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Best Famous Rook Poems

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

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Written by Dylan Thomas | Create an image from this poem

Poem In October

 It was my thirtieth year to heaven
Woke to my hearing from harbour and neighbour wood
 And the mussel pooled and the heron
 Priested shore
 The morning beckon
With water praying and call of seagull and rook
And the knock of sailing boats on the net webbed wall
 Myself to set foot
 That second
 In the still sleeping town and set forth.
My birthday began with the water- Birds and the birds of the winged trees flying my name Above the farms and the white horses And I rose In rainy autumn And walked abroad in a shower of all my days.
High tide and the heron dived when I took the road Over the border And the gates Of the town closed as the town awoke.
A springful of larks in a rolling Cloud and the roadside bushes brimming with whistling Blackbirds and the sun of October Summery On the hill's shoulder, Here were fond climates and sweet singers suddenly Come in the morning where I wandered and listened To the rain wringing Wind blow cold In the wood faraway under me.
Pale rain over the dwindling harbour And over the sea wet church the size of a snail With its horns through mist and the castle Brown as owls But all the gardens Of spring and summer were blooming in the tall tales Beyond the border and under the lark full cloud.
There could I marvel My birthday Away but the weather turned around.
It turned away from the blithe country And down the other air and the blue altered sky Streamed again a wonder of summer With apples Pears and red currants And I saw in the turning so clearly a child's Forgotten mornings when he walked with his mother Through the parables Of sun light And the legends of the green chapels And the twice told fields of infancy That his tears burned my cheeks and his heart moved in mine.
These were the woods the river and sea Where a boy In the listening Summertime of the dead whispered the truth of his joy To the trees and the stones and the fish in the tide.
And the mystery Sang alive Still in the water and singingbirds.
And there could I marvel my birthday Away but the weather turned around.
And the true Joy of the long dead child sang burning In the sun.
It was my thirtieth Year to heaven stood there then in the summer noon Though the town below lay leaved with October blood.
O may my heart's truth Still be sung On this high hill in a year's turning.


Written by William Butler Yeats | Create an image from this poem

The Cold Heaven

 Suddenly I saw the cold and rook-delighting heaven
That seemed as though ice burned and was but the more ice,
And thereupon imagination and heart were driven
So wild that every casual thought of that and this
Vanished, and left but memories, that should be out of season
With the hot blood of youth, of love crossed long ago;
And I took all thc blame out of all sense and reason,
Until I cried and trembled and rocked to and fro,
Riddled with light.
Ah! when the ghost begins to quicken, Confusion of the death-bed over, is it sent Out naked on the roads, as the books say, and stricken By the injustice of the skies for punishment?
Written by Sylvia Plath | Create an image from this poem

Black Rook In Rainy Weather

 On the stiff twig up there
Hunches a wet black rook
Arranging and rearranging its feathers in the rain.
I do not expect a miracle Or an accident To set the sight on fire In my eye, nor seek Any more in the desultory weather some design, But let spotted leaves fall as they fall, Without ceremony, or portent.
Although, I admit, I desire, Occasionally, some backtalk From the mute sky, I can't honestly complain: A certain minor light may still Lean incandescent Out of kitchen table or chair As if a celestial burning took Possession of the most obtuse objects now and then -- Thus hallowing an interval Otherwise inconsequent By bestowing largesse, honor, One might say love.
At any rate, I now walk Wary (for it could happen Even in this dull, ruinous landscape); skeptical, Yet politic; ignorant Of whatever angel may choose to flare Suddenly at my elbow.
I only know that a rook Ordering its black feathers can so shine As to seize my senses, haul My eyelids up, and grant A brief respite from fear Of total neutrality.
With luck, Trekking stubborn through this season Of fatigue, I shall Patch together a content Of sorts.
Miracles occur, If you care to call those spasmodic Tricks of radiance miracles.
The wait's begun again, The long wait for the angel, For that rare, random descent.
Written by Sylvia Plath | Create an image from this poem

Winter Landscape With Rooks

 Water in the millrace, through a sluice of stone,
 plunges headlong into that black pond
where, absurd and out-of-season, a single swan
 floats chaste as snow, taunting the clouded mind
which hungers to haul the white reflection down.
The austere sun descends above the fen, an orange cyclops-eye, scorning to look longer on this landscape of chagrin; feathered dark in thought, I stalk like a rook, brooding as the winter night comes on.
Last summer's reeds are all engraved in ice as is your image in my eye; dry frost glazes the window of my hurt; what solace can be struck from rock to make heart's waste grow green again? Who'd walk in this bleak place?
Written by Thomas Hardy | Create an image from this poem

