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Best Famous Simile Poems

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

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Written by Robert Frost | Create an image from this poem

The Door in the Dark

 In going from room to room in the dark,
I reached out blindly to save my face,
But neglected, however lightly, to lace
My fingers and close my arms in an arc.
A slim door got in past my guard, And hit me a blow in the head so hard I had my native simile jarred.
So people and things don't pair any more With what they used to pair with before.


Written by Ogden Nash | Create an image from this poem

Very Like a Whale

 One thing that literature would be greatly the better for
Would be a more restricted employment by the authors of simile and
metaphor.
Authors of all races, be they Greeks, Romans, Teutons or Celts, Can't seem just to say that anything is the thing it is but have to go out of their way to say that it is like something else.
What does it mean when we are told That that Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold? In the first place, George Gordon Byron had enough experience To know that it probably wasn't just one Assyrian, it was a lot of Assyrians.
However, as too many arguments are apt to induce apoplexy and thus hinder longevity.
We'll let it pass as one Assyrian for the sake of brevity.
Now then, this particular Assyrian, the one whose cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold, Just what does the poet mean when he says he came down like a wold on the fold? In heaven and earth more than is dreamed of in our philosophy there are great many things.
But I don't imagine that among them there is a wolf with purple and gold cohorts or purple and gold anythings.
No, no, Lord Byron, before I'll believe that this Assyrian was actually like a wolf I must have some kind of proof; Did he run on all fours and did he have a hairy tail and a big red mouth and big white teeth and did he say Woof Woof? Frankly I think it is very unlikely, and all you were entitled to say, at the very most, Was that the Assyrian cohorts came down like a lot of Assyrian cohorts about to destroy the Hebrew host.
But that wasn't fancy enough for Lord Byron, oh dear me no, he had to invent a lot of figures of speech and then interpolate them, With the result that whenever you mention Old Testament soldiers to people they say Oh yes, they're the ones that a lot of wolves dressed up in gold and purple ate them.
That's the kind of thing that's being done all the time by poets, from Homer to Tennyson; They're always comparing ladies to lilies and veal to venison, And they always say things like that the snow is a white blanket after a winter storm.
Oh it is, is it, all right then, you sleep under a six-inch blanket of snow and I'll sleep under a half-inch blanket of unpoetical blanket material and we'll see which one keeps warm, And after that maybe you'll begin to comprehend dimly What I mean by too much metaphor and simile.
Written by Countee Cullen | Create an image from this poem

Fruit of the Flower

 My father is a quiet man
With sober, steady ways;
For simile, a folded fan;
His nights are like his days.
My mother's life is puritan, No hint of cavalier, A pool so calm you're sure it can Have little depth to fear.
And yet my father's eyes can boast How full his life has been; There haunts them yet the languid ghost Of some still sacred sin.
And though my mother chants of God, And of the mystic river, I've seen a bit of checkered sod Set all her flesh aquiver.
Why should he deem it pure mischance A son of his is fain To do a naked tribal dance Each time he hears the rain? Why should she think it devil's art That all my songs should be Of love and lovers, broken heart, And wild sweet agony? Who plants a seed begets a bud, Extract of that same root; Why marvel at the hectic blood That flushes this wild fruit?
Written by Rainer Maria Rilke | Create an image from this poem

The Gazelle

Gazella Dorcas


Enchanted thing: how can two chosen words
ever attain the harmony of pure rhyme
that pulses through you as your body stirs?
Out of your forehead branch and lyre climb

and all your features pass in simile through
the songs of love whose words as light as rose-
petals rest on the face of someone who
has put his book away and shut his eyes:

to see you: tensed as if each leg were a gun
loaded with leaps but not fired while your neck
holds your head still listening: as when

while swimming in some isolated place
a girl hears leaves rustle and turns to look:
the forest pool reflected in her face.
Written by Victor Hugo | Create an image from this poem

ROSES AND BUTTERFLIES

 ("Roses et Papillons.") 
 
 {XXVII., Dec. 7, 1834.} 


 The grave receives us all: 
 Ye butterflies and roses gay and sweet 
 Why do ye linger, say? 
 Will ye not dwell together as is meet? 
 Somewhere high in the air 
 Would thy wing seek a home 'mid sunny skies, 
 In mead or mossy dell— 
 If there thy odors longest, sweetest rise. 
 
 Have where ye will your dwelling, 
 Or breath or tint whose praise we sing; 
 Butterfly shining bright, 
 Full-blown or bursting rosebud, flow'r or wing. 
 Dwell together ye fair, 
 'Tis a boon to the loveliest given; 
 Perchance ye then may choose your home 
 On the earth or in heaven. 
 
 W.C. WESTBROOK 


 A SIMILE. 
 
 ("Soyez comme l'oiseau.") 
 
 {XXXIII. vi.} 


 Thou art like the bird 
 That alights and sings 
 Though the frail spray bends— 
 For he knows he has wings. 
 
