Best Famous Sewed Poems

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

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• All Famous Sewed Poems

Written by Edward Field | Frankenstein The monster has escaped from the dungeon where he was kept by the Baron, who made him with knobs sticking out from each side of his neck where the head was attached to the body and stitching all over where parts of cadavers were sewed together. He is pursued by the ignorant villagers, who think he is evil and dangerous because he is ugly and makes ugly noises. They wave firebrands at him and cudgels and rakes, but he escapes and comes to the thatched cottage of an old blind man playing on the violin Mendelssohn's "Spring Song." Hearing him approach, the blind man welcomes him: "Come in, my friend," and takes him by the arm. "You must be weary," and sits him down inside the house. For the blind man has long dreamed of having a friend to share his lonely life. The monster has never known kindness ‹ the Baron was cruel -- but somehow he is able to accept it now, and he really has no instincts to harm the old man, for in spite of his awful looks he has a tender heart: Who knows what cadaver that part of him came from? The old man seats him at table, offers him bread, and says, "Eat, my friend." The monster rears back roaring in terror. "No, my friend, it is good. Eat -- gooood" and the old man shows him how to eat, and reassured, the monster eats and says, "Eat -- gooood," trying out the words and finding them good too. The old man offers him a glass of wine, "Drink, my friend. Drink -- gooood." The monster drinks, slurping horribly, and says, "Drink -- gooood," in his deep nutty voice and smiles maybe for the first time in his life. Then the blind man puts a cigar in the monster's mouth and lights a large wooden match that flares up in his face. The monster, remembering the torches of the villagers, recoils, grunting in terror. "No, my friend, smoke -- gooood," and the old man demonstrates with his own cigar. The monster takes a tentative puff and smiles hugely, saying, "Smoke -- gooood," and sits back like a banker, grunting and puffing. Now the old man plays Mendelssohn's "Spring Song" on the violin while tears come into our dear monster s eyes as he thinks of the stones of the mob the pleasures of meal-time, the magic new words he has learned and above all of the friend he has found. It is just as well that he is unaware -- being simple enough to believe only in the present -- that the mob will find him and pursue him for the rest of his short unnatural life, until trapped at the whirlpool's edge he plunges to his death.

Written by Langston Hughes | Advertisement For The Waldorf-Astoria Fine living . . . a la carte? Come to the Waldorf-Astoria! LISTEN HUNGRY ONES! Look! See what Vanity Fair says about the new Waldorf-Astoria: "All the luxuries of private home. . . ." Now, won't that be charming when the last flop-house has turned you down this winter? Furthermore: "It is far beyond anything hitherto attempted in the hotel world. . . ." It cost twenty-eight million dollars. The fa- mous Oscar Tschirky is in charge of banqueting. Alexandre Gastaud is chef. It will be a distinguished background for society. So when you've no place else to go, homeless and hungry ones, choose the Waldorf as a background for your rags-- (Or do you still consider the subway after midnight good enough?) ROOMERS Take a room at the new Waldorf, you down-and-outers-- sleepers in charity's flop-houses where God pulls a long face, and you have to pray to get a bed. They serve swell board at the Waldorf-Astoria. Look at the menu, will you: GUMBO CREOLE CRABMEAT IN CASSOLETTE BOILED BRISKET OF BEEF SMALL ONIONS IN CREAM WATERCRESS SALAD PEACH MELBA Have luncheon there this afternoon, all you jobless. Why not? Dine with some of the men and women who got rich off of your labor, who clip coupons with clean white fingers because your hands dug coal, drilled stone, sewed gar- ments, poured steel to let other people draw dividends and live easy. (Or haven't you had enough yet of the soup-lines and the bit- ter bread of charity?) Walk through Peacock Alley tonight before dinner, and get warm, anyway. You've got nothing else to do.