Winter in Durnover Field

 Scene.
--A wide stretch of fallow ground recently sown with wheat, and frozen to iron hardness.
Three large birds walking about thereon, and wistfully eyeing the surface.
Wind keen from north-east: sky a dull grey.
(Triolet) Rook.
--Throughout the field I find no grain; The cruel frost encrusts the cornland! Starling.
--Aye: patient pecking now is vain Throughout the field, I find .
.
.
Rook.
--No grain! Pigeon.
--Nor will be, comrade, till it rain, Or genial thawings loose the lorn land Throughout the field.
Rook.
--I find no grain: The cruel frost encrusts the cornland!
Written by Dylan Thomas | Create an image from this poem

Authors Prologue

 This day winding down now
At God speeded summer's end
In the torrent salmon sun,
In my seashaken house
On a breakneck of rocks
Tangled with chirrup and fruit,
Froth, flute, fin, and quill
At a wood's dancing hoof,
By scummed, starfish sands
With their fishwife cross
Gulls, pipers, cockles, and snails,
Out there, crow black, men
Tackled with clouds, who kneel
To the sunset nets,
Geese nearly in heaven, boys
Stabbing, and herons, and shells
That speak seven seas,
Eternal waters away
From the cities of nine
Days' night whose towers will catch
In the religious wind
Like stalks of tall, dry straw,
At poor peace I sing
To you strangers (though song
Is a burning and crested act,
The fire of birds in
The world's turning wood,
For my swan, splay sounds),
Out of these seathumbed leaves
That will fly and fall
Like leaves of trees and as soon
Crumble and undie
Into the dogdayed night.
Seaward the salmon, sucked sun slips, And the dumb swans drub blue My dabbed bay's dusk, as I hack This rumpus of shapes For you to know How I, a spining man, Glory also this star, bird Roared, sea born, man torn, blood blest.
Hark: I trumpet the place, From fish to jumping hill! Look: I build my bellowing ark To the best of my love As the flood begins, Out of the fountainhead Of fear, rage read, manalive, Molten and mountainous to stream Over the wound asleep Sheep white hollow farms To Wales in my arms.
Hoo, there, in castle keep, You king singsong owls, who moonbeam The flickering runs and dive The dingle furred deer dead! Huloo, on plumbed bryns, O my ruffled ring dove in the hooting, nearly dark With Welsh and reverent rook, Coo rooning the woods' praise, who moons her blue notes from her nest Down to the curlew herd! Ho, hullaballoing clan Agape, with woe In your beaks, on the gabbing capes! Heigh, on horseback hill, jack Whisking hare! who Hears, there, this fox light, my flood ship's Clangour as I hew and smite (A clash of anvils for my Hubbub and fiddle, this tune On atounged puffball) But animals thick as theives On God's rough tumbling grounds (Hail to His beasthood!).
Beasts who sleep good and thin, Hist, in hogback woods! The haystacked Hollow farms ina throng Of waters cluck and cling, And barnroofs cockcrow war! O kingdom of neighbors finned Felled and quilled, flash to my patch Work ark and the moonshine Drinking Noah of the bay, With pelt, and scale, and fleece: Only the drowned deep bells Of sheep and churches noise Poor peace as the sun sets And dark shoals every holy field.
We will ride out alone then, Under the stars of Wales, Cry, Multiudes of arks! Across The water lidded lands, Manned with their loves they'll move Like wooden islands, hill to hill.
Huloo, my prowed dove with a flute! Ahoy, old, sea-legged fox, Tom tit and Dai mouse! My ark sings in the sun At God speeded summer's end And the flood flowers now.
Written by Gerard Manley Hopkins | Create an image from this poem

The Buglers First Communion

 A buglar boy from barrack (it is over the hill
There)—boy bugler, born, he tells me, of Irish
 Mother to an English sire (he
Shares their best gifts surely, fall how things will), 

