10 Best Famous Rumoured Poems

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

• All Famous Rumoured Poems

Written by Sarojini Naidu | In Salutation to the Eternal Peace Men say the world is full of fear and hate, And all life's ripening harvest-fields await The restless sickle of relentless fate. But I, sweet Soul, rejoice that I was born, When from the climbing terraces of corn I watch the golden orioles of Thy morn. What care I for the world's desire and pride, Who know the silver wings that gleam and glide, The homing pigeons of Thine eventide? What care I for the world's loud weariness, Who dream in twilight granaries Thou dost bless With delicate sheaves of mellow silences? Say, shall I heed dull presages of doom, Or dread the rumoured loneliness and gloom, The mute and mythic terror of the tomb? For my glad heart is drunk and drenched with Thee, O inmost wind of living ecstasy! O intimate essence of eternity!

Written by Rg Gregory | a reader's de profundis in my reading of the moment i have learned the figure next to christ in da vinci’s last supper (a painting i have actually seen in a milan church fragilely restored) is a woman – an honour earned by mary magdalene who (according to research) turns out to be christ’s wife – hang on what a whopper cry those who can’t contemplate centuries of teaching down the drain – who suck up to the precious thought of divine purity (eternity’s abstention from all the dirty business of the body) pasteurising preaching let christ stay a product of the time before the fall (da vinci had a darkness different from what’s taught) mona lisa (amon-isis) – enigmatic smile and code for male and female balance – offensive to the powers that ran the bible their way (hoodwinked future ages) turned the bright sun black to mask the path they strode wrapped their ascetic bloodstreams in the holy pages before which (even today) the congregation cowers da vinci was an artist scientist (probably a necromancer) had his own black sun – dabbled in the anti-matter that official truth hates (creates) – that nurtures riddles through passageways that breed the ill-reputed answer (soiled honour’s defence against sly caesar’s fiddles) hissing its way lightwards through conspiracy chatter christ had a woman at his right hand – locked together (so da vinci had the painting say) like the letter m the rumoured whore redeemed – the partner siamesed into the one flesh – sharing the equal tragic tether the whole edifice of the holy roman church teased into collapse – virginal rose snapped at the stem not that it seemed to make a difference – the vatican still had its glory years ahead (its gory inquisitions) da vinci stayed honoured in the breeches the word advanced though its priests wore skirts – the brutality of man multiplied its converts (scientifically enhanced) not one power in the world changed its dirty dispositions yesterday was aeons ago – tomorrow’s loath to come no one really cares if magdalene was wife or whore da vinci is someone to gawp at – all’s mutable (unreal) what’s truth - we still know bugger-all (live by rule of thumb) so educatedly dumb can’t trust what we think know feel a thriller brought this on – half opened a not-there door

Written by Robert Browning | Protus Among these latter busts we count by scores, Half-emperors and quarter-emperors, Each with his bay-leaf fillet, loose-thonged vest, Loricand low-browed Gorgon on the breast,--- One loves a baby face, with violets there, Violets instead of laurel in the hair, As those were all the little locks could bear. Now read here. ``Protus ends a period ``Of empery beginning with a god; ``Born in the porphyry chamber at Byzant, ``Queens by his cradle, proud and ministrant: ``And if he quickened breath there, 'twould like fire ``Pantingly through the dim vast realm transpire. ``A fame that he was missing spread afar: ``The world from its four corners, rose in war, ``Till he was borne out on a balcony ``To pacify the world when it should see. ``The captains ranged before him, one, his hand ``Made baby points at, gained the chief command. ``And day by day more beautiful he grew ``In shape, all said, in feature and in hue, ``While young Greek sculptors, gazing on the child, ``Because with old Greek sculptore reconciled. ``Already sages laboured to condense ``In easy tomes a life's experience: ``And artists took grave counsel to impart ``In one breath and one hand-sweep, all their art--- ``To make his graces prompt as blossoming ``Of plentifully-watered palms in spring: ``Since well beseems it, whoso mounts the throne, ``For beauty, knowledge, strength, should stand alone, ``And mortals love the letters of his name.'' ---Stop! Have you turned two pages? Still the same. New reign, same date. The scribe goes on to say How that same year, on such a month and day, ``John the Pannonian, groundedly believed ``A Blacksmith's bastard, whose hard hand reprieved ``The Empire from its fate the year before,--- ``Came, had a mind to take the crown, and wore ``The same for six years (during which the Huns ``Kept off their fingers from us), till his sons ``Put something in his liquor''---and so forth. Then a new reign. Stay---``Take at its just worth'' (Subjoins an annotator) ``what I give ``As hearsay. Some think, John let Protus live ``And slip away. 'Tis said, he reached man's age ``At some blind northern court; made, first a page, ``Then tutor to the children; last, of use ``About the hunting-stables. I deduce ``He wrote the little tract `On worming dogs,' ``Whereof the name in sundry catalogues ``Is extant yet. A Protus of the race ``Is rumoured to have died a monk in Thrace,--- ``And if the same, he reached senility.'' Here's John the Smith's rough-hammered head. Great eye, Gross jaw and griped lips do what granite can To give you the crown-grasper. What a man!

Written by John Berryman | Dream Song 136: While his wife earned the living Rabbi Henry While his wife earned the living, Rabbi Henry studied the Torah, writing commentaries more likely to be burnt than printed. It was rumoured that they needed revision. Smiling, kissing, he bent his head not with 'Please' but with austere requests barely hinted, like a dog with a bone he worried the Sacred Book and often taught its fringes. Imperishable enthusiasms. I have only one request to make of the Lord, that I may no longer have to earn my living as a rabbi 'Thou shalt make unto thee any graven image' The sage said 'I merit long life if only because I have never left bread-crumbs lying on the ground. We were tested yesterday & are sound, Henry's lady & Henry. It all centered in the end on the suicide in which I am an expert, deep & wide.'