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Best Famous Security Poems

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

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Written by Robert William Service | Create an image from this poem

My Will

 I've made my Will.
I don't believe In luxury and wealth; And to those loving ones who grieve My age and frailing health I give the meed to soothe their ways That they may happy be, And pass serenely all their days In snug security.
That duty done, I leave behind The all I have to give To crippled children and the blind Who lamentably live; Hoping my withered hand may freight To happiness a few Poor innocents whom cruel fate Has cheated of their due.
A am no grey philanthropist, Too humble is my lot Yet how I'm glad to give the grist My singing mill has brought.
For I have had such lyric days, So rich, so full, so sweet, That I with gratitude and praise Would make my life complete.
I'VE MADE MY WILL: now near the end, At peace with all mankind, To children lame I would be friend, And brother to the blind .
.
.
And if there be a God, I pray He bless my last bequest, And in His love and pity say: "Good servant,--rest!"


Written by Walt Whitman | Create an image from this poem

A Carol of Harvest for 1867

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A SONG of the good green grass! 
A song no more of the city streets; 
A song of farms—a song of the soil of fields.
A song with the smell of sun-dried hay, where the nimble pitchers handle the pitch-fork; A song tasting of new wheat, and of fresh-husk’d maize.
2 For the lands, and for these passionate days, and for myself, Now I awhile return to thee, O soil of Autumn fields, Reclining on thy breast, giving myself to thee, Answering the pulses of thy sane and equable heart, Tuning a verse for thee.
O Earth, that hast no voice, confide to me a voice! O harvest of my lands! O boundless summer growths! O lavish, brown, parturient earth! O infinite, teeming womb! A verse to seek, to see, to narrate thee.
3 Ever upon this stage, Is acted God’s calm, annual drama, Gorgeous processions, songs of birds, Sunrise, that fullest feeds and freshens most the soul, The heaving sea, the waves upon the shore, the musical, strong waves, The woods, the stalwart trees, the slender, tapering trees, The flowers, the grass, the lilliput, countless armies of the grass, The heat, the showers, the measureless pasturages, The scenery of the snows, the winds’ free orchestra, The stretching, light-hung roof of clouds—the clear cerulean, and the bulging, silvery fringes, The high dilating stars, the placid, beckoning stars, The moving flocks and herds, the plains and emerald meadows, The shows of all the varied lands, and all the growths and products.
4 Fecund America! To-day, Thou art all over set in births and joys! Thou groan’st with riches! thy wealth clothes thee as with a swathing garment! Thou laughest loud with ache of great possessions! A myriad-twining life, like interlacing vines, binds all thy vast demesne! As some huge ship, freighted to water’s edge, thou ridest into port! As rain falls from the heaven, and vapors rise from earth, so have the precious values fallen upon thee, and risen out of thee! Thou envy of the globe! thou miracle! Thou, bathed, choked, swimming in plenty! Thou lucky Mistress of the tranquil barns! Thou Prairie Dame that sittest in the middle, and lookest out upon thy world, and lookest East, and lookest West! Dispensatress, that by a word givest a thousand miles—that giv’st a million farms, and missest nothing! Thou All-Acceptress—thou Hospitable—(thou only art hospitable, as God is hospitable.
) 5 When late I sang, sad was my voice; Sad were the shows around me, with deafening noises of hatred, and smoke of conflict; In the midst of the armies, the Heroes, I stood, Or pass’d with slow step through the wounded and dying.
But now I sing not War, Nor the measur’d march of soldiers, nor the tents of camps, Nor the regiments hastily coming up, deploying in line of battle.
No more the dead and wounded; No more the sad, unnatural shows of War.
Ask’d room those flush’d immortal ranks? the first forth-stepping armies? Ask room, alas, the ghastly ranks—the armies dread that follow’d.