Written by Edward Field | The Bride of Frankenstein The Baron has decided to mate the monster, to breed him perhaps, in the interests of pure science, his only god. So he goes up into his laboratory which he has built in the tower of the castle to be as near the interplanetary forces as possible, and puts together the prettiest monster-woman you ever saw with a body like a pin-up girl and hardly any stitching at all where he sewed on the head of a raped and murdered beauty queen. He sets his liquids burping, and coils blinking and buzzing, and waits for an electric storm to send through the equipment the spark vital for life. The storm breaks over the castle and the equipment really goes crazy like a kitchen full of modern appliances as the lightning juice starts oozing right into that pretty corpse. He goes to get the monster so he will be right there when she opens her eyes, for she might fall in love with the first thing she sees as ducklings do. That monster is already straining at his chains and slurping, ready to go right to it: He has been well prepared for coupling by his pinching leering keeper who's been saying for weeks, "Ya gonna get a little nookie, kid," or "How do you go for some poontang, baby?" All the evil in him is focused on this one thing now as he is led into her very presence. She awakens slowly, she bats her eyes, she gets up out of the equipment, and finally she stands in all her seamed glory, a monster princess with a hairdo like a fright wig, lightning flashing in the background like a halo and a wedding veil, like a photographer snapping pictures of great moments. She stands and stares with her electric eyes, beginning to understand that in this life too she was just another body to be raped. The monster is ready to go: He roars with joy at the sight of her, so they let him loose and he goes right for those knockers. And she starts screaming to break your heart and you realize that she was just born: In spite of her big **** she was just a baby. But her instincts are right -- rather death than that green slobber: She jumps off the parapet. And then the monster's sex drive goes wild. Thwarted, it turns to violence, demonstrating sublimation crudely; and he wrecks the lab, those burping acids and buzzing coils, overturning the control panel so the equipment goes off like a bomb, and the stone castle crumbles and crashes in the storm destroying them all . . . perhaps. Perhaps somehow the Baron got out of that wreckage of his dreams with his evil intact, if not his good looks, and more wicked than ever went on with his thrilling career. And perhaps even the monster lived to roam the earth, his desire still ungratified; and lovers out walking in shadowy and deserted places will see his shape loom up over them, their doom -- and children sleeping in their beds will wake up in the dark night screaming as his hideous body grabs them.

