a pace But faintly reminiscent of the race Of jostling rock in interstellar space. It went for building stone, and I, as though Commanded in a dream, forever go To right the wrong that this should have been so. Yet ask where else it could have gone as well, I do not know—I cannot stop to tell: He might have left it lying where it fell. From following walls I never lift my eye, Except at night to places in the sky Where showers of charted meteors let fly. Some may know what they seek in school and church, And why they seek it there; for what I search I must go measuring stone walls, perch on perch; Sure that though not a star of death and birth, So not to be compared, perhaps, in worth To such resorts of life as Mars and Earth— Though not, I say, a star of death and sin, It yet has poles, and only needs a spin To show its worldly nature and begin To chafe and shuffle in my calloused palm And run off in strange tangents with my arm, As fish do with the line in first alarm. Such as it is, it promises the prize Of the one world complete in any size That I am like to compass, fool or wise.

Written by Sharmagne Leland-St John | Evolution I swim near summer shadows glide over dappled shoals keeping to the fluid shallows reminiscent of the womb where I learned to swallow gulps of tantalising air in the amniotic sac where I shed scales preferring skin and hanks of auburn hair upon my head where I dispensed with fins and gills grew hands and feet with which to tread and push away from muddy banks I've no desire to wallow in the rushes no human need the thin sharp reeds knot and tangle cut and pierce my derma layer I can dance below the surface upon the rocky sand I shall dangle near the river bottom suspended, floating free like the embryo I used to be.

Written by D. H. Lawrence | Dolor of Autumn The acrid scents of autumn, Reminiscent of slinking beasts, make me fear Everything, tear-trembling stars of autumn And the snore of the night in my ear. For suddenly, flush-fallen, All my life, in a rush Of shedding away, has left me Naked, exposed on the bush. I, on the bush of the globe, Like a newly-naked berry, shrink Disclosed: but I also am prowling As well in the scents that slink Abroad: I in this naked berry Of flesh that stands dismayed on the bush; And I in the stealthy, brindled odours Prowling about the lush And acrid night of autumn; My soul, along with the rout, Rank and treacherous, prowling, Disseminated out. For the night, with a great breath intaken, Has taken my spirit outside Me, till I reel with disseminated consciousness, Like a man who has died. At the same time I stand exposed Here on the bush of the globe, A newly-naked berry of flesh For the stars to probe.

Written by Walt Whitman | Base of all Metaphysics The AND now, gentlemen, A word I give to remain in your memories and minds, As base, and finale too, for all metaphysics. (So, to the students, the old professor, At the close of his crowded course.) Having studied the new and antique, the Greek and Germanic systems, Kant having studied and stated—Fichte and Schelling and Hegel, Stated the lore of Plato—and Socrates, greater than Plato, And greater than Socrates sought and stated—Christ divine having studied long, I see reminiscent to-day those Greek and Germanic systems, See the philosophies all—Christian churches and tenets see, Yet underneath Socrates clearly see—and underneath Christ the divine I see, The dear love of man for his comrade—the attraction of friend to friend, Of the well-married husband and wife—of children and parents, Of city for city, and land for land.

Written by Walt Whitman | Song for All Seas All Ships 1 TO-DAY a rude brief recitative, Of ships sailing the Seas, each with its special flag or ship-signal; Of unnamed heroes in the ships—Of waves spreading and spreading, far as the eye can reach; Of dashing spray, and the winds piping and blowing; And out of these a chant, for the sailors of all nations, Fitful, like a surge. Of Sea-Captains young or old, and the Mates—and of all intrepid Sailors; Of the few, very choice, taciturn, whom fate can never surprise, nor death dismay, Pick’d sparingly, without noise, by thee, old Ocean—chosen by thee, Thou Sea, that pickest and cullest the race, in Time, and unitest Nations! Suckled by thee, old husky Nurse—embodying thee! Indomitable, untamed as thee. (Ever the heroes, on water or on land, by ones or twos appearing, Ever the stock preserv’d, and never lost, though rare—enough for seed preserv’d.) 2 Flaunt out O Sea, your separate flags of nations! Flaunt out, visible as ever, the various ship-signals! But do you reserve especially for yourself, and for the soul of man, one flag above all the rest, A spiritual woven Signal, for all nations, emblem of man elate above death, Token of all brave captains, and all intrepid sailors and mates, And all that went down doing their duty; Reminiscent of them—twined from all intrepid captains, young or old; A pennant universal, subtly waving, all time, o’er all brave sailors, All seas, all ships.