6 (Pass—pass, ye proud brigades! So handsome, dress’d in blue—with your tramping, sinewy legs; With your shoulders young and strong—with your knapsacks and your muskets; —How elate I stood and watch’d you, where, starting off, you march’d! Pass;—then rattle, drums, again! Scream, you steamers on the river, out of whistles loud and shrill, your salutes! For an army heaves in sight—O another gathering army! Swarming, trailing on the rear—O you dread, accruing army! O you regiments so piteous, with your mortal diarrhoea! with your fever! O my land’s maimed darlings! with the plenteous bloody bandage and the crutch! Lo! your pallid army follow’d!) 7 But on these days of brightness, On the far-stretching beauteous landscape, the roads and lanes, the high-piled farm-wagons, and the fruits and barns, Shall the dead intrude? Ah, the dead to me mar not—they fit well in Nature; They fit very well in the landscape, under the trees and grass, And along the edge of the sky, in the horizon’s far margin.
Nor do I forget you, departed; Nor in winter or summer, my lost ones; But most, in the open air, as now, when my soul is rapt and at peace—like pleasing phantoms, Your dear memories, rising, glide silently by me.
8 I saw the day, the return of the Heroes; (Yet the Heroes never surpass’d, shall never return; Them, that day, I saw not.
) I saw the interminable Corps—I saw the processions of armies, I saw them approaching, defiling by, with divisions, Streaming northward, their work done, camping awhile in clusters of mighty camps.
No holiday soldiers!—youthful, yet veterans; Worn, swart, handsome, strong, of the stock of homestead and workshop, Harden’d of many a long campaign and sweaty march, Inured on many a hard-fought, bloody field.
9 A pause—the armies wait; A million flush’d, embattled conquerors wait; The world, too, waits—then, soft as breaking night, and sure as dawn, They melt—they disappear.
Exult, indeed, O lands! victorious lands! Not there your victory, on those red, shuddering fields; But here and hence your victory.
Melt, melt away, ye armies! disperse, ye blue-clad soldiers! Resolve ye back again—give up, for good, your deadly arms; Other the arms, the fields henceforth for you, or South or North, or East or West, With saner wars—sweet wars—life-giving wars.
10 Loud, O my throat, and clear, O soul! The season of thanks, and the voice of full-yielding; The chant of joy and power for boundless fertility.
All till’d and untill’d fields expand before me; I see the true arenas of my race—or first, or last, Man’s innocent and strong arenas.
I see the Heroes at other toils; I see, well-wielded in their hands, the better weapons.
11 I see where America, Mother of All, Well-pleased, with full-spanning eye, gazes forth, dwells long, And counts the varied gathering of the products.
Busy the far, the sunlit panorama; Prairie, orchard, and yellow grain of the North, Cotton and rice of the South, and Louisianian cane; Open, unseeded fallows, rich fields of clover and timothy, Kine and horses feeding, and droves of sheep and swine, And many a stately river flowing, and many a jocund brook, And healthy uplands with their herby-perfumed breezes, And the good green grass—that delicate miracle, the ever-recurring grass.
12 Toil on, Heroes! harvest the products! Not alone on those warlike fields, the Mother of All, With dilated form and lambent eyes, watch’d you.
Toil on, Heroes! toil well! Handle the weapons well! The Mother of All—yet here, as ever, she watches you.
Well-pleased, America, thou beholdest, Over the fields of the West, those crawling monsters, The human-divine inventions, the labor-saving implements: Beholdest, moving in every direction, imbued as with life, the revolving hay-rakes, The steam-power reaping-machines, and the horse-power machines, The engines, thrashers of grain, and cleaners of grain, well separating the straw—the nimble work of the patent pitch-fork; Beholdest the newer saw-mill, the southern cotton-gin, and the rice-cleanser.
Beneath thy look, O Maternal, With these, and else, and with their own strong hands, the Heroes harvest.
All gather, and all harvest; (Yet but for thee, O Powerful! not a scythe might swing, as now, in security; Not a maize-stalk dangle, as now, its silken tassels in peace.
) 13 Under Thee only they harvest—even but a wisp of hay, under thy great face, only; Harvest the wheat of Ohio, Illinois, Wisconsin—every barbed spear, under thee; Harvest the maize of Missouri, Kentucky, Tennessee—each ear in its light-green sheath, Gather the hay to its myriad mows, in the odorous, tranquil barns, Oats to their bins—the white potato, the buckwheat of Michigan, to theirs; Gather the cotton in Mississippi or Alabama—dig and hoard the golden, the sweet potato of Georgia and the Carolinas, Clip the wool of California or Pennsylvania, Cut the flax in the Middle States, or hemp, or tobacco in the Borders, Pick the pea and the bean, or pull apples from the trees, or bunches of grapes from the vines, Or aught that ripens in all These States, or North or South, Under the beaming sun, and under Thee.
Written by David Lehman | Create an image from this poem

