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Best Famous Servitude Poems

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

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Written by R S Thomas | Create an image from this poem

A Marriage

 We met
 under a shower
of bird-notes.
Fifty years passed, love's moment in a world in servitude to time.
She was young; I kissed with my eyes closed and opened them on her wrinkles.
`Come,' said death, choosing her as his partner for the last dance, And she, who in life had done everything with a bird's grace, opened her bill now for the shedding of one sigh no heavier than a feather.


Written by Kahlil Gibran | Create an image from this poem

Two Infants II

 A prince stood on the balcony of his palace addressing a great multitude summoned for the occasion and said, "Let me offer you and this whole fortunate country my congratulations upon the birth of a new prince who will carry the name of my noble family, and of whom you will be justly proud.
He is the new bearer of a great and illustrious ancestry, and upon him depends the brilliant future of this realm.
Sing and be merry!" The voices of the throngs, full of joy and thankfulness, flooded the sky with exhilarating song, welcoming the new tyrant who would affix the yoke of oppression to their necks by ruling the weak with bitter authority, and exploiting their bodies and killing their souls.
For that destiny, the people were singing and drinking ecstatically to the heady of the new Emir.
Another child entered life and that kingdom at the same time.
While the crowds were glorifying the strong and belittling themselves by singing praise to a potential despot, and while the angels of heaven were weeping over the people's weakness and servitude, a sick woman was thinking.
She lived in an old, deserted hovel and, lying in her hard bed beside her newly born infant wrapped with ragged swaddles, was starving to death.
She was a penurious and miserable young wife neglected by humanity; her husband had fallen into the trap of death set by the prince's oppression, leaving a solitary woman to whom God had sent, that night, a tiny companion to prevent her from working and sustaining life.
As the mass dispersed and silence was restored to the vicinity, the wretched woman placed the infant on her lap and looked into his face and wept as if she were to baptize him with tears.
And with a hunger weakened voice she spoke to the child saying, "Why have you left the spiritual world and come to share with me the bitterness of earthly life? Why have you deserted the angels and the spacious firmament and come to this miserable land of humans, filled with agony, oppression, and heartlessness? I have nothing to give you except tears; will you be nourished on tears instead of milk? I have no silk clothes to put on you; will my naked, shivering arms give you warmth? The little animals graze in the pasture and return safely to their shed; and the small birds pick the seeds and sleep placidly between the branches.
But you, my beloved, have naught save a loving but destitute mother.
" Then she took the infant to her withered breast and clasped her arms around him as if wanting to join the two bodies in one, as before.
She lifted her burning eyes slowly toward heaven and cried, "God! Have mercy on my unfortunate countrymen!" At that moment the clouds floated from the face of the moon, whose beams penetrated the transom of that poor home and fell upon two corpses.
Written by Edwin Muir | Create an image from this poem

The Horses

 Barely a twelvemonth after
The seven days war that put the world to sleep,
Late in the evening the strange horses came.
By then we had made our covenant with silence, But in the first few days it was so still We listened to our breathing and were afraid.
On the second day The radios failed; we turned the knobs; no answer.
On the third day a warship passed us, heading north, Dead bodies piled on the deck.
On the sixth day A plane plunged over us into the sea.
Thereafter Nothing.
The radios dumb; And still they stand in corners of our kitchens, And stand, perhaps, turned on, in a million rooms All over the world.
But now if they should speak, If on a sudden they should speak again, If on the stroke of noon a voice should speak, We would not listn, we would not let it bring That old bad world that swallowed its children quick At one great gulp.
We would not have it again.
Sometimes we think of the nations lying asleep, Curled blindly in impenetrable sorrow, And then the thought confounds us with its strangeness.
The tractors lie about our fields; at evening They look like dank sea-monsters couched and waiting.
We leave them where they are and let them rust: "They'll molder away and be like other loam.
" We make our oxen drag our rusty plows, Long laid aside.
We have gone back Far past our fathers' land.
And then, that evening Late in the summer the strange horses came.
We heard a distant tapping on the road, A deepening drumming; it stopped, went on again And at the corner changed to hollow thunder.
We saw the heads Like a wild wave charging and were afraid.
We had sold our horses in our fathers' time To buy new tractors.
Now they were strange to us As fabulous steeds set on an ancient shield.
Or illustrations in a book of knights.
We did not dare go near them.
Yet they waited, Stubborn and shy, as if they had been sent By an old command to find our whereabouts And that long-lost archaic companionship.
In the first moment we had never a thought That they were creatures to be owned and used.
Among them were some half a dozen colts Dropped in some wilderness of the broken world, Yet new as if they had come from their own Eden.
Since then they have pulled our plows and borne our loads, But that free servitude still can pierce our hearts.
Our life is changed; their coming our beginning.
Written by Algernon Charles Swinburne | Create an image from this poem