Written by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow | Hiawathas Sailing "Give me of your bark, O Birch-tree! Of your yellow bark, O Birch-tree! Growing by the rushing river, Tall and stately in the valley! I a light canoe will build me, Build a swift Cheemaun for sailing, That shall float on the river, Like a yellow leaf in Autumn, Like a yellow water-lily! "Lay aside your cloak, O Birch-tree! Lay aside your white-skin wrapper, For the Summer-time is coming, And the sun is warm in heaven, And you need no white-skin wrapper!" Thus aloud cried Hiawatha In the solitary forest, By the rushing Taquamenaw, When the birds were singing gayly, In the Moon of Leaves were singing, And the sun, from sleep awaking, Started up and said, "Behold me! Gheezis, the great Sun, behold me!" And the tree with all its branches Rustled in the breeze of morning, Saying, with a sigh of patience, "Take my cloak, O Hiawatha!" With his knife the tree he girdled; Just beneath its lowest branches, Just above the roots, he cut it, Till the sap came oozing outward; Down the trunk, from top to bottom, Sheer he cleft the bark asunder, With a wooden wedge he raised it, Stripped it from the trunk unbroken. "Give me of your boughs, O Cedar! Of your strong and pliant branches, My canoe to make more steady, Make more strong and firm beneath me!" Through the summit of the Cedar Went a sound, a cry of horror, Went a murmur of resistance; But it whispered, bending downward, 'Take my boughs, O Hiawatha!" Down he hewed the boughs of cedar, Shaped them straightway to a frame-work, Like two bows he formed and shaped them, Like two bended bows together. "Give me of your roots, O Tamarack! Of your fibrous roots, O Larch-tree! My canoe to bind together, So to bind the ends together That the water may not enter, That the river may not wet me!" And the Larch, with all its fibres, Shivered in the air of morning, Touched his forehead with its tassels, Slid, with one long sigh of sorrow. "Take them all, O Hiawatha!" From the earth he tore the fibres, Tore the tough roots of the Larch-tree, Closely sewed the hark together, Bound it closely to the frame-work. "Give me of your balm, O Fir-tree! Of your balsam and your resin, So to close the seams together That the water may not enter, That the river may not wet me!" And the Fir-tree, tall and sombre, Sobbed through all its robes of darkness, Rattled like a shore with pebbles, Answered wailing, answered weeping, "Take my balm, O Hiawatha!" And he took the tears of balsam, Took the resin of the Fir-tree, Smeared therewith each seam and fissure, Made each crevice safe from water. "Give me of your quills, O Hedgehog! All your quills, O Kagh, the Hedgehog! I will make a necklace of them, Make a girdle for my beauty, And two stars to deck her bosom!" From a hollow tree the Hedgehog With his sleepy eyes looked at him, Shot his shining quills, like arrows, Saying with a drowsy murmur, Through the tangle of his whiskers, "Take my quills, O Hiawatha!" From the ground the quills he gathered, All the little shining arrows, Stained them red and blue and yellow, With the juice of roots and berries; Into his canoe he wrought them, Round its waist a shining girdle, Round its bows a gleaming necklace, On its breast two stars resplendent. Thus the Birch Canoe was builded In the valley, by the river, In the bosom of the forest; And the forest's life was in it, All its mystery and its magic, All the lightness of the birch-tree, All the toughness of the cedar, All the larch's supple sinews; And it floated on the river Like a yellow leaf in Autumn, Like a yellow water-lily. Paddles none had Hiawatha, Paddles none he had or needed, For his thoughts as paddles served him, And his wishes served to guide him; Swift or slow at will he glided, Veered to right or left at pleasure. Then he called aloud to Kwasind, To his friend, the strong man, Kwasind, Saying, "Help me clear this river Of its sunken logs and sand-bars." Straight into the river Kwasind Plunged as if he were an otter, Dived as if he were a beaver, Stood up to his waist in water, To his arm-pits in the river, Swam and scouted in the river, Tugged at sunken logs and branches, With his hands he scooped the sand-bars, With his feet the ooze and tangle. And thus sailed my Hiawatha Down the rushing Taquamenaw, Sailed through all its bends and windings, Sailed through all its deeps and shallows, While his friend, the strong man, Kwasind, Swam the deeps, the shallows waded. Up and down the river went they, In and out among its islands, Cleared its bed of root and sand-bar, Dragged the dead trees from its channel, Made its passage safe and certain, Made a pathway for the people, From its springs among the mountains, To the waters of Pauwating, To the bay of Taquamenaw.

Written by Laure-Anne Bosselaar | The Worlds in this World Doors were left open in heaven again: drafts wheeze, clouds wrap their ripped pages around roofs and trees. Like wet flags, shutters flap and fold. Even light is blown out of town, its last angles caught in sopped newspaper wings and billowing plastic — all this in one American street. Elsewhere, somewhere, a tide recedes, incense is lit, an infant sucks from a nipple, a grenade shrieks, a man buys his first cane. Think of it: the worlds in this world. Yesterday, while a Chinese woman took hours to sew seven silk stitches into a tapestry started generations ago, guards took only seconds to mop up a cannibal’s brain from the floor of a Wisconsin jail, while the man who bashed the killer’s head found no place to hide, and sat sobbing for his mother in a shower stall — the worlds in this world. Or say, one year — say 1916: while my grandfather, a prisoner of war in Holland, sewed perfect, eighteen-buttoned booties for his wife with the skin of a dead dog found in a trench; shrapnel slit Apollinaire's skull, Jesuits brandished crucifixes in Ouagadougou, and the Parthenon was already in ruins. That year, thousands and thousands of Jews from the Holocaust were already — were still ¬— busy living their lives; while gnawed by self-doubt, Rilke couldn’t write a line for weeks inVienna’s Victorgasse, and fishermen drowned off Finnish coasts, and lovers kissed for the very first time, while in Kashmir an old woman fell asleep, her cheek on her good husband's belly. And all along that year the winds kept blowing as they do today, above oceans and steeples, and this one speck of dust was lifted from somewhere to land exactly here, on my desk, and will lift again — into the worlds in this world. Say now, at this instant: one thornless rose opens in a blue jar above that speck, but you — reading this — know nothing of how it came to flower here, and I nothing of who bred it, or where, nothing of my son and daughter’s fate, of what grows in your garden or behind the walls of your chest: is it longing? Fear? Will it matter? Listen to that wind, listen to it ranting The doors of heaven never close, that’s the Curse, that’s the Miracle.