This very very day came down to us after a boon he on
My late being there begged of me, overflowing
 Boon in my bestowing,
Came, I say, this day to it—to a First Communion.
Here he knelt then ín regimental red.
Forth Christ from cupboard fetched, how fain I of feet To his youngster take his treat! Low-latched in leaf-light housel his too huge godhead.
There! and your sweetest sendings, ah divine, By it, heavens, befall him! as a heart Christ's darling, dauntless; Tongue true, vaunt- and tauntless; Breathing bloom of a chastity in mansex fine.
Frowning and forefending angel-warder Squander the hell-rook ranks sally to molest him; March, kind comrade, abreast him; Dress his days to a dexterous and starlight order.
How it dóes my heart good, visiting at that bleak hill, When limber liquid youth, that to all I teach Yields tender as a pushed peach, Hies headstrong to its wellbeing of a self-wise self-will! Then though I should tread tufts of consolation Dáys áfter, só I in a sort deserve to And do serve God to serve to Just such slips of soldiery Christ's royal ration.
Nothing élse is like it, no, not all so strains Us: fresh youth fretted in a bloomfall all portending That sweet's sweeter ending; Realm both Christ is heir to and thére réigns.
O now well work that sealing sacred ointment! O for now charms, arms, what bans off bad And locks love ever in a lad! Let mé though see no more of him, and not disappointment Those sweet hopes quell whose least me quickenings lift, In scarlet or somewhere of some day seeing That brow and bead of being, An our day's God's own Galahad.
Though this child's drift Seems by a divíne doom chánnelled, nor do I cry Disaster there; but may he not rankle and roam In backwheels though bound home?— That left to the Lord of the Eucharist, I here lie by; Recorded only, I have put my lips on pleas Would brandle adamantine heaven with ride and jar, did Prayer go disregarded: Forward-like, but however, and like favourable heaven heard these.


Written by Sir Henry Newbolt | Create an image from this poem

A Letter From the Front

 I was out early to-day, spying about 
From the top of a haystack -- such a lovely morning -- 
And when I mounted again to canter back 
I saw across a field in the broad sunlight 
A young Gunner Subaltern, stalking along 
With a rook-rifle held at the read, and -- would you believe it? -- 
A domestic cat, soberly marching beside him.
So I laughed, and felt quite well disposed to the youngster, And shouted out "the top of the morning" to him, And wished him "Good sport!" -- and then I remembered My rank, and his, and what I ought to be doing: And I rode nearer, and added, "I can only suppose You have not seen the Commander-in-Chief's order Forbidding English officers to annoy their Allies By hunting and shooting.
" But he stood and saluted And said earnestly, "I beg your pardon, Sir, I was only going out to shoot a sparrow To feed my cat with.
" So there was the whole picture, The lovely early morning, the occasional shell Screeching and scattering past us, the empty landscape, -- Empty, except for the young Gunner saluting, And the cat, anxiously watching his every movement.
I may be wrong, or I may have told it badly, But it struck me as being extremely ludicrous.
Written by Gerard Manley Hopkins | Create an image from this poem

Duns Scotuss Oxford

 Towery city and branchy between towers;
Cuckoo-echoing, bell-swarmèd, lark-charmèd, rook-racked, river-rounded;
The dapple-eared lily below thee; that country and town did
Once encounter in, here coped and poisèd powers; 
Thou hast a base and brickish skirt there, sours
That neighbour-nature thy grey beauty is grounded
Best in; graceless growth, thou hast confounded
Rural rural keeping—folk, flocks, and flowers.
Yet ah! this air I gather and I release He lived on; these weeds and waters, these walls are what He haunted who of all men most sways my spirits to peace; Of realty the rarest-veinèd unraveller; a not Rivalled insight, be rival Italy or Greece; Who fired France for Mary without spot.
Written by Robert William Service | Create an image from this poem

The Front Tooth

 A-sittin' in the Bull and Pump
With double gins to keep us cheery
Says she to me, says Polly Crump"
"What makes ye look so sweet.
me dearie? As if ye'd gotten back yer youth .
.
.
.
" Says I: "It's just me new front tooth.
" Says Polly Crump: "A gummy grin Don't help to make one's business active; We gels wot gains our bread by sin Have got to make ourselves attractive.
I hope yer dentist was no rook?" Says I: "A quid is what he took.
" Says Polly Crump: "The shoes you wear Are down at heel and need new soleing; Why doncher buy a better pair? The rain goes in and out the holeing.
They're squelchin' as ye walk yer beat.
.
.
.
" Says I: "blokes don't look at me feet.
" Says Polly Crump: "You cough all day; It just don't do in our profession; A girl's got to be pert and gay To give a guy a good impression; For if ye cough he's shy of you.
.
.
.
" Says I: "An' wots a gel to do?" Says Polly Crump: "I'm pink an' fat, But you are bones an' pale as plaster; At this dam' rate you're goin' at You'll never live to be a laster.
You'll have the daisy roots for door.
.
.
.
" Says I: "It's 'ell to be a 'ore.
"But I don't care now I can smile, Smile, smile and not that gap-toothed grinning; I'm wet and cold, but it's worth while To once again look fairly winning.
And send ten bob or so to Mother.
.
.
.
" Said Polly Crump: "Gwad! Have another?"
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