Before A Crucifix

 Here, down between the dusty trees,
At this lank edge of haggard wood,
Women with labour-loosened knees,
With gaunt backs bowed by servitude,
Stop, shift their loads, and pray, and fare
Forth with souls easier for the prayer.
The suns have branded black, the rains Striped grey this piteous God of theirs; The face is full of prayers and pains, To which they bring their pains and prayers; Lean limbs that shew the labouring bones, And ghastly mouth that gapes and groans.
God of this grievous people, wrought After the likeness of their race, By faces like thine own besought, Thine own blind helpless eyeless face, I too, that have nor tongue nor knee For prayer, I have a word to thee.
It was for this then, that thy speech Was blown about the world in flame And men's souls shot up out of reach Of fear or lust or thwarting shame - That thy faith over souls should pass As sea-winds burning the grey grass? It was for this, that prayers like these Should spend themselves about thy feet, And with hard overlaboured knees Kneeling, these slaves of men should beat Bosoms too lean to suckle sons And fruitless as their orisons? It was for this, that men should make Thy name a fetter on men's necks, Poor men's made poorer for thy sake, And women's withered out of sex? It was for this, that slaves should be, Thy word was passed to set men free? The nineteenth wave of the ages rolls Now deathward since thy death and birth.
Hast thou fed full men's starved-out souls? Hast thou brought freedom upon earth? Or are there less oppressions done In this wild world under the sun? Nay, if indeed thou be not dead, Before thy terrene shrine be shaken, Look down, turn usward, bow thine head; O thou that wast of God forsaken, Look on thine household here, and see These that have not forsaken thee.
Thy faith is fire upon their lips, Thy kingdom golden in their hands; They scourge us with thy words for whips, They brand us with thy words for brands; The thirst that made thy dry throat shrink To their moist mouths commends the drink.
The toothed thorns that bit thy brows Lighten the weight of gold on theirs; Thy nakedness enrobes thy spouse With the soft sanguine stuff she wears Whose old limbs use for ointment yet Thine agony and bloody sweat.
The blinding buffets on thine head On their crowned heads confirm the crown; Thy scourging dyes their raiment red, And with thy bands they fasten down For burial in the blood-bought field The nations by thy stripes unhealed.
With iron for thy linen bands And unclean cloths for winding-sheet They bind the people's nail-pierced hands, They hide the people's nail-pierced feet; And what man or what angel known Shall roll back the sepulchral stone? But these have not the rich man's grave To sleep in when their pain is done.
These were not fit for God to save.
As naked hell-fire is the sun In their eyes living, and when dead These have not where to lay their head.
They have no tomb to dig, and hide; Earth is not theirs, that they should sleep.
On all these tombless crucified No lovers' eyes have time to weep.
So still, for all man's tears and creeds, The sacred body hangs and bleeds.
Through the left hand a nail is driven, Faith, and another through the right, Forged in the fires of hell and heaven, Fear that puts out the eye of light: And the feet soiled and scarred and pale Are pierced with falsehood for a nail.
And priests against the mouth divine Push their sponge full of poison yet And bitter blood for myrrh and wine, And on the same reed is it set Wherewith before they buffeted The people's disanointed head.
O sacred head, O desecrate, O labour-wounded feet and hands, O blood poured forth in pledge to fate Of nameless lives in divers lands, O slain and spent and sacrificed People, the grey-grown speechless Christ! Is there a gospel in the red Old witness of thy wide-mouthed wounds? From thy blind stricken tongueless head What desolate evangel sounds A hopeless note of hope deferred? What word, if there be any word? O son of man, beneath man's feet Cast down, O common face of man Whereon all blows and buffets meet, O royal, O republican Face of the people bruised and dumb And longing till thy kingdom come! The soldiers and the high priests part Thy vesture: all thy days are priced, And all the nights that eat thine heart.
And that one seamless coat of Christ, The freedom of the natural soul, They cast their lots for to keep whole.
No fragment of it save the name They leave thee for a crown of scorns Wherewith to mock thy naked shame And forehead bitten through with thorns And, marked with sanguine sweat and tears, The stripes of eighteen hundred years And we seek yet if God or man Can loosen thee as Lazarus, Bid thee rise up republican And save thyself and all of us; But no disciple's tongue can say When thou shalt take our sins away.
And mouldering now and hoar with moss Between us and the sunlight swings The phantom of a Christless cross Shadowing the sheltered heads of kings And making with its moving shade The souls of harmless men afraid.
It creaks and rocks to left and right Consumed of rottenness and rust, Worm-eaten of the worms of night, Dead as their spirits who put trust, Round its base muttering as they sit, In the time-cankered name of it.
Thou, in the day that breaks thy prison, People, though these men take thy name, And hail and hymn thee rearisen, Who made songs erewhile of thy shame, Give thou not ear; for these are they Whose good day was thine evil day.
Set not thine hand unto their cross.
Give not thy soul up sacrificed.
Change not the gold of faith for dross Of Christian creeds that spit on Christ.
Let not thy tree of freedom be Regrafted from that rotting tree.
This dead God here against my face Hath help for no man; who hath seen The good works of it, or such grace As thy grace in it, Nazarene, As that from thy live lips which ran For man's sake, O thou son of man? The tree of faith ingraffed by priests Puts its foul foliage out above thee, And round it feed man-eating beasts Because of whom we dare not love thee; Though hearts reach back and memories ache, We cannot praise thee for their sake.
O hidden face of man, whereover The years have woven a viewless veil, If thou wast verily man's lover, What did thy love or blood avail? Thy blood the priests make poison of, And in gold shekels coin thy love.
So when our souls look back to thee They sicken, seeing against thy side, Too foul to speak of or to see, The leprous likeness of a bride, Whose kissing lips through his lips grown Leave their God rotten to the bone.
When we would see thee man, and know What heart thou hadst toward men indeed, Lo, thy blood-blackened altars; lo, The lips of priests that pray and feed While their own hell's worm curls and licks The poison of the crucifix.
Thou bad'st let children come to thee; What children now but curses come? What manhood in that God can be Who sees their worship, and is dumb? No soul that lived, loved, wrought, and died, Is this their carrion crucified.
Nay, if their God and thou be one, If thou and this thing be the same, Thou shouldst not look upon the sun; The sun grows haggard at thy name.
Come down, be done with, cease, give o'er; Hide thyself, strive not, be no more.
Written by Percy Bysshe Shelley | Create an image from this poem

