10 Best Famous Repay Poems

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

• All Famous Repay Poems

If ever two were one, then surely we.
If ever man were loved by wife, then thee;
If ever wife was happy in a man,
Compare with me ye women if you can.
I prize thy love more than whole mines of gold,
Or all the riches that the East doth hold.
My love is such that rivers cannot quench,
Nor ought but love from thee give recompense.
Thy love is such I can no way repay;
The heavens reward thee manifold, I pray.
Then while we live, in love let’s so persever,
That when we live no more we may live ever.

Dedication

for Moremi, 1963

Earth will not share the rafter's envy; dung floors
Break, not the gecko's slight skin, but its fall
Taste this soil for death and plumb her deep for life

As this yam, wholly earthed, yet a living tuber
To the warmth of waters, earthed as springs
As roots of baobab, as the hearth.

The air will not deny you. Like a top
Spin you on the navel of the storm, for the hoe
That roots the forests plows a path for squirrels.

Be ageless as dark peat, but only that rain's
Fingers, not the feet of men, may wash you over.
Long wear the sun's shadow; run naked to the night.

Peppers green and red—child—your tongue arch
To scorpion tail, spit straight return to danger's threats
Yet coo with the brown pigeon, tendril dew between your lips.

Shield you like the flesh of palms, skyward held
Cuspids in thorn nesting, insealed as the heart of kernel—
A woman's flesh is oil—child, palm oil on your tongue

Is suppleness to life, and wine of this gourd
From self-same timeless run of runnels as refill
Your podlings, child, weaned from yours we embrace

Earth's honeyed milk, wine of the only rib.
Now roll your tongue in honey till your cheeks are
Swarming honeycombs—your world needs sweetening, child.

Camwood round the heart, chalk for flight
Of blemish—see? it dawns!—antimony beneath
Armpits like a goddess, and leave this taste

Long on your lips, of salt, that you may seek
None from tears. This, rain-water, is the gift
Of gods—drink of its purity, bear fruits in season.

Fruits then to your lips: haste to repay
The debt of birth. Yield man-tides like the sea
And ebbing, leave a meaning of the fossilled sands.

 No man can be a failure if he thinks he's a success;
he may not own his roof-tree overhead,
He may be on his uppers and have hocked his evening dress -
(Financially speaking - in the red)
He may have chronic shortage to repay the old home mortgage,
And almost be a bankrupt in his biz.,
But though he skips his dinner,
And each day he's growing thinner,
If he thinks he is a winner,
 Then he is. 

But when I say Success I mean the sublimated kind;
A man may gain it yet be on the dole.
To me it's music of the heart and sunshine of the mind,
Serenity and sweetness of the soul.
You may not have a brace of bucks to jingle in your jeans,
Far less the dough to buy a motor car;
But though the row you're hoeing
May be grim, ungodly going,
If you think the skies are glowing -
 Then they are.

For a poor man may be wealthy and a millionaire may fail,
It all depends upon the point of view.
It's the sterling of your spirit tips the balance of the scale,
It's optimism, and it's up to you.
For what I figure as success is simple Happiness,
The consummate contentment of your mood:
You may toil with brain and sinew,
And though little wealth is win you,
If there's health and hope within you -
 You've made good.

 Down the street as I was drifting with the city's human tide, 
Came a ghost, and for a moment walked in silence by my side -- 
Now my heart was hard and bitter, and a bitter spirit he, 
So I felt no great aversion to his ghostly company. 
Said the Shade: `At finer feelings let your lip in scorn be curled, 
`Self and Pelf', my friend, has ever been the motto for the world.' 

And he said: `If you'd be happy, you must clip your fancy's wings, 
Stretch your conscience at the edges to the size of earthly things; 
Never fight another's battle, for a friend can never know 
When he'll gladly fly for succour to the bosom of the foe. 
At the power of truth and friendship let your lip in scorn be curled -- 
`Self and Pelf', my friend, remember, is the motto of the world. 

`Where Society is mighty, always truckle to her rule; 
Never send an `i' undotted to the teacher of a school; 
Only fight a wrong or falsehood when the crowd is at your back, 
And, till Charity repay you, shut the purse, and let her pack; 
At the fools who would do other let your lip in scorn be curled, 
`Self and Pelf', my friend, remember, that's the motto of the world. 

`Ne'er assail the shaky ladders Fame has from her niches hung, 
Lest unfriendly heels above you grind your fingers from the rung; 
Or the fools who idle under, envious of your fair renown, 
Heedless of the pain you suffer, do their worst to shake you down. 
At the praise of men, or censure, let your lip in scorn be curled, 
`Self and Pelf', my friend, remember, is the motto of the world. 

