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Best Famous Scrutiny Poems

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

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Written by Thomas Hood | Create an image from this poem

The Bridge of Sighs

 One more Unfortunate, 
Weary of breath, 
Rashly importunate, 
Gone to her death! 

Take her up tenderly, 
Lift her with care; 
Fashion'd so slenderly 
Young, and so fair! 

Look at her garments 
Clinging like cerements; 
Whilst the wave constantly 
Drips from her clothing; 
Take her up instantly, 
Loving, not loathing. 

Touch her not scornfully; 
Think of her mournfully, 
Gently and humanly; 
Not of the stains of her, 
All that remains of her 
Now is pure womanly. 

Make no deep scrutiny 
Into her mutiny 
Rash and undutiful: 
Past all dishonour, 
Death has left on her 
Only the beautiful. 

Still, for all slips of hers, 
One of Eve's family— 
Wipe those poor lips of hers 
Oozing so clammily. 

Loop up her tresses 
Escaped from the comb, 
Her fair auburn tresses; 
Whilst wonderment guesses 
Where was her home? 

Who was her father? 
Who was her mother? 
Had she a sister? 
Had she a brother? 
Or was there a dearer one 
Still, and a nearer one 
Yet, than all other? 

Alas! for the rarity 
Of Christian charity 
Under the sun! 
O, it was pitiful! 
Near a whole city full, 
Home she had none. 

Sisterly, brotherly, 
Fatherly, motherly 
Feelings had changed: 
Love, by harsh evidence, 
Thrown from its eminence; 
Even God's providence 
Seeming estranged. 

Where the lamps quiver 
So far in the river, 
With many a light 
From window and casement, 
From garret to basement, 
She stood, with amazement, 
Houseless by night. 

The bleak wind of March 
Made her tremble and shiver; 
But not the dark arch, 
Or the black flowing river: 
Mad from life's history, 
Glad to death's mystery, 
Swift to be hurl'd— 
Anywhere, anywhere 
Out of the world! 

In she plunged boldly— 
No matter how coldly 
The rough river ran— 
Over the brink of it, 
Picture it—think of it, 
Dissolute Man! 
Lave in it, drink of it, 
Then, if you can! 

Take her up tenderly, 
Lift her with care; 
Fashion'd so slenderly, 
Young, and so fair! 

Ere her limbs frigidly 
Stiffen too rigidly, 
Decently, kindly, 
Smooth and compose them; 
And her eyes, close them, 
Staring so blindly! 

Dreadfully staring 
Thro' muddy impurity, 
As when with the daring 
Last look of despairing 
Fix'd on futurity. 

Perishing gloomily, 
Spurr'd by contumely, 
Cold inhumanity, 
Burning insanity, 
Into her rest.— 
Cross her hands humbly 
As if praying dumbly, 
Over her breast! 

Owning her weakness, 
Her evil behaviour, 
And leaving, with meekness, 
Her sins to her Saviour!


Written by Emily Dickinson | Create an image from this poem

As One does Sickness over

 As One does Sickness over
In convalescent Mind,
His scrutiny of Chances
By blessed Health obscured --

As One rewalks a Precipice
And whittles at the Twig
That held Him from Perdition
Sown sidewise in the Crag

A Custom of the Soul
Far after suffering
Identity to question
For evidence't has been --
Written by Emily Dickinson | Create an image from this poem

The Loneliness One dare not sound --

 The Loneliness One dare not sound --
And would as soon surmise
As in its Grave go plumbing
To ascertain the size --

The Loneliness whose worst alarm
Is lest itself should see --
And perish from before itself
For just a scrutiny --

The Horror not to be surveyed --
But skirted in the Dark --
With Consciousness suspended --
And Being under Lock --

I fear me this -- is Loneliness --
The Maker of the soul
Its Caverns and its Corridors
Illuminate -- or seal --
Written by Laurence Binyon | Create an image from this poem

The Healers

 In a vision of the night I saw them, 
In the battles of the night. 
'Mid the roar and the reeling shadows of blood 
They were moving like light, 

Light of the reason, guarded 
Tense within the will, 
As a lantern under a tossing of boughs 
Burns steady and still. 

With scrutiny calm, and with fingers 
Patient as swift 
They bind up the hurts and the pain-writhen 
Bodies uplift, 

Untired and defenceless; around them 
With shrieks in its breath 
Bursts stark from the terrible horizon 
Impersonal death; 

But they take not their courage from anger 
That blinds the hot being; 
They take not their pity from weakness; 
Tender, yet seeing; 

Feeling, yet nerved to the uttermost; 
Keen, like steel; 
Yet the wounds of the mind they are stricken with, 
Who shall heal? 

They endure to have eyes of the watcher 
In hell, and not swerve 
For an hour from the faith that they follow, 
The light that they serve. 

Man true to man, to his kindness 
That overflows all, 
To his spirit erect in the thunder 
When all his forts fall, —

This light, in the tiger-mad welter, 
They serve and they save. 
What song shall be worthy to sing of them —
Braver than the brave?
Written by Richard Lovelace | Create an image from this poem

The Scrutiny

 Why should you swear I am forsworn,
Since thine I vowed to be?
Lady, it is already morn,
And 'twas last night I swore to thee
That fond impossibility.

Have I not loved thee much and long,
A tedious twelve hours' space?
I must all other beauties wrong,
And rob thee of a new embrace,
Could I still dote upon thy face.

Not but all joy in thy brown hair
By others may be found;— 
But I must search the black and fair,
Like skilful mineralists that sound
For treasure in unploughed-up ground.