The Gift

 "He gave her class.
She gave him sex.
" -- Katharine Hepburn on Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers He gave her money.
She gave him head.
He gave her tips on "aggressive growth" mutual funds.
She gave him a red rose and a little statue of eros.
He gave her Genesis 2 (21-23).
She gave him Genesis 1 (26-28).
He gave her a square peg.
She gave him a round hole.
He gave her Long Beach on a late Sunday in September.
She gave him zinnias and cosmos in the plenitude of July.
He gave her a camisole and a brooch.
She gave him a cover and a break.
He gave her Venice, Florida.
She gave him Rome, New York.
He gave her a false sense of security.
She gave him a true sense of uncertainty.
He gave her the finger.
She gave him what for.
He gave her a black eye.
She gave him a divorce.
He gave her a steak for her black eye.
She gave him his money back.
He gave her what she had never had before.
She gave him what he had had and lost.
He gave her nastiness in children.
She gave him prudery in adults.
He gave her Panic Hill.
She gave him Mirror Lake.
He gave her an anthology of drum solos.
She gave him the rattle of leaves in the wind.
Written by John Wilmot | Create an image from this poem

A Ramble in St. Jamess Park

 Much wine had passed, with grave discourse
Of who fucks who, and who does worse
(Such as you usually do hear
From those that diet at the Bear),
When I, who still take care to see
Drunkenness relieved by lechery,
Went out into St.
James's Park To cool my head and fire my heart.
But though St.
James has th' honor on 't, 'Tis consecrate to prick and ****.
There, by a most incestuous birth, Strange woods spring from the teeming earth; For they relate how heretofore, When ancient Pict began to whore, Deluded of his assignation (Jilting, it seems, was then in fashion), Poor pensive lover, in this place Would frig upon his mother's face; Whence rows of mandrakes tall did rise Whose lewd tops fucked the very skies.
Each imitative branch does twine In some loved fold of Aretine, And nightly now beneath their shade Are buggeries, rapes, and incests made.
Unto this all-sin-sheltering grove Whores of the bulk and the alcove, Great ladies, chambermaids, and drudges, The ragpicker, and heiress trudges.
Carmen, divines, great lords, and tailors, Prentices, poets, pimps, and jailers, Footmen, fine fops do here arrive, And here promiscuously they swive.
Along these hallowed walks it was That I beheld Corinna pass.
Whoever had been by to see The proud disdain she cast on me Through charming eyes, he would have swore She dropped from heaven that very hour, Forsaking the divine abode In scorn of some despairing god.
But mark what creatures women are: How infinitely vile, when fair! Three knights o' the' elbow and the slur With wriggling tails made up to her.
The first was of your Whitehall baldes, Near kin t' th' Mother of the Maids; Graced by whose favor he was able To bring a friend t' th' Waiters' table, Where he had heard Sir Edward Sutton Say how the King loved Banstead mutton; Since when he'd ne'er be brought to eat By 's good will any other meat.
In this, as well as all the rest, He ventures to do like the best, But wanting common sense, th' ingredient In choosing well not least expedient, Converts abortive imitation To universal affectation.
Thus he not only eats and talks But feels and smells, sits down and walks, Nay looks, and lives, and loves by rote, In an old tawdry birthday coat.
The second was a Grays Inn wit, A great inhabiter of the pit, Where critic-like he sits and squints, Steals pocket handkerchiefs, and hints From 's neighbor, and the comedy, To court, and pay, his landlady.
The third, a lady's eldest son Within few years of twenty-one Who hopes from his propitious fate, Against he comes to his estate, By these two worthies to be made A most accomplished tearing blade.
One, in a strain 'twixt tune and nonsense, Cries, "Madam, I have loved you long since.
Permit me your fair hand to kiss"; When at her mouth her **** cries, "Yes!" In short, without much more ado, Joyful and pleased, away she flew, And with these three confounded asses From park to hackney coach she passes.
So a proud ***** does lead about Of humble curs the amorous rout, Who most obsequiously do hunt The savory scent of salt-swoln ****.
Some power more patient now relate The sense of this surprising fate.
Gods! that a thing admired by me Should fall to so much infamy.
Had she picked out, to rub her **** on, Some stiff-pricked clown or well-hung parson, Each job of whose spermatic sluice Had filled her **** with wholesome juice, I the proceeding should have praised In hope sh' had quenched a fire I raised.
Such natural freedoms are but just: There's something generous in mere lust.
But to turn a damned abandoned jade When neither head nor tail persuade; To be a whore in understanding, A passive pot for fools to spend in! The devil played booty, sure, with thee To bring a blot on infamy.
But why am I, of all mankind, To so severe a fate designed? Ungrateful! Why this treachery To humble fond, believing me, Who gave you privilege above The nice allowances of love? Did ever I refuse to bear The meanest part your lust could spare? When your lewd **** came spewing home Drenched with the seed of half the town, My dram of sperm was supped up after For the digestive surfeit water.
Full gorged at another time With a vast meal of slime Which your devouring **** had drawn From porters' backs and footmen's brawn, I was content to serve you up My ballock-full for your grace cup, Nor ever thought it an abuse While you had pleasure for excuse - You that could make my heart away For noise and color, and betray The secrets of my tender hours To such knight-errant paramours, When, leaning on your faithless breast, Wrapped in security and rest, Soft kindness all my powers did move, And reason lay dissolved in love! May stinking vapors choke your womb Such as the men you dote upon May your depraved appetite, That could in whiffling fools delight, Beget such frenzies in your mind You may go mad for the north wind, And fixing all your hopes upon't To have him bluster in your ****, Turn up your longing **** t' th' air And perish in a wild despair! But cowards shall forget to rant, Schoolboys to frig, old whores to paint; The Jesuits' fraternity Shall leave the use of buggery; Crab-louse, inspired with grace divine, From earthly cod to heaven shall climb; Physicians shall believe in Jesus, And disobedience cease to please us, Ere I desist with all my power To plague this woman and undo her.
But my revenge will best be timed When she is married that is limed.
In that most lamentable state I'll make her feel my scorn and hate: Pelt her with scandals, truth or lies, And her poor cur with jealousied, Till I have torn him from her breech, While she whines like a dog-drawn *****; Loathed and despised, kicked out o' th' Town Into some dirty hole alone, To chew the cud of misery And know she owes it all to me.
And may no woman better thrive That dares prophane the **** I swive!
Written by Ogden Nash | Create an image from this poem

