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Best Famous Shoe In Poems

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

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Written by William Allingham | Create an image from this poem

Lepracaun or Fairy Shoemaker The

 Little Cowboy, what have you heard,
Up on the lonely rath's green mound?
Only the plaintive yellow bird
Sighing in sultry fields around,
Chary, chary, chary, chee-ee! -
Only the grasshopper and the bee? -
"Tip-tap, rip-rap,
Tick-a-tack-too!
Scarlet leather, sewn together,
This will make a shoe.
Left, right, pull it tight; Summer days are warm; Underground in winter, Laughing at the storm!" Lay your ear close to the hill.
Do you not catch th etiny clamour, Busy click of an elfin hammer.
Voice of the Lepracaun singing shrill As he merrily plies his trade? He's a span And a quarter in height, Get him in sight, hold him tight, And you're a made Man! You watch your cattle the summerday, Sup on potatoes, sleep in the hay; how would you like to roll in your carriage, Look for a duchess's daughter in marriage? Seize the shoemaker - then you may! "Big boots a -hunting, Sandals in the hall, White for a wedding feast, Pink for a ball.
This way, that way, So we makea shoe; Getting rich every stitch, Tick-a-tack too!" Nine and ninety treasure crocks This keen miser fairy hath, Hid in the mountains, woods and rocks, Ruin and round-tow'r, cave and rath, And where cormorants build; From times of old Guarded by him; Each of them fill'd Full to the brim With gold! I caught him at work one day, myself, In the castle ditch where fox-glove grows, - A wrinkled, wizen'd and bearded Elf, Spectacles stuck on his pointed nose, Silver buckles to his hose, Leather apron - shoe in his lap - 'Rip-rap, tip-tap, Tick-tack-too! (A grasshopper on my cap! Away the moth flew!) Buskins for a fairy prince, Brogues for his son - Pay me well, pay me well, When the job is done!" The rogue was mine, beyond a doubt.
I stared at him, he stared at me; "Servant Sir!" "Humph" says he, And pull'd a snuff-box out.
He took a long pinch, look'd better pleased, The ***** little Lepracaun; Offer'd the box with a whimsical grace, - Pouf! He flung the dust in my face, And while I sneezed, Was gone!


Written by Robert Pinsky | Create an image from this poem

Poem With Refrains

 The opening scene.
The yellow, coal-fed fog Uncurling over the tainted city river, A young girl rowing and her anxious father Scavenging for corpses.
Funeral meats.
The clever Abandoned orphan.
The great athletic killer Sulking in his tent.
As though all stories began With someone dying.
When her mother died, My mother refused to attend the funeral-- In fact, she sulked in her tent all through the year Of the old lady's dying.
I don't know why: She said, because she loved her mother so much She couldn't bear to see the way the doctors, Or her father, or--someone--was letting her mother die.
"Follow your saint, follow with accents sweet; Haste you, sad notes, fall at her flying feet.
" She fogs things up, she scavenges the taint.
Possibly that's the reason I write these poems.
But they did speak: on the phone.
Wept and argued, So fiercely one or the other often cut off A sentence by hanging up in rage--like lovers, But all that year she never saw her face.
They lived on the same block, four doors apart.
"Absence my presence is; strangeness my grace; With them that walk against me is my sun.
" "Synagogue" is a word I never heard, We called it shul, the Yiddish word for school.
Elms, terra-cotta, the ocean a few blocks east.
"Lay institution": she taught me we didn't think God lived in it.
The rabbi is just a teacher.
But what about the hereditary priests, Descendants of the Cohanes of the Temple, Like Walter Holtz--I called him Uncle Walter, When I was small.
A big man with a face Just like a boxer dog or a cartoon sergeant.
She told me whenever he helped a pretty woman Try on a shoe in his store, he'd touch her calf And ask her, "How does that feel?" I was too little To get the point but pretended to understand.
"Desire, be steady; hope is your delight, An orb wherein no creature can ever be sorry.
" She didn't go to my bar mitzvah, either.
I can't say why: she was there, and then she wasn't.
I looked around before I mounted the steps To chant that babble and the speech the rabbi wrote And there she wasn't, and there was Uncle Walter The Cohane frowning with his doggy face: "She's missing her own son's musaf.
" Maybe she just Doesn't like rituals.
Afterwards, she had a reason I don't remember.
I wasn't upset: the truth Is, I had decided to be the clever orphan Some time before.
By now, it's all a myth.
What is a myth but something that seems to happen Always for the first time over and over again? And ten years later, she missed my brother's, too.
I'm sorry: I think it was something about a hat.
"Hot sun, cool fire, tempered with sweet air, Black shade, fair nurse, shadow my white hair; Shine, sun; burn, fire; breathe, air, and ease me.
" She sees the minister of the Nation of Islam On television, though she's half-blind in one eye.
His bow tie is lime, his jacket crocodile green.
Vigorously he denounces the Jews who traded in slaves, The Jews who run the newspapers and the banks.
"I see what this guy is mad about now," she says, "It must have been some Jew that sold him the suit.
" "And the same wind sang and the same wave whitened, And or ever the garden's last petals were shed, In the lips that had whispered, the eyes that had lightened.
" But when they unveiled her mother's memorial stone, Gathered at the graveside one year after the death, According to custom, while we were standing around About to begin the prayers, her car appeared.
It was a black car; the ground was deep in snow.
My mother got out and walked toward us, across The field of gravestones capped with snow, her coat Black as the car, and they waited to start the prayers Until she arrived.
I think she enjoyed the drama.
I can't remember if she prayed or not, But that may be the way I'll remember her best: Dark figure, awaited, attended, aware, apart.
"The present time upon time passëd striketh; With Phoebus's wandering course the earth is graced.
The air still moves, and by its moving, cleareth; The fire up ascends, and planets feedeth; The water passeth on, and all lets weareth; The earth stands still, yet change of changes breedeth.
"