Queen Mab: Part VI (excerpts)

 "Throughout these infinite orbs of mingling light, 
Of which yon earth is one, is wide diffus'd
A Spirit of activity and life,
That knows no term, cessation, or decay;
That fades not when the lamp of earthly life,
Extinguish'd in the dampness of the grave,
Awhile there slumbers, more than when the babe
In the dim newness of its being feels
The impulses of sublunary things,
And all is wonder to unpractis'd sense:
But, active, steadfast and eternal, still
Guides the fierce whirlwind, in the tempest roars,
Cheers in the day, breathes in the balmy groves,
Strengthens in health, and poisons in disease;
And in the storm of change, that ceaselessly
Rolls round the eternal universe and shakes
Its undecaying battlement, presides,
Apportioning with irresistible law
The place each spring of its machine shall fill;
So that when waves on waves tumultuous heap
Confusion to the clouds, and fiercely driven
Heaven's lightnings scorch the uprooted ocean-fords,
Whilst, to the eye of shipwreck'd mariner,
Lone sitting on the bare and shuddering rock,
All seems unlink'd contingency and chance,
No atom of this turbulence fulfils
A vague and unnecessitated task,
Or acts but as it must and ought to act.
Even the minutest molecule of light, That in an April sunbeam's fleeting glow Fulfils its destin'd, though invisible work, The universal Spirit guides; nor less, When merciless ambition, or mad zeal, Has led two hosts of dupes to battlefield, That, blind, they there may dig each other's graves, And call the sad work glory, does it rule All passions: not a thought, a will, an act, No working of the tyrant's moody mind, Nor one misgiving of the slaves who boast Their servitude to hide the shame they feel, Nor the events enchaining every will, That from the depths of unrecorded time Have drawn all-influencing virtue, pass Unrecogniz'd or unforeseen by thee, Soul of the Universe! eternal spring Of life and death, of happiness and woe, Of all that chequers the phantasmal scene That floats before our eyes in wavering light, Which gleams but on the darkness of our prison, Whose chains and massy walls We feel, but cannot see.
"Spirit of Nature! all-sufficing Power, Necessity! thou mother of the world! Unlike the God of human error, thou Requir'st no prayers or praises; the caprice Of man's weak will belongs no more to thee Than do the changeful passions of his breast To thy unvarying harmony: the slave, Whose horrible lusts spread misery o'er the world, And the good man, who lifts with virtuous pride His being in the sight of happiness That springs from his own works; the poison-tree, Beneath whose shade all life is wither'd up, And the fair oak, whose leafy dome affords A temple where the vows of happy love Are register'd, are equal in thy sight: No love, no hate thou cherishest; revenge And favouritism, and worst desire of fame Thou know'st not: all that the wide world contains Are but thy passive instruments, and thou Regard'st them all with an impartial eye, Whose joy or pain thy nature cannot feel, Because thou hast not human sense, Because thou art not human mind.
"Yes! when the sweeping storm of time Has sung its death-dirge o'er the ruin'd fanes And broken altars of the almighty Fiend Whose name usurps thy honours, and the blood Through centuries clotted there has floated down The tainted flood of ages, shalt thou live Unchangeable! A shrine is rais'd to thee, Which, nor the tempest-breath of time, Nor the interminable flood Over earth's slight pageant rolling, Availeth to destroy-- The sensitive extension of the world.
That wondrous and eternal fane, Where pain and pleasure, good and evil join, To do the will of strong necessity, And life, in multitudinous shapes, Still pressing forward where no term can be, Like hungry and unresting flame Curls round the eternal columns of its strength.
"


