10 Best Famous Rondeau Poems

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

• All Famous Rondeau Poems

The tide rises, the tide falls, 
The twilight darkens, the curlew calls; 
Along the sea-sands damp and brown 
The traveller hastens toward the town, 
  And the tide rises, the tide falls. 

Darkness settles on roofs and walls, 
But the sea, the sea in the darkness calls; 
The little waves, with their soft, white hands, 
Efface the footprints in the sands, 
  And the tide rises, the tide falls. 

The morning breaks; the steeds in their stalls 
Stamp and neigh, as the hostler calls; 
The day returns, but nevermore 
Returns the traveller to the shore, 
  And the tide rises, the tide falls.

 Jenny kiss'd me when we met,
Jumping from the chair she sat in;
Time, you thief, who love to get
Sweets into your list, put that in!
Say I'm weary, say I'm sad,
Say that health and welth have miss'd me,
Say I'm growing old, but add,
Jenny kiss'd me.

 I know the rules and hear myself agree
Not to invest beyond this one night stand.
I know your patter: in, out, like the sea.
The sharp north wind must blow away the sand.

Soon my supply will meet your last demand
And you will have no further use for me.
I will not swim against the tide, to land.
I know the rules. I hear myself agree.

I've kept a stash of hours, just two or three
To smuggle off your coast like contraband.
We will both manage (you more easily)
Not to invest beyond this one night stand.

To narrow-minded friends I will expand
On cheap not being the same as duty free.
I'll say this was exactly what I planned.
I know your pattern: in, out, like the sea.

It's not as if we were designed to be
Strolling along the beach front, hand in hand.
Things change, of natural necessity.
The sharp north wind must blow away the sand

And every storm to rage, however grand,
Will end in pain and shipwreck and debris
And each time there's a voice I have to strand
On a bare rock, hardened against its plea;
I know the rules.

 Our college rhymes,--how light they seem,
Like little ghosts of love's young dream
That led our boyish hearts away
From lectures and from books, to stray
By flowery mead and flowing stream!

There's nothing here, in form or theme,
Of thought sublime or art supreme:
We would not have the critic weigh
Our college rhymes.

Yet if, perchance, a slender beam
Of feeling's glow or fancy's gleam
Still lingers in the lines we lay
At Alma Mater's feet today,
The touch of Nature may redeem
Our college rhymes.

 It bothers me: the genital smell of the bay
drifting toward me on the T stop, the train
circling the city like a dingy, year-round
Christmas display. The Puritans were right! Sin
is everywhere in Massachusetts, hell-bound

in the population. it bothers me
because it's summer now and sticky - no rain
to cool things down; heat like a wound
that will not close. Too hot, these shameful
percolations of the body that bloom
between strangers on a train. It bothers me

now that I'm alone and singles foam
around the city, bothered by the lather, the rings
of sweat. Know this bay's a watery animal, hind-end
perpetually raised: a wanting posture, pain
so apparent, wanting so much that it bothers me.

 If I were king, my pipe should be premier.
The skies of time and chance are seldom clear,
We would inform them all with bland blue weather.
Delight alone would need to shed a tear,
For dream and deed should war no more together.

Art should aspire, yet ugliness be dear;
Beauty, the shaft, should speed with wit for feather;
And love, sweet love, should never fall to sere,
If I were king.

But politics should find no harbour near;
The Philistine should fear to slip his tether;
Tobacco should be duty free, and beer;
In fact, in room of this, the age of leather,
An age of gold all radiant should appear,
If I were king.

 FLOW soft RIVER, gently stray, 
Still a silent waving tide 
O'er thy glitt'ring carpet glide, 
While I chaunt my ROUNDELAY, 
As I gather from thy bank, 
Shelter'd by the poplar dank, 
King-cups, deck'd in golden pride, 
Harebells sweet, and daisies pied; 
While beneath the evening sky, 
Soft the western breezes fly. 
Gentle RIVER, should'st thou be 
Touch'd with mournful sympathy, 
When reflection tells my soul, 
Winter's icy breath shall quell
Thy sweet bosom's graceful swell, 
And thy dimpling course controul; 
Should a crystal tear of mine, 
Fall upon thy lucid breast, 
Oh receive the trembling guest, 
For 'tis PITY'S drop divine! 

GENTLE ZEPHYR, softly play,
Shake thy dewy wings around,
Sprinkle odours o'er the ground,
While I chaunt my ROUNDELAY. 
While the woodbine's mingling shade, 
Veils my pensive, drooping head;
Fan, oh fan, the busy gale,
That rudely wantons round my cheek,
Where the tear of suff'rance meek,
Glitters on the LILY pale: 
Ah! no more the damask ROSE, 
There in crimson lustre glows; 
Thirsty fevers from my lip 
Dare the ruddy drops to sip; 
Deep within my burning heart, 
Sorrow plants an icy dart; 
From whose point the soft tears flow, 
Melting in the vivid glow; 
Gentle Zephyr, should'st thou be 
Touch'd with tender sympathy; 
When reflection calls to mind, 
The bleak and desolating wind, 
That soon thy silken wing shall tear, 
And waft it on the freezing air; 
Zephyr, should a tender sigh 
To thy balmy bosom fly, 
Oh! receive the flutt'ring thing, 
Place it on thy filmy wing, 
Bear it to its native sky, 
For 'tis PITY'S softest sigh. 


O'er the golden lids of day 
Steals a veil of sober grey; 
Now the flow'rets sink to rest, 
On the moist earth's glitt'ring breast; 
Homeward now I'll bend my way, 
AND CHAUNT MY PLAINTIVE ROUNDELAY.

 In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie,
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

 Blow out the candles of your cake.
They will not leave you in the dark,
Who round with grace this dusky arc
Of the grand tour which souls must take.

You who have sounded William Blake,
And the still pool, to Plato's mark,
Blow out the candles of your cake.
They will not leave you in the dark.

Yet, for your friends' benighted sake,
Detain your upward-flying spark;
Get us that wish, though like the lark
You whet your wings till dawn shall break:
Blow out the candles of your cake.

 "Wondrous life!" cried Marvell at Appleton House.
Renan admired Jesus Christ "wholeheartedly."
But here dried ferns keep falling to the floor,
And something inside my head
Flaps like a worn-out blind. Royal Cortssoz is dead.
A blow to the Herald-Tribune. A closet mouse
Rattles the wrapper on the breakfast food. Renan
Admired Jesus Christ "wholeheartedly."

Flaps like a worn-out blind. Cezanne
Would break out in the quiet streets of Aix
And shout, "Le monde, c'est terrible!" Royal
Cortissoz is dead. And something inside my head
Flaps like a worn-out blind. The soil
In which the ferns are dying needs more Vigoro.
There is no twilight on the moon, no mist or rain, 
No hail or snow, no life. Here in this house

Dried ferns keep falling to the floor, a mouse
Rattles the wrapper on the breakfast food. Cezanne
Would break out in the quiet streets and scream. Renan
Admired Jesus Christ "wholeheartedly." And something inside my head
Flaps like a worn-out blind. Royal Cortissoz is dead.
There is no twilight on the moon, no hail or snow.
One notes fresh desecrations on the portico.
"Wondrous life!" cried Marvell at Appleton House.