 FANNY KEMBLE (BUTLER) 


 






Written by Matthew Prior | Create an image from this poem

A Simile

 Dear Thomas, didst thou never pop
Thy head into a tin-man's shop?
There, Thomas, didst thou never see
('Tis but by way of simile)
A squirrel spend his little rage
In jumping round a rolling cage?
The cage, as either side turn'd up,
Striking a ring of bells a-top?--

Mov'd in the orb, pleas'd with the chimes,
The foolish creature thinks he climbs:
But here or there, turn wood or wire,
He never gets two inches higher.
So fares it with those merry blades, That frisk it under Pindus' shades.
In noble songs, and lofty odes, They tread on stars, and talk with gods; Still dancing in an airy round, Still pleas'd with their own verses' sound; Brought back, how fast soe'er they go, Always aspiring, always low.
Written by Thomas Chatterton | Create an image from this poem

The Advice

 Revolving in their destin'd sphere, 
The hours begin another year 
As rapidly to fly; 
Ah! think, Maria, (e'er in grey 
Those auburn tresses fade away
So youth and beauty die.
Tho' now the captivating throng Adore with flattery and song, And all before you bow; Whilst unattentive to the strain, You hear the humble muse complain, Or wreathe your frowning brow.
Tho' poor Pitholeon's feeble line, In opposition to the nine, Still violates your name; Tho' tales of passion meanly told, As dull as Cumberland, as cold, Strive to confess a flame.
Yet, when that bloom and dancing fire, In silver'd rev'rence shall expire, Aged, wrinkled, and defaced; To keep one lover's flame alive, Requires the genius of a Clive, With Walpole's mental taste.
Tho' rapture wantons in your air, Tho' beyond simile you're fair, Free, affable, serene; Yet still one attribute divine Should in your composition shine-- Sincerity, I mean.
Tho' num'rous swains before you fall, 'Tis empty admiration all, 'Tis all that you require; How momentary are their chains! Like you, how unsincere the strains Of those who but admire! Accept, for once, advice from me, And let the eye of censure see Maria can be true; No more for fools or empty beaux, Heav'n's representatives disclose, Or butterflies pursue.
Fly to your worthiest lover's arms, To him resign your swelling charms, And meet his gen'rous breast; Or if Pitholeon suits your taste, His muse with tattr'd fragments graced, Shall read your cares to rest.
Written by Victor Hugo | Create an image from this poem

AN AUTUMNAL SIMILE

 ("Les feuilles qui gisaient.") 


 The leaves that in the lonely walks were spread, 
 Starting from off the ground beneath the tread, 
 Coursed o'er the garden-plain; 
 Thus, sometimes, 'mid the soul's deep sorrowings, 
 Our soul a moment mounts on wounded wings, 
 Then, swiftly, falls again. 


 




Written by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | Create an image from this poem

THE LEGEND OF THE HORSESHOE

 WHAT time our Lord still walk'd the earth,
Unknown, despised, of humble birth,
And on Him many a youth attended
(His words they seldom comprehended),
It ever seem'd to Him most meet
To hold His court in open street,
As under heaven's broad canopy
One speaks with greater liberty.
The teachings of His blessed word From out His holy mouth were heard; Each market to a fane turn'd He With parable and simile.
One day, as tow'rd a town He roved, In peace of mind with those He loved, Upon the path a something gleam'd; A broken horseshoe 'twas, it seem'd.
So to St.
Peter thus He spake: "That piece of iron prythee take!" St.
Peter's thoughts had gone astray,-- He had been musing on his way Respecting the world's government, A dream that always gives content, For in the head 'tis check'd by nought; This ever was his dearest thought, For him this prize was far too mean Had it a crown and sceptre been! But, surely, 'twasn't worth the trouble For half a horseshoe to bend double! And so he turn'd away his head, As if he heard not what was said, The Lord, forbearing tow'rd all men, Himself pick'd up the horseshoe then (He ne'er again like this stoop'd down).
And when at length they reach'd the town, Before a smithy He remain'd, And there a penny for 't obtain'd.
As they the market-place went by, Some beauteous cherries caught His eye: Accordingly He bought as many As could be purchased for a penny, And then, as oft His wont had been, Placed them within His sleeve unseen.
They went out by another gate, O'er plains and fields proceeding straight, No house or tree was near the spot, The sun was bright, the day was hot; In short, the weather being such, A draught of water was worth much.
The Lord walk'd on before them all, And let, unseen, a cherry fall.
St.
Peter rush'd to seize it hold, As though an apple 'twere of gold; His palate much approv'd the berry; The Lord ere long another cherry Once more let fall upon the plain; St.
Peter forthwith stoop'd again.
The Lord kept making him thus bend To pick up cherries without end.
For a long time the thing went on; The Lord then said, in cheerful tone: "Had'st thou but moved when thou wert bid, Thou of this trouble had'st been rid; The man who small things scorns, will next, By things still smaller be perplex'd.
" 1797.
Written by Victor Hugo | Create an image from this poem

THE QUIET RURAL CHURCH

 It was a humble church, with arches low, 
 The church we entered there, 
 Where many a weary soul since long ago 
 Had past with plaint or prayer. 
 
 Mournful and still it was at day's decline, 
 The day we entered there; 
 As in a loveless heart, at the lone shrine, 
 The fires extinguished were. 
 
 Scarcely was heard to float some gentlest sound, 
 Scarcely some low breathed word, 
 As in a forest fallen asleep, is found 
 Just one belated bird. 


 A STORM SIMILE. 
 
 ("Oh, regardez le ciel!") 
 
 {June, 1828.} 


 See, where on high the moving masses, piled 
 By the wind, break in groups grotesque and wild, 
 Present strange shapes to view; 
 Oft flares a pallid flash from out their shrouds, 
 As though some air-born giant 'mid the clouds 
 Sudden his falchion drew. 


 




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