`Flowing founts of inspiration leave their sources parched and dry, 
Scalding tears of indignation sear the hearts that beat too high; 
Chilly waters thrown upon it drown the fire that's in the bard; 
And the banter of the critic hurts his heart till it grows hard. 
At the fame your muse may offer let your lip in scorn be curled, 
`Self and Pelf', my friend, remember, that's the motto of the world. 

`Shun the fields of love, where lightly, to a low and mocking tune, 
Strong and useful lives are ruined, and the broken hearts are strewn. 
Not a farthing is the value of the honest love you hold; 
Call it lust, and make it serve you! Set your heart on nought but gold. 
At the bliss of purer passions let your lip in scorn be curled -- 
`Self and Pelf', my friend, shall ever be the motto of the world.' 

Then he ceased and looked intently in my face, and nearer drew; 
But a sudden deep repugnance to his presence thrilled me through; 
Then I saw his face was cruel, by the look that o'er it stole, 
Then I felt his breath was poison, by the shuddering of my soul, 
Then I guessed his purpose evil, by his lip in sneering curled, 
And I knew he slandered mankind, by my knowledge of the world. 

But he vanished as a purer brighter presence gained my side -- 
`Heed him not! there's truth and friendship 
in this wondrous world,' she cried, 
And of those who cleave to virtue in their climbing for renown, 
Only they who faint or falter from the height are shaken down. 
At a cynic's baneful teaching let your lip in scorn be curled! 
`Brotherhood and Love and Honour!' is the motto for the world.'

 Be kind and tender to the Frog,
And do not call him names,
As "Slimy skin," or "Polly-wog,"
Or likewise "Ugly James,"
Or "Gap-a-grin," or "Toad-gone-wrong,"
Or "Bill Bandy-knees":
The Frog is justly sensitive
To epithets like these.

No animal will more repay
A treatment kind and fair;
At least so lonely people say
Who keep a frog (and, by the way,
They are extremely rare).

 This is the tale that was told to me by the man with the crystal eye,
As I smoked my pipe in the camp-fire light, and the Glories swept the sky;
As the Northlights gleamed and curved and streamed, and the bottle of "hooch" was dry.

A man once aimed that my life be shamed, and wrought me a deathly wrong;
I vowed one day I would well repay, but the heft of his hate was strong.
He thonged me East and he thonged me West; he harried me back and forth,
Till I fled in fright from his peerless spite to the bleak, bald-headed North.

And there I lay, and for many a day I hatched plan after plan,
For a golden haul of the wherewithal to crush and to kill my man;
And there I strove, and there I clove through the drift of icy streams;
And there I fought, and there I sought for the pay-streak of my dreams.

So twenty years, with their hopes and fears and smiles and tears and such,
Went by and left me long bereft of hope of the Midas touch;
About as fat as a chancel rat, and lo! despite my will,
In the weary fight I had clean lost sight of the man I sought to kill.

'Twas so far away, that evil day when I prayed to the Prince of Gloom
For the savage strength and the sullen length of life to work his doom.
Nor sign nor word had I seen or heard, and it happed so long ago;
My youth was gone and my memory wan, and I willed it even so.

It fell one night in the waning light by the Yukon's oily flow,
I smoked and sat as I marvelled at the sky's port-winey glow;
Till it paled away to an absinthe gray, and the river seemed to shrink,
All wobbly flakes and wriggling snakes and goblin eyes a-wink.

'Twas weird to see and it 'wildered me in a *****, hypnotic dream,
Till I saw a spot like an inky blot come floating down the stream;
It bobbed and swung; it sheered and hung; it romped round in a ring;
It seemed to play in a tricksome way; it sure was a merry thing.

In freakish flights strange oily lights came fluttering round its head,
Like butterflies of a monster size--then I knew it for the Dead.
Its face was rubbed and slicked and scrubbed as smooth as a shaven pate;
In the silver snakes that the water makes it gleamed like a dinner-plate.

It gurgled near, and clear and clear and large and large it grew;
It stood upright in a ring of light and it looked me through and through.
It weltered round with a woozy sound, and ere I could retreat,
With the witless roll of a sodden soul it wantoned to my feet.

And here I swear by this Cross I wear, I heard that "floater" say:
"I am the man from whom you ran, the man you sought to slay.
That you may note and gaze and gloat, and say `Revenge is sweet',
In the grit and grime of the river's slime I am rotting at your feet.

"The ill we rue we must e'en undo, though it rive us bone from bone;
So it came about that I sought you out, for I prayed I might atone.
I did you wrong, and for long and long I sought where you might live;
And now you're found, though I'm dead and drowned, I beg you to forgive."

So sad it seemed, and its cheek-bones gleamed, and its fingers flicked the shore;
And it lapped and lay in a weary way, and its hands met to implore;
That I gently said: "Poor, restless dead, I would never work you woe;
Though the wrong you rue you can ne'er undo, I forgave you long ago."