Written by Rg Gregory | christmas in a box the policeman on the streets found christmas in a box tipped it down a manhole it wasn't wearing socks a little old lady nearby - the poor sod's done no harm she got hit with a truncheon for spreading false alarm the policeman then went home pleased his job was done called for his christmas dinner but dinner there was none his wife with the lodger his children gone for good he beat himself with his truncheon and lay down in his blood all the holly berries all the christmas trees gathered in the silent square brought buildings to their knees nothing comprehended why such bitter bleeding tore hate aside - redeemed a space for joy to do the feeding a ripple took the roof off sun married the rain christmas came with socks on the box refilled with grain a little old lady nearby took off her winter coat danced to where the policeman's blood was rattling in his throat she sewed him up and rolled him round to the local bank doled him out to everyone whose lives had done a blank policeman's blood and christmas socks changed every single life the children came home to freedom and the lodger kept the wife

Written by George Herbert | Sighs And Groans O do not use me After my sins! look not on my dessert, But on your glory! Then you will reform And not refuse me: for you only art The mighty God, but I a silly worm; O do not bruise me! O do not urge me! For what account can your ill steward make? I have abused your stock, destroyed your woods, Sucked all your storehouses: my head did ache, Till it found out how to consume your goods: O do not scourge me! O do not blind me! I have deserved that an Egyptian night Should thicken all my powers; because my lust Has still sewed fig-leaves to exclude your light: But I am frailty, and already dust; O do not grind me! O do not fill me With the turned vial of your bitter wrath! For you have other vessels full of blood, A part whereof my Savior emptied hath, Even unto death: since he died for my good, O do not kill me! But O reprieve me! For you have life and death at your command; You are both Judge and Savior, feast and rod, Cordial and Corrosive: put not your hand Into the bitter box; but O my God, My God, relieve me!

Written by Sharon Olds | The Sash The first ones were attached to my dress at the waist, one on either side, right at the point where hands could clasp you and pick you up, as if you were a hot squeeze bottle of tree syrup, and the sashes that emerged like axil buds from the angles of the waist were used to play horses, that racing across the cement while someone held your reins and you could feel your flesh itself in your body wildly streaming. You would come home, a torn-off sash dangling from either hand, a snake-charmer— each time, she sewed them back on with thicker thread, until the seams of sash and dress bulged like little knots of gristle at your waist as you walked, you could feel them like thumbs pressing into your body. The next sash was the one Thee, Hannah! borrowed from her be-ribboned friend and hid in a drawer and got salve on it, salve on a sash, like bacon grease on a snake, God's lard on the ribbon a Quaker girl should not want, Satan's jism on silk delicate as the skin of a young girl's genital. When Hannah gave up satin her father told her she was beautiful just as God made her. But all sashes lead to the sash, very sash of very sash, begotten, not made, that my aunt sent from Switzerland— cobalt ripple of Swiss cotton with clean boys and girls dancing on it. I don't know why my mother chose it to tie me to the chair with, her eye just fell on it, but the whole day I felt those blue children dance around my wrists. Later someone told me they had found out the universe is a kind of strip that twists around and joins itself, and I believe it, sometimes I can feel it, the way we are pouring slowly toward a curve and around it through something dark and soft, and we are bound to each other.