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

Annuitant

 Oh I am neither rich nor poor,
 No worker I dispoil;
Yet I am glad to be secure
 From servitude and toil.
For with my lifelong savings I Have bought annuity; And so unto the day I die I'll have my toast and tea.
When on the hob the kettle sings I'll make an amber brew, And crunch my toast and think of things I do not have to do.
In dressing-gown and deep arm-chair I'll give the fire a poke; Then worlds away from cark and care I'll smoke and smoke and smoke.
For I believe the very best Of Being is the last; And I will crown with silver zest My patience in the past.
Since compensation is the law Of life it's up to me To round the century and draw My Life Annuity.
Written by Robert William Service | Create an image from this poem

Spanish Peasant

 We have no aspiration vain
For paradise Utopian,
And here in our sun-happy Spain,
Though man exploit his fellow man,
To high constraint we humbly yield,
And turn from politics to toil,
Content to till a kindly field
And bring forth bounty from the soil.
They tell us wars will never cease; They sy the world is out of joint.
How well we Know! But peace is peace Even imposed at pistol point.
And we have learnt our lesson well, By many a death, by many a tear; So let us live a feudal spell, - The cost of freedom is too dear.
Let us be the cattle kind, Praying the goad be not a sword; In servitude obeying blind The tyrant ruling of our Lord.
His army can be swift to slay, His Church teach us humility .
.
.
But never never will we pay Again blood-price for Liberty.
Written by Ellis Parker Butler | Create an image from this poem

Outbid

 When Cupid held an auction sale,
 I hastened to his mart,
For I had heard that he would sell
 The blue-eyed Dora’s heart.
I brought a wealth of truest love, The most that I could proffer, Because, forsooth, of stocks or bonds I had not one to offer.
When Cupid offered Dora’s heart, I bid my whole heart’s love, A love that reached from sea to sea And to the sky above; And When Sir Cupid called for more, I bid my hands and life, That should be hers for servitude If she became my wife.
Then “Going! going!” Cupid cried; The silence was intense Until old Goldbags said, “I bid My stocks and four per cents!” Then Cupid cried, “Fair Dora’s heart, That ne’er was sold before! Does anybody raise the bid? Will any offer more?” “If not—,” but Count Decrepit rose, Infirm, decayed and slim; “I hid my title!” and her heart Was there knocked down to him.
Well! titles may be more than love! I shall not rant nor rail; For after all I much prefer Some heart that’s not for sale!
Written by Robert William Service | Create an image from this poem

The Dauber

 In stilly grove beside the sea
He mingles colours, measures space;
A bronze and breezy man is he,
 Yet peace is in his face.
Behold him stand and longly stare, Till deft of hand and deep of eye He captures on a canvas square The joy of earth and sky.
Aloof from servitude and strife, From carking care and greed apart, Beneath the blue he lives his life Of Nature and of Art.
He grieves his pictures must be sold, Aye, even when his funds are low, And fat men pay a purse of gold He sighs to see them go.
My loving toil is of the pen, Yet while my verse is not unread, His pictures will be living when My tropes are dim and dead.
God gives us talents great and small, And though my rhymes I'll never rue, Sometimes I wish that after all I were a dauber too.
Written by Robert William Service | Create an image from this poem

The Under-Dogs

 What have we done, Oh Lord, that we
 Are evil starred?
How have we erred and sinned to be
 So scourged and scarred?
Lash us, Oh Lord, with scorpion whips,
 We can but run;
But harken to our piteous lips:
 What have we done?

How have we sinned to rouse your wrath,
 To earn your scorn?
Stony and steep has been our path
 Since we were born.
Oh for a sign, a hope, a word, A heaven glance; Why is your hand against us, Lord? Give us a chance.
What shall we do, Oh God, to gain Your mercy seat? Shall we live out our lives in pain And dark defeat? Shall we in servitude bow low Unto the end? How we would hope, could we but know You are our friend! We are the disinherited, The doomed, the lost.
For breath with dust and ashes fed, We pay the cost.
Dumb mouths! Yet though we bleed, with prayer We kiss the sword; Aye, even dying we forbear To curse Thee, Lord.

Book: Reflection on the Important Things