Then, wonder-wise, I rubbed my eyes and I woke from a horrid dream.
The moon rode high in the naked sky, and something bobbed in the stream.
It held my sight in a patch of light, and then it sheered from the shore;
It dipped and sank by a hollow bank, and I never saw it more.

This was the tale he told to me, that man so warped and gray,
Ere he slept and dreamed, and the camp-fire gleamed in his eye in a wolfish way--
That crystal eye that raked the sky in the weird Auroral ray.

 The room is quiet, thoughts alone 
People its mute tranquillity; 
The yoke put on, the long task done,­ 
I am, as it is bliss to be, 
Still and untroubled. Now, I see, 
For the first time, how soft the day 
O'er waveless water, stirless tree, 
Silent and sunny, wings its way. 
Now, as I watch that distant hill, 
So faint, so blue, so far removed, 
Sweet dreams of home my heart may fill, 
That home where I am known and loved: 
It lies beyond; yon azure brow 
Parts me from all Earth holds for me; 
And, morn and eve, my yearnings flow 
Thitherward tending, changelessly. 
My happiest hours, aye ! all the time, 
I love to keep in memory, 
Lapsed among moors, ere life's first prime 
Decayed to dark anxiety. 

Sometimes, I think a narrow heart
Makes me thus mourn those far away, 
And keeps my love so far apart 
From friends and friendships of to-day; 
Sometimes, I think 'tis but a dream 
I measure up so jealously, 
All the sweet thoughts I live on seem 
To vanish into vacancy: 
And then, this strange, coarse world around 
Seems all that's palpable and true; 
And every sight, and every sound, 
Combines my spirit to subdue 
To aching grief, so void and lone 
Is Life and Earth­so worse than vain, 
The hopes that, in my own heart sown, 
And cherished by such sun and rain 
As Joy and transient Sorrow shed, 
Have ripened to a harvest there: 
Alas ! methinks I hear it said, 
"Thy golden sheaves are empty air." 
All fades away; my very home 
I think will soon be desolate; 
I hear, at times, a warning come
Of bitter partings at its gate; 
And, if I should return and see 
The hearth-fire quenched, the vacant chair; 
And hear it whispered mournfully, 
That farewells have been spoken there, 
What shall I do, and whither turn ? 
Where look for peace ? When cease to mourn ? 

'Tis not the air I wished to play,
The strain I wished to sing;
My wilful spirit slipped away
And struck another string.
I neither wanted smile nor tear,
Bright joy nor bitter woe,
But just a song that sweet and clear,
Though haply sad, might flow. 

A quiet song, to solace me
When sleep refused to come;
A strain to chase despondency,
When sorrowful for home.
In vain I try; I cannot sing;
All feels so cold and dead;
No wild distress, no gushing spring
Of tears in anguish shed; 

But all the impatient gloom of one
Who waits a distant day,
When, some great task of suffering done,
Repose shall toil repay.
For youth departs, and pleasure flies,
And life consumes away,
And youth's rejoicing ardour dies
Beneath this drear delay; 

And Patience, weary with her yoke,
Is yielding to despair,
And Health's elastic spring is broke 
Beneath the strain of care. 
Life will be gone ere I have lived;
Where now is Life's first prime ?
I've worked and studied, longed and grieved,
Through all that rosy time. 

To toil, to think, to long, to grieve,­
Is such my future fate ?
The morn was dreary, must the eve
Be also desolate ?
Well, such a life at least makes Death
A welcome, wished-for friend;
Then, aid me, Reason, Patience, Faith,
To suffer to the end !

 Who gave thee, O Beauty!
The keys of this breast,
Too credulous lover
Of blest and unblest?
Say when in lapsed ages
Thee knew I of old;
Or what was the service
For which I was sold?
When first my eyes saw thee,
I found me thy thrall,
By magical drawings,
Sweet tyrant of all!
I drank at thy fountain
False waters of thirst;
Thou intimate stranger,
Thou latest and first!
Thy dangerous glances
Make women of men;
New-born we are melting
Into nature again.
Lavish, lavish promiser,
Nigh persuading gods to err,
Guest of million painted forms
Which in turn thy glory warms,
The frailest leaf, the mossy bark,
The acorn's cup, the raindrop's arc,
The swinging spider's silver line,
The ruby of the drop of wine,
The shining pebble of the pond,
Thou inscribest with a bond
In thy momentary play
Would bankrupt Nature to repay.

