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Best Famous Scenic Poems

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

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Written by Edgar Allan Poe | Create an image from this poem

The Conqueror Worm

Lo! 't is a gala night

Within the lonesome latter years!
An angel throng bewinged bedight

In veils and drowned in tears 
Sit in a theatre to see

A play of hopes and fears 
While the orchestra breathes fitfully

The music of the spheres.
Mimes in the form of God on high Mutter and mumble low And hither and thither fly - Mere puppets they who come and go At bidding of vast formless things That shift the scenery to and fro Flapping from out their Condor wings Invisible Woe! That motley drama! - oh be sure It shall not be forgot! With its Phantom chased for evermore By a crowd that seize it not Through a circle that ever returneth in To the self-same spot And much of Madness and more of Sin And Horror the soul of the plot.
But see amid the mimic rout A crawling shape intrude! A blood-red thing that writhes from out The scenic solitude! It writhes! - it writhes! - with mortal pangs The mimes become its food And the seraphs sob at vermin fangs In human gore imbued.
Out - out are the lights - out all! And over each quivering form The curtain a funeral pall Comes down with the rush of a storm And the angels all pallid and wan Uprising unveiling affirm That the play is the tragedy "Man" And its hero the Conqueror Worm.


Written by Lisel Mueller | Create an image from this poem

Scenic Route

 For Lucy, who called them "ghost houses.
" Someone was always leaving and never coming back.
The wooden houses wait like old wives along this road; they are everywhere, abandoned, leaning, turning gray.
Someone always traded the lonely beauty of hemlock and stony lakeshore for survival, packed up his life and drove off to the city.
In the yards the apple trees keep hanging on, but the fruit grows smaller year by year.
When we come this way again the trees will have gone wild, the houses collapsed, not even worth the human act of breaking in.
Fields will have taken over.
What we will recognize is the wind, the same fierce wind, which has no history.
Written by William Topaz McGonagall | Create an image from this poem

Greenlands Icy Mountains

 Greenland's icy mountains are fascinating and grand,
And wondrously created by the Almighty's command;
And the works of the Almighty there's few can understand:
Who knows but it might be a part of Fairyland? 

Because there are churches of ice, and houses glittering like glass,
And for scenic grandeur there's nothing can it surpass,
Besides there's monuments and spires, also ruins,
Which serve for a safe retreat from the wild bruins.
And there's icy crags and precipices, also beautiful waterfalls, And as the stranger gazes thereon, his heart it appals With a mixture of wonder, fear, and delight, Till at last he exclaims, Oh! what a wonderful sight! The icy mountains they're higher than a brig's topmast, And the stranger in amazement stands aghast As he beholds the water flowing off the melted ice Adown the mountain sides, that he cries out, Oh! how nice! Such sights as these are truly magnificent to be seen, Only that the mountain tops are white instead of green, And rents and caverns in them, the same as on a rugged mountain side, And suitable places, in my opinion, for mermaids to reside.
Sometimes these icy mountains suddenly topple o'er With a wild and rumbling hollow-starting roar; And new peaks and cliffs rise up out of the sea, While great cataracts of uplifted brine pour down furiously.
And those that can witness such an awful sight Can only gaze thereon in solemn silence and delight, And the most Godfearless man that hath this region trod Would be forced to recognise the power and majesty of God.
Oh! how awful and grand it must be on a sunshiny day To see one of these icy mountains in pieces give way! While, crack after crack, it falls with a mighty crash Flat upon the sea with a fearful splash.
And in the breaking up of these mountains they roar like thunder, Which causes the stranger no doubt to wonder; Also the Esquimaux of Greenland betimes will stand And gaze on the wondrous work of the Almighty so grand.
When these icy mountains are falling, the report is like big guns, And the glittering brilliancy of them causes mock-suns, And around them there's connected a beautiful ring of light, And as the stranger looks thereon, it fills his heart with delight.
Oh! think on the danger of seafaring men If any of these mighty mountains where falling on them; Alas! they would be killed ere the hand of man could them save And, poor creatures, very likely find a watery grave! 'Tis most beautiful to see and hear the whales whistling and blowing, And the sailors in their small boats quickly after them rowing, While the whales keep lashing the water all their might With their mighty tails, left and right.
In winter there's no sunlight there night or day, Which, no doubt, will cause the time to pass tediously away, And cause the Esquimaux to long for the light of day, So as they will get basking themselves in the sun's bright array.
In summer there is perpetual sunlight, Which fill the Esquimaux's hearts with delight; And is seen every day and night in the blue sky, Which makes the scenery appear most beautiful to the eye.
During summer and winter there the land is covered with snow, Which sometimes must fill the Esquimaux' hearts with woe As they traverse fields of ice, ten or fifteen feet thick, And with cold, no doubt, their hearts will be touched to the quick.
And let those that read or hear this feel thankful to God That the icy fields of Greenland they have never trod; Especially while seated around the fireside on a cold winter night, Let them think of the cold and hardships Greenland sailors have to fight.
Written by Thomas Hardy | Create an image from this poem

Rome: On the Palatine

 We walked where Victor Jove was shrined awhile, 
And passed to Livia's rich red mural show, 
Whence, thridding cave and Criptoportico, 
We gained Caligula's dissolving pile.
And each ranked ruin tended to beguile The outer sense, and shape itself as though It wore its marble hues, its pristine glow Of scenic frieze and pompous peristyle.
When lo, swift hands, on strings nigh over-head, Began to melodize a waltz by Strauss: It stirred me as I stood, in Caesar's house, Raised the old routs Imperial lyres had led, And blended pulsing life with lives long done, Till Time seemed fiction, Past and Present one.
Written by Thomas Hardy | Create an image from this poem

Rom: On the Palatine

 We walked where Victor Jove was shrined awhile, 
And passed to Livia's rich red mural show, 
Whence, thridding cave and Criptoportico, 
We gained Caligula's dissolving pile.
And each ranked ruin tended to beguile The outer sense, and shape itself as though It wore its marble hues, its pristine glow Of scenic frieze and pompous peristyle.
When lo, swift hands, on strings nigh over-head, Began to melodize a waltz by Strauss: It stirred me as I stood, in Caesar's house, Raised the old routs Imperial lyres had led, And blended pulsing life with lives long done, Till Time seemed fiction, Past and Present one.