Then if, when I have loved my round,
Thou prov'st the pleasant she,
With spoils of meaner beauties crowned
I laden will return to thee,
Ev'n sated with variety.


Written by William Cowper | Create an image from this poem

The Task: Book I The Sofa (excerpts)

 Thou know'st my praise of nature most sincere,
And that my raptures are not conjur'd up
To serve occasions of poetic pomp,
But genuine, and art partner of them all.
How oft upon yon eminence our pace
Has slacken'd to a pause, and we have borne
The ruffling wind, scarce conscious that it blew,
While admiration, feeding at the eye,
And still unsated, dwelt upon the scene.
Thence with what pleasure have we just discern'd
The distant plough slow moving, and beside
His lab'ring team, that swerv'd not from the track,
The sturdy swain diminish'd to a boy!
Here Ouse, slow winding through a level plain
Of spacious meads with cattle sprinkled o'er,
Conducts the eye along its sinuous course
Delighted. There, fast rooted in his bank,
Stand, never overlook'd, our fav'rite elms,
That screen the herdsman's solitary hut;
While far beyond, and overthwart the stream
That, as with molten glass, inlays the vale,
The sloping land recedes into the clouds;
Displaying on its varied side the grace
Of hedge-row beauties numberless, square tow'r,
Tall spire, from which the sound of cheerful bells
Just undulates upon the list'ning ear,
Groves, heaths and smoking villages remote.
Scenes must be beautiful, which, daily view'd,
Please daily, and whose novelty survives
Long knowledge and the scrutiny of years.
Praise justly due to those that I describe....


But though true worth and virtue, in the mild
And genial soil of cultivated life,
Thrive most, and may perhaps thrive only there,
Yet not in cities oft: in proud and gay
And gain-devoted cities. Thither flow,
As to a common and most noisome sewer,
The dregs and feculence of every land.
In cities foul example on most minds
Begets its likeness. Rank abundance breeds
In gross and pamper'd cities sloth and lust,
And wantonness and gluttonous excess.
In cities vice is hidden with most ease,
Or seen with least reproach; and virtue, taught
By frequent lapse, can hope no triumph there
Beyond th' achievement of successful flight.
I do confess them nurseries of the arts,
In which they flourish most; where, in the beams
Of warm encouragement, and in the eye
Of public note, they reach their perfect size.
Such London is, by taste and wealth proclaim'd
The fairest capital of all the world,
By riot and incontinence the worst.
There, touch'd by Reynolds, a dull blank becomes
A lucid mirror, in which Nature sees
All her reflected features. Bacon there
Gives more than female beauty to a stone,
And Chatham's eloquence to marble lips....


God made the country, and man made the town.
What wonder then that health and virtue, gifts
That can alone make sweet the bitter draught
That life holds out to all, should most abound
And least be threaten'd in the fields and groves?
Possess ye therefore, ye who, borne about
In chariots and sedans, know no fatigue
But that of idleness, and taste no scenes
But such as art contrives, possess ye still
Your element; there only ye can shine,
There only minds like yours can do no harm.
Our groves were planted to console at noon
The pensive wand'rer in their shades. At eve
The moonbeam, sliding softly in between
The sleeping leaves, is all the light they wish,
Birds warbling all the music. We can spare
The splendour of your lamps, they but eclipse
Our softer satellite. Your songs confound
Our more harmonious notes: the thrush departs
Scared, and th' offended nightingale is mute.
There is a public mischief in your mirth;
It plagues your country. Folly such as yours,
Grac'd with a sword, and worthier of a fan,
Has made, which enemies could ne'er have done,
Our arch of empire, steadfast but for you,
A mutilated structure, soon to fall.
Written by Emily Dickinson | Create an image from this poem

This Dust and its Feature --

 This Dust, and its Feature --
Accredited -- Today --
Will in a second Future --
Cease to identify --

This Mind, and its measure --
A too minute Area
For its enlarged inspection's
Comparison -- appear --

This World, and its species
A too concluded show
For its absorbed Attention's
Remotest scrutiny --
Written by Emily Dickinson | Create an image from this poem

Judgment is justest

 Judgment is justest
When the Judged,
His action laid away,
Divested is of every Disk
But his sincerity.

Honor is then the safest hue
In a posthumous Sun --
Not any color will endure
That scrutiny can burn.
Written by Francesco Petrarch | Create an image from this poem

Sonnet XCII

SONNET XCII.

In mezzo di duo amanti onesta altera.

LAURA TURNING TO SALUTE HIM, THE SUN, THROUGH JEALOUSY, WITHDREW BEHIND A CLOUD.

'Tween two fond lovers I a lady spied,Virtuous but haughty, and with her that lord,By gods above and men below adored—The sun on this, myself upon that side—Soon as she found herself the sphere deniedOf her bright friend, on my fond eyes she pour'dA flood of life and joy, which hope restoredLess cold to me will be her future pride.Suddenly changed itself to cordial mirthThe jealous fear to which at his first sightSo high a rival in my heart gave birth;As suddenly his sad and rueful plight[Pg 107]From further scrutiny a small cloud veil'd,So much it ruffled him that then he fail'd.
Macgregor.
Written by Omar Khayyam | Create an image from this poem

On the dread day of final scrutiny

On the dread day of final scrutiny
Thou wilt be rated by thy quality;
Get wisdom and fair qualities to-day,
For, as thou art, requited wilt thou be.

Book: Reflection on the Important Things