Bankers Are Just Like Anybody Else Except Richer

 This is a song to celebrate banks,
Because they are full of money and you go into them and all
you hear is clinks and clanks,
Or maybe a sound like the wind in the trees on the hills,
Which is the rustling of the thousand dollar bills.
Most bankers dwell in marble halls, Which they get to dwell in because they encourage deposits and discourage withdrawals, And particularly because they all observe one rule which woe betides the banker who fails to heed it, Which is you must never lend any money to anybody unless they don't need it.
I know you, you cautious conservative banks! If people are worried about their rent it is your duty to deny them the loan of one nickel, yes, even one copper engraving of the martyred son of the late Nancy Hanks; Yes, if they request fifty dollars to pay for a baby you must look at them like Tarzan looking at an uppity ape in the jungle, And tell them what do they think a bank is, anyhow, they had better go get the money from their wife's aunt or ungle.
But suppose people come in and they have a million and they want another million to pile on top of it, Why, you brim with the milk of human kindness and you urge them to accept every drop of it, And you lend them the million so then they have two million and this gives them the idea that they would be better off with four, So they already have two million as security so you have no hesitation in lending them two more, And all the vice-presidents nod their heads in rhythm, And the only question asked is do the borrowers want the money sent or do they want to take it withm.
Because I think they deserve our appreciation and thanks, the jackasses who go around saying that health and happi- ness are everything and money isn't essential, Because as soon as they have to borrow some unimportant money to maintain their health and happiness they starve to death so they can't go around any more sneering at good old money, which is nothing short of providential.
Written by Constantine P Cavafy | Create an image from this poem