Written by Adela Florence Cory Nicolson | Palm Trees by the Sea Second Song: The Girl from Baltistan Throb, throb, throb, Far away in the blue transparent Night, On the outer horizon of a dreaming consciousness, She hears the sound of her lover's nearing boat Afar, afloat On the river's loneliness, where the Stars are the only light; Hear the sound of the straining wood Like a broken sob Of a heart's distress, Loving misunderstood. She lies, with her loose hair spent in soft disorder, On a silken sheet with a purple woven border, Every cell of her brain is latent fire, Every fibre tense with restrained desire. And the straining oars sound clearer, clearer, The boat is approaching nearer, nearer; "How to wait through the moments' space Till I see the light of my lover's face?" Throb, throb, throb, The sound dies down the stream Till it only clings at the senses' edge Like a half-remembered dream. Doubtless, he in the silence lies, His fair face turned to the tender skies, Starlight touching his sleeping eyes. While his boat caught in the thickset sedge And the waters round it gurgle and sob, Or floats set free on the river's tide, Oars laid aside. She is awake and knows no rest, Passion dies and is dispossessed Of his brief, despotic power. But the Brain, once kindled, would still be afire Were the whole world pasture to its desire, And all of love, in a single hour,— A single wine cup, filled to the brim, Given to slake its thirst. Some there are who are thus-wise cursed Times that follow fulfilled desire Are of all their hours the worst. They find no Respite and reach no Rest, Though passion fail and desire grow dim, No assuagement comes from the thing possessed For possession feeds the fire. "Oh, for the life of the bright hued things Whose marriage and death are one, A floating fusion on golden wings. Alit with passion and sun! "But we who re-marry a thousand times, As the spirit or senses will, In a thousand ways, in a thousand climes, We remain unsatisfied still." As her lover left her, alone, awake she lies, With a sleepless brain and weary, half-closed eyes. She turns her face where the purple silk is spread, Still sweet with delicate perfume his presence shed. Her arms remembered his vanished beauty still, And, reminiscent of clustered curls, her fingers thrill. While the wonderful, Starlit Night wears slowly on Till the light of another day, serene and wan, Pierces the eastern skies.

Written by Paul Laurence Dunbar | Ione Ah, yes, 't is sweet still to remember, Though 'twere less painful to forget; For while my heart glows like an ember, Mine eyes with sorrow's drops are wet, And, oh, my heart is aching yet. [Pg 32]It is a law of mortal pain That old wounds, long accounted well, Beneath the memory's potent spell, Will wake to life and bleed again. So 't is with me; it might be better If I should turn no look behind,— If I could curb my heart, and fetter From reminiscent gaze my mind, Or let my soul go blind—go blind! But would I do it if I could? Nay! ease at such a price were spurned; For, since my love was once returned, All that I suffer seemeth good. I know, I know it is the fashion, When love has left some heart distressed, To weight the air with wordful passion; But I am glad that in my breast I ever held so dear a guest. Love does not come at every nod, Or every voice that calleth "hasten;" He seeketh out some heart to chasten, And whips it, wailing, up to God! Love is no random road wayfarer Who where he may must sip his glass. Love is the King, the Purple-Wearer, Whose guard recks not of tree or grass To blaze the way that he may pass. What if my heart be in the blast That heralds his triumphant way; Shall I repine, shall I not say: "Rejoice, my heart, the King has passed!" In life, each heart holds some sad story— The saddest ones are never told. I, too, have dreamed of fame and glory, And viewed the future bright with gold; But that is as a tale long told. Mine eyes have lost their youthful flash, My cunning hand has lost its art; I am not old, but in my heart The ember lies beneath the ash. I loved! Why not? My heart was youthful, My mind was filled with healthy thought. [Pg 33]He doubts not whose own self is truthful, Doubt by dishonesty is taught; So loved I boldly, fearing naught. I did not walk this lowly earth; Mine was a newer, higher sphere, Where youth was long and life was dear, And all save love was little worth. Her likeness! Would that I might limn it, As Love did, with enduring art; Nor dust of days nor death may dim it, Where it lies graven on my heart, Of this sad fabric of my life a part. I would that I might paint her now As I beheld her in that day, Ere her first bloom had passed away, And left the lines upon her brow. A face serene that, beaming brightly, Disarmed the hot sun's glances bold. A foot that kissed the ground so lightly, He frowned in wrath and deemed her cold, But loved her still though he was old. A form where every maiden grace Bloomed to perfection's richest flower,— The statued pose of conscious power, Like lithe-limbed Dian's of the chase. Beneath a brow too fair for frowning, Like moon-lit deeps that glass the skies Till all the hosts above seem drowning, Looked forth her steadfast hazel eyes, With gaze serene and purely wise. And over all, her tresses rare, Which, when, with his desire grown weak, The Night bent down to kiss her cheek, Entrapped and held him captive there. This was Ione; a spirit finer Ne'er burned to ash its house of clay; A soul instinct with fire diviner Ne'er fled athwart the face of day, And tempted Time with earthly stay. Her loveliness was not alone [Pg 34]Of face and form and tresses' hue: For aye a pure, high soul shone through Her every act: this was Ione.