Written by Sidney Lanier | The Hard Times In Elfland A Story of Christmas Eve. Strange that the termagant winds should scold The Christmas Eve so bitterly! But Wife, and Harry the four-year-old, Big Charley, Nimblewits, and I, Blithe as the wind was bitter, drew More frontward of the mighty fire, Where wise Newfoundland Fan foreknew The heaven that Christian dogs desire -- Stretched o'er the rug, serene and grave, Huge nose on heavy paws reclined, With never a drowning boy to save, And warmth of body and peace of mind. And, as our happy circle sat, The fire well capp'd the company: In grave debate or careless chat, A right good fellow, mingled he: He seemed as one of us to sit, And talked of things above, below, With flames more winsome than our wit, And coals that burned like love aglow. While thus our rippling discourse rolled Smooth down the channel of the night, We spoke of Time: thereat, one told A parable of the Seasons' flight. "Time was a Shepherd with four sheep. In a certain Field he long abode. He stood by the bars, and his flock bade leap One at a time to the Common Road. "And first there leapt, like bird on wing, A lissome Lamb that played in the air. I heard the Shepherd call him `Spring': Oh, large-eyed, fresh and snowy fair "He skipped the flowering Highway fast, Hurried the hedgerows green and white, Set maids and men a-yearning, passed The Bend, and gamboll'd out of sight. "And next marched forth a matron Ewe (While Time took down a bar for her), Udder'd so large 'twas much ado E'en then to clear the barrier. "Full softly shone her silken fleece What stately time she paced along: Each heartsome hoof-stroke wrought increase Of sunlight, substance, seedling, song, "In flower, in fruit, in field, in bird, Till the great globe, rich fleck'd and pied, Like some large peach half pinkly furred, Turned to the sun a glowing side "And hung in the heavenly orchard, bright, None-such, complete. Then, while the Ewe Slow passed the Bend, a blur of light, The Shepherd's face in sadness grew: "`Summer!' he said, as one would say A sigh in syllables. So, in haste (For shame of Summer's long delay, Yet gazing still what way she paced), "He summoned Autumn, slanting down The second bar. Thereover strode A Wether, fleeced in burning brown, And largely loitered down the Road. "Far as the farmers sight his shape Majestic moving o'er the way, All cry `To harvest,' crush the grape, And haul the corn and house the hay, "Till presently, no man can say, (So brown the woods that line that end) If yet the brown-fleeced Wether may, Or not, have passed beyond the Bend. "Now turn I towards the Shepherd: lo, An aged Ram, flapp'd, gnarly-horn'd, With bones that crackle o'er the snow, Rheum'd, wind-gall'd, rag-fleec'd, burr'd and thorn'd. "Time takes the third bar off for him, He totters down the windy lane. 'Tis Winter, still: the Bend lies dim. O Lamb, would thou wouldst leap again!" Those seasons out, we talked of these: And I (with inward purpose sly To shield my purse from Christmas trees And stockings and wild robbery When Hal and Nimblewits invade My cash in Santa Claus's name) In full the hard, hard times surveyed; Denounced all waste as crime and shame; Hinted that "waste" might be a term Including skates, velocipedes, Kites, marbles, soldiers, towers infirm, Bows, arrows, cannon, Indian reeds, Cap-pistols, drums, mechanic toys, And all th' infernal host of horns Whereby to strenuous hells of noise Are turned the blessed Christmas morns; Thus, roused -- those horns! -- to sacred rage, I rose, forefinger high in air, When Harry cried (SOME war to wage), "Papa, is hard times ev'ywhere? "Maybe in Santa Claus's land It isn't hard times none at all!" Now, blessed Vision! to my hand Most pat, a marvel strange did fall. Scarce had my Harry ceased, when "Look!" He cried, leapt up in wild alarm, Ran to my Comrade, shelter took Beneath the startled mother's arm. And so was still: what time we saw A foot hang down the fireplace! Then, With painful scrambling scratched and raw, Two hands that seemed like hands of men Eased down two legs and a body through The blazing fire, and forth there came Before our wide and wondering view A figure shrinking half with shame, And half with weakness. "Sir," I said, -- But with a mien of dignity The seedy stranger raised his head: "My friends, I'm Santa Claus," said he. But oh, how changed! That rotund face The new moon rivall'd, pale and thin; Where once was cheek, now empty space; Whate'er stood out, did now stand in. His piteous legs scarce