Darius

 The poet Phernazis is composing
the important part of his epic poem.
How Darius, son of Hystaspes, assumed the kingdom of the Persians.
(From him is descended our glorious king Mithridates, Dionysus and Eupator).
But here philosophy is needed; he must analyze the sentiments that Darius must have had: maybe arrogance and drunkenness; but no -- rather like an understanding of the vanity of grandeurs.
The poet contemplates the matter deeply.
But he is interrupted by his servant who enters running, and announces the portendous news.
The war with the Romans has begun.
The bulk of our army has crossed the borders.
The poet is speechless.
What a disaster! No time now for our glorious king Mithridates, Dionysus and Eupator, to occupy himself with greek poems.
In the midst of a war -- imagine, greek poems.
Phernazis is impatient.
Misfortune! Just when he was positive that with "Darius" he would distinguish himself, and shut the mouths of his critics, the envious ones, for good.
What a delay, what a delay to his plans.
And if it were only a delay, it would still be all right.
But it yet remains to be seen if we have any security at Amisus.
It is not a strongly fortified city.
The Romans are the most horrible enemies.
Can we hold against them we Cappadocians? It is possible at all? It is possible to pit ourselves against the legions? Mighty Gods, protectors of Asia, help us.
-- But in all his turmoil and trouble, the poetic idea too comes and goes persistently-- the most probable, surely, is arrogance and drunkenness; Darius must have felt arrogance and drunkenness.
Written by Barry Tebb | Create an image from this poem

LETTER FROM LEEDS

 Would ‘any woman’ find me difficult to live with?

My tastes are simple: space for several thousand books,

The smoke from my pipe stuffed with aromatic Balkan Sobranie, 

A leftover from the Sixties, frequent brief absences to fulfil

My duties as a carer, unending phone calls

And the unenviable reputation as England’s worst or best complainer,

"Treading on toes or keeping people on their toes"

Also a warm and welcoming vagina, an insatiable need

For ******** and cunnilingus, a bed with clean sheets

I can retire to by five with a hot water bottle 

To calm my churning viscera while I read 

Endless analytic texts, tomes of French poems to translate,

A notorious weekly newsletter to edit, a quarterly to write reviews for

And – I must confess – cable TV so I can access Starsky and Hutch.
I need a cottage in Haworth to go with the wife, Companion or whatever, to see with me the changing Seasons of heather from purple September glory To the browns of winter and wisps of summer green And meet with Michael Haslam, fellow poet, Maestro of the moors and shape-shifter supreme.
I write these verses sitting in the marble hall Of City Station’s restored art deco glory, The rats and debris of decades swept away, How much I need the kindness of strangers, The welcome from my son’s nurses on the Ward with the highest security rating Leeds possesses, A magnificent rotunda among lawns and wooded glades, Air conditioned with more staff than patients- When visiting times are readily extended to encompass My moorland walks and journeys to the capital When I visit Brenda Williams, England’s leading protest poet.
In an Eden garden which spreads its lawned sleeves To envelop my tobacco smoke which irritates everyone Or is it a displacement onto the smoker As I ecstasise the red and yellow splendour of the red hot poker Defiantly erect among the flowering robes of magnolia? Here we reminisce of long ago days when our children Blossomed with talent and showed no signs Of the unending torment of their adult years, Depot injections, Red clouds which whirl as in end-on sections, absconding, Liasing, losing and finding…


Written by Robinson Jeffers | Create an image from this poem

Shiva

 There is a hawk that is picking the birds out of our sky,
She killed the pigeons of peace and security,
She has taken honesty and confidence from nations and men,
She is hunting the lonely heron of liberty.
She loads the arts with nonsense, she is very cunning Science with dreams and the state with powers to catch them at last.
Nothing will escape her at last, flying nor running.
This is the hawk that picks out the star's eyes.
This is the only hunter that will ever catch the wild swan; The prey she will take last is the wild white swan of the beauty of things.
Then she will be alone, pure destruction, achieved and supreme, Empty darkness under the death-tent wings.
She will build a nest of the swan's bones and hatch a new brood, Hang new heavens with new birds, all be renewed.
Written by Robert William Service | Create an image from this poem

Security

 Young man, gather gold and gear,
they will wear you well;
You can thumb your nose at fear,
Wish the horde in hell.
With the haughty you can be Insolent and bold: Young man, if you would be free Gather gear and gold.
Mellow man o middle age, Buy a little farm; Then let revolution rage, you will take no ham.
Cold and hunger, hand in hand May red ruin spread; With your little bit of land You'll be warm and fed.
Old Ma, seek the smiling sun, Wall yourself away; Dream aloof from everyone IN a garden gay.
Let no grieving mar your mood, Have no truck with tears; Greet each day with gratitude - Glean a hundred years.
Written by Omar Khayyam | Create an image from this poem

My heart is weary of hypocrisy,

My heart is weary of hypocrisy,
Cupbearer, bring some wine, I beg of thee!
This hooded cowl and prayer-mat pawn for wine,
Then will I boast me in security.
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