Ah! what avails it
To hide or to shun
Whom the Infinite One
Hath granted his throne?
The heaven high over
Is the deep's lover,
The sun and sea
Informed by thee,
Before me run,
And draw me on,
Yet fly me still,
As Fate refuses
To me the heart Fate for me chooses,
Is it that my opulent soul
Was mingled from the generous whole,
Sea valleys and the deep of skies
Furnished several supplies,
And the sands whereof I'm made
Draw me to them self-betrayed?
I turn the proud portfolios
Which hold the grand designs
Of Salvator, of Guercino,
And Piranesi's lines.
I hear the lofty Pæans
Of the masters of the shell,
Who heard the starry music,
And recount the numbers well:
Olympian bards who sung
Divine Ideas below,
Which always find us young,
And always keep us so.
Oft in streets or humblest places
I detect far wandered graces,
Which from Eden wide astray
In lowly homes have lost their way.

Thee gliding through the sea of form,
Like the lightning through the storm,
Somewhat not to be possessed,
Somewhat not to be caressed,
No feet so fleet could ever find,
No perfect form could ever bind.
Thou eternal fugitive
Hovering over all that live,
Quick and skilful to inspire
Sweet extravagant desire,
Starry space and lily bell
Filling with thy roseate smell,
Wilt not give the lips to taste
Of the nectar which thou hast.

All that's good and great with thee
Stands in deep conspiracy.
Thou hast bribed the dark and lonely
To report thy features only,
And the cold and purple morning
Itself with thoughts of thee adorning,
The leafy dell, the city mart,
Equal trophies of thine art,
E'en the flowing azure air
Thou hast touched for my despair,
And if I languish into dreams,
Again I meet the ardent beams.
Queen of things! I dare not die
In Being's deeps past ear and eye,
Lest there I find the same deceiver,
And be the sport of Fate forever.
Dread power, but dear! if God thou be,
Unmake me quite, or give thyself to me.

 Music and silver chimes and sunlit air, 
Freighted with the scent of honeyed orange-flower; 
Glad, friendly festal faces everywhere. 
She, rapt from all in this unearthly hour, 
With cloudlike, cast-back veil and faint-flushed cheek, 
In bridal beauty moves as in a trance 
Alone with him, and fears to breathe, to speak, 
Lest the rare, subtle spell dissolve perchance. 
But he upon that floral head looks down, 
Noting the misty eyes, the grave sweet brow-- 
Doubts if her bliss be perfect as his own, 
And dedicates anew with inward vow 
His soul unto her service, to repay 
Richly the sacrifice she yields this day.

 AFAR 1 the illustrious Exile roams,
 Whom kingdoms on this day should hail;
 An inmate in the casual shed,
 On transient pity’s bounty fed,
 Haunted by busy memory’s bitter tale!
 Beasts of the forest have their savage homes,
 But He, who should imperial purple wear,
Owns not the lap of earth where rests his royal head!
 His wretched refuge, dark despair,
 While ravening wrongs and woes pursue,
 And distant far the faithful few
 Who would his sorrows share.


 False flatterer, Hope, away!
 Nor think to lure us as in days of yore:
 We solemnize this sorrowing natal day,
 To prove our loyal truth-we can no more,
 And owning Heaven’s mysterious sway,
 Submissive, low adore.


 Ye honored, mighty Dead,
 Who nobly perished in the glorious cause,
 Your King, your Country, and her laws,
 From great DUNDEE, who smiling Victory led,
 And fell a Martyr in her arms,
 (What breast of northern ice but warms!)
 To bold BALMERINO’S undying name,
 Whose soul of fire, lighted at Heaven’s high flame,
Deserves the proudest wreath departed heroes claim:
 Nor unrevenged your fate shall lie,
 It only lags, the fatal hour,
 Your blood shall, with incessant cry,
 Awake at last, th’ unsparing Power;
 As from the cliff, with thundering course,
 The snowy ruin smokes along
 With doubling speed and gathering force,
Till deep it, crushing, whelms the cottage in the vale;
 So Vengeance’ arm, ensanguin’d, strong,
 Shall with resistless might assail,
 Usurping Brunswick’s pride shall lay,
And STEWART’S wrongs and yours, with tenfold weight repay.


 PERDITION, baleful child of night!
 Rise and revenge the injured right
 Of STEWART’S royal race:
 Lead on the unmuzzled hounds of hell,
 Till all the frighted echoes tell
 The blood-notes of the chase!
 Full on the quarry point their view,
 Full on the base usurping crew,
The tools of faction, and the nation’s curse!
 Hark how the cry grows on the wind;
 They leave the lagging gale behind,
 Their savage fury, pitiless, they pour;
 With murdering eyes already they devour;
 See Brunswick spent, a wretched prey,
 His life one poor despairing day,
Where each avenging hour still ushers in a worse!
 Such havock, howling all abroad,
 Their utter ruin bring,
 The base apostates to their God,
 Or rebels to their King.


 Note 1. The last birthday of Prince Charles Edward. [back]