Get Your Premium Membership

Best Famous Sleets Poems

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

Search and read the best famous Sleets poems, articles about Sleets poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Sleets poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

See Also:
Written by Marge Piercy | Create an image from this poem

Visiting a Dead Man on a Summer Day

 In flat America, in Chicago, 
Graceland cemetery on the German North Side.
Forty feet of Corinthian candle celebrate Pullman embedded lonely raisin in a cake of concrete.
The Potter Palmers float in an island parthenon.
Barons of hogfat, railroads and wheat are postmarked with angels and lambs.
But the Getty tomb: white, snow patterned in a triangle of trees swims dappled with leaf shadow, sketched light arch within arch delicate as fingernail moons.
The green doors should not be locked.
Doors of fern and flower should not be shut.
Louis Sullivan, I sit on your grave.
It is not now good weather for prophets.
Sun eddies on the steelsmoke air like sinking honey.
On the inner green door of the Getty tomb (a thighbone's throw from your stone) a marvel of growing, blooming, thrusting into seed: how all living wreathe and insinuate in the circlet of repetition that never repeats: ever new birth never rebirth.
Each tide pool microcosm spiraling from your hand.
Sullivan, you had another five years when your society would give you work.
Thirty years with want crackling in your hands.
Thirty after years with cities flowering and turning grey in your beard.
All poets are unemployed nowadays.
My country marches in its sleep.
The past structures a heavy mausoleum hiding its iron frame in masonry.
Men burn like grass while armies grow.
Thirty years in the vast rumbling gut of this society you stormed to be used, screamed no louder than any other breaking voice.
The waste of a good man bleeds the future that's come in Chicago, in flat America, where the poor still bleed from the teeth, housed in sewers and filing cabinets, where prophets may spit into the wind till anger sleets their eyes shut, where this house that dances the seasons and the braid of all living and the joy of a man making his new good thing is strange, irrelevant as a meteor, in Chicago, in flat America in this year of our burning.


Written by Wilfred Owen | Create an image from this poem

Asleep

 Under his helmet, up against his pack,
After the many days of work and waking,
Sleep took him by the brow and laid him back.
And in the happy no-time of his sleeping, Death took him by the heart.
There was a quaking Of the aborted life within him leaping .
.
.
Then chest and sleepy arms once more fell slack.
And soon the slow, stray blood came creeping From the intrusive lead, like ants on track.
* * * Whether his deeper sleep lie shaded by the shaking Of great wings, and the thoughts that hung the stars, High pillowed on calm pillows of God's making Above these clouds, these rains, these sleets of lead, And these winds' scimitars; --Or whether yet his thin and sodden head Confuses more and more with the low mould, His hair being one with the grey grass And finished fields of autumns that are old .
.
.
Who knows? Who hopes? Who troubles? Let it pass! He sleeps.
He sleeps less tremulous, less cold Than we who must awake, and waking, say Alas!
Written by Robert Burns | Create an image from this poem

546. Song—Jockie's taen the parting Kiss

 JOCKEY’S taen the parting kiss,
 O’er the mountains he is gane,
And with him is a’ my bliss,
 Nought but griefs with me remain,
Spare my Love, ye winds that blaw,
 Plashy sleets and beating rain!
Spare my Love, thou feath’ry snaw,
 Drifting o’er the frozen plain!


When the shades of evening creep
 O’er the day’s fair, gladsome e’e,
Sound and safely may he sleep,
 Sweetly blythe his waukening be.
He will think on her he loves, Fondly he’ll repeat her name; For where’er he distant roves, Jockey’s heart is still the same.

Book: Reflection on the Important Things