propped him up: His arms mere sickles seemed to be: But most o'erflowed our sorrow's cup When that we saw -- or did not see -- His belly: we remembered how It shook like a bowl of jelly fine: An earthquake could not shake it now; He HAD no belly -- not a sign. "Yes, yes, old friends, you well may stare: I HAVE seen better days," he said: "But now, with shrinkage, loss and care, Your Santa Claus scarce owns his head. "We've had such hard, hard times this year For goblins! Never knew the like. All Elfland's mortgaged! And we fear The gnomes are just about to strike. "I once was rich, and round, and hale. The whole world called me jolly brick; But listen to a piteous tale. Young Harry, -- Santa Claus is sick! "'Twas thus: a smooth-tongued railroad man Comes to my house and talks to me: `I've got,' says he, `a little plan That suits this nineteenth century. "`Instead of driving, as you do, Six reindeer slow from house to house, Let's build a Grand Trunk Railway through From here to earth's last terminus. "`We'll touch at every chimney-top (An Elevated Track, of course), Then, as we whisk you by, you'll drop Each package down: just think, the force "`You'll save, the time! -- Besides, we'll make Our millions: look you, soon we will Compete for freights -- and then we'll take Dame Fortune's bales of good and ill "`(Why, she's the biggest shipper, sir, That e'er did business in this world!): Then Death, that ceaseless Traveller, Shall on his rounds by us be whirled. "`When ghosts return to walk with men, We'll bring 'em cheap by steam, and fast: We'll run a Branch to heaven! and then We'll riot, man; for then, at last "`We'll make with heaven a contract fair To call, each hour, from town to town, And carry the dead folks' souls up there, And bring the unborn babies down!' "The plan seemed fair: I gave him cash, Nay, every penny I could raise. My wife e'er cried, `'Tis rash, 'tis rash:' How could I know the stock-thief's ways? "But soon I learned full well, poor fool! My woes began, that wretched day. The President plied me like a tool. In lawyer's fees, and rights of way, "Injunctions, leases, charters, I Was meshed as in a mighty maze. The stock ran low, the talk ran high: Then quickly flamed the final blaze. "With never an inch of track -- 'tis true! The debts were large . . . the oft-told tale. The President rolled in splendor new -- He bought my silver at the sale. "Yes, sold me out: we've moved away. I've had to give up everything. My reindeer, even, whom I . . . pray, Excuse me" . . . here, o'er-sorrowing, Poor Santa Claus burst into tears, Then calmed again: "my reindeer fleet, I gave them up: on foot, my dears, I now must plod through snow and sleet. "Retrenchment rules in Elfland, now; Yes, every luxury is cut off. -- Which, by the way, reminds me how I caught this dreadful hacking cough: "I cut off the tail of my Ulster furred To make young Kris a coat of state. That very night the storm occurred! Thus we became the sport of Fate. "For I was out till after one, Surveying chimney-tops and roofs, And planning how it could be done Without my reindeers' bouncing hoofs. "`My dear,' says Mrs. Claus, that night (A most superior woman she!) `It never, never can be right That you, deep-sunk in poverty, "`This year should leave your poor old bed, And trot about, bent down with toys, (There's Kris a-crying now for bread!) To give to other people's boys. "`Since you've been out, the news arrives The Elfs' Insurance Company's gone. Ah, Claus, those premiums! Now, our lives Depend on yours: thus griefs go on. "`And even while you're thus harassed, I do believe, if out you went, You'd go, in spite of all that's passed, To the children of that President!' "Oh, Charley, Harry, Nimblewits, These eyes, that night, ne'er slept a wink. My path seemed honeycombed with pits. Naught could I do but think and think. "But, with the day, my courage rose. Ne'er shall my boys, MY boys (I cried), When Christmas morns their eyes unclose, Find empty stockings gaping wide! "Then hewed and whacked and whittled I; The wife, the girls and Kris took fire; They spun, sewed, cut, -- till by and by We made, at home, my pack entire!" (He handed me a bundle, here.) "Now, hoist me up: there, gently: quick! Dear boys, DON'T look for much this year: Remember, Santa Claus is sick!"

Written by Emily Dickinson | A Spider sewed at Night A Spider sewed at Night Without a Light Upon an Arc of White. If Ruff it was of Dame Or Shroud of Gnome Himself himself inform. Of Immortality His Strategy Was Physiognomy.