Best Famous Spindles Poems

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

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• All Famous Spindles Poems

Written by Amy Clampitt | A Catalpa Tree On West Twelfth Street While the sun stops, or seems to, to define a term for the indeterminable, the human aspect, here in the West Village, spindles to a mutilated dazzle— niched shards of solitude embedded in these brownstone walkups such that the Hudson at the foot of Twelfth Street might be a thing that's done with mirrors: definition by deracination—grunge, hip-hop, Chinese takeout, co-ops—while the globe's elixir caters, year by year, to the resurgence of this climbing tentpole, frilled and stippled yet again with bloom to greet the solstice: What year was it it over- took the fire escape? The roof's its next objective. Will posterity (if there is any)pause to regret such layerings of shade, their cadenced crests' trans- valuation of decay, the dust and perfume of an all too terminable process?

Written by David Wagoner | At The Door All actors look for them-the defining moments When what a character does is what he is. The script may say, He goes to the door And exits or She goes out the door stage left. But you see your fingers touching the doorknob, Closing around it, turning it As if by themselves. The latch slides Out of the strike-plate, the door swings on its hinges, And you're about to take that step Over the threshold into a different light. For the audience, you may simply be Disappearing from the scene, yet in those few seconds You can reach for the knob as the last object on earth You wanted to touch. Or you can take it Warmly like the hand your father offered Once in forgiveness and afterward Kept to himself. Or you can stand there briefly, as bewildered As by the door of a walk-in time-lock safe, Stand there and stare At the whole concept of shutness, like a rat Whose maze has been rebaffled overnight, Stand still and quiver, unable to turn Around or go left or right. Or you can grasp it with a sly, soundless discretion, Open it inch by inch, testing each fraction Of torque on the spindles, on tiptoe Slip yourself through the upright slot And press the lock-stile silently Back into its frame. Or you can use your shoulder Or the hard heel of your shoe And a leg-thrust to break it open. Or you can approach the door as if accustomed To having all barriers open by themselves. You can wrench aside This unauthorized interruption of your progress And then leave it ajar For others to do with as they may see fit. Or you can stand at ease And give the impression you can see through This door or any door and have no need To take your physical self to the other side. Or you can turn the knob as if at last Nothing could please you more, your body language Filled with expectations of joy at where you're going, Holding yourself momentarily in the posture Of an awestruck pilgrim at the gate-though you know You'll only be stepping out against the scrim Or a wobbly flat daubed with a landscape, A scribble of leaves, a hint of flowers, The bare suggestion of a garden.

Written by William Morris | Sir Galahad a Christmas Mystery It is the longest night in all the year, Near on the day when the Lord Christ was born; Six hours ago I came and sat down here, And ponder'd sadly, wearied and forlorn. The winter wind that pass'd the chapel door, Sang out a moody tune, that went right well With mine own thoughts: I look'd down on the floor, Between my feet, until I heard a bell Sound a long way off through the forest deep, And toll on steadily; a drowsiness Came on me, so that I fell half asleep, As I sat there not moving: less and less I saw the melted snow that hung in beads Upon my steel-shoes; less and less I saw Between the tiles the bunches of small weeds: Heartless and stupid, with no touch of awe Upon me, half-shut eyes upon the ground, I thought: O Galahad! the days go by, Stop and cast up now that which you have found, So sorely you have wrought and painfully. Night after night your horse treads down alone The sere damp fern, night after night you sit Holding the bridle like a man of stone, Dismal, unfriended: what thing comes of it? And what if Palomydes also ride, And over many a mountain and bare heath Follow the questing beast with none beside? Is he not able still to hold his breath With thoughts of Iseult? doth he not grow pale With weary striving, to seem best of all To her, "as she is best," he saith? to fail Is nothing to him, he can never fall. For unto such a man love-sorrow is So dear a thing unto his constant heart, That even if he never win one kiss, Or touch from Iseult, it will never part. And he will never know her to be worse Than in his happiest dreams he thinks she is: Good knight, and faithful, you have 'scaped the curse In wonderful-wise; you have great store of bliss. Yea, what if Father Launcelot ride out, Can he not think of Guenevere's arms, round Warm and lithe, about his neck, and shout Till all the place grows joyful with the sound? And when he lists can often see her face, And think, "Next month I kiss you, or next week, And still you think of me": therefore the place Grows very pleasant, whatsoever he seek. But me, who ride alone, some carle shall find Dead in my arms in the half-melted snow, When all unkindly with the shifting wind, The thaw comes on at Candlemas: I know Indeed that they will say: "This Galahad If he had lived had been a right good knight; Ah! poor chaste body!" but they will be glad, Not most alone, but all, when in their sight That very evening in their scarlet sleeves The gay-dress'd minstrels sing; no maid will talk Of sitting on my tomb, until the leaves, Grown big upon the bushes of the walk, East of the Palace-pleasaunce, make it hard To see the minster therefrom: well-a-day! Before the trees by autumn were well bared, I saw a damozel with gentle play, Within that very walk say last farewell To her dear knight, just riding out to find (Why should I choke to say it?) the Sangreal, And their last kisses sunk into my mind, Yea, for she stood lean'd forward on his breast, Rather, scarce stood; the back of one dear hand, That it might well be kiss'd, she held and press'd Against his lips; long time they stood there, fann'd By gentle gusts of quiet frosty wind, Till Mador de la porte a-going by, And my own horsehoofs roused them; they untwined, And parted like a dream. In this way I, With sleepy face bent to the chapel floor, Kept musing half asleep, till suddenly A sharp bell rang from close beside the door, And I leapt up when something pass'd me by, Shrill ringing going with it, still half blind I stagger'd after, a great sense of awe At every step kept gathering on my mind, Thereat I have no marvel, for I saw One sitting on the altar as a throne, Whose face no man could say he did not know, And though the bell still rang, he sat alone, With raiment half blood-red, half white as snow. Right so I fell upon the floor and knelt, Not as one kneels in church when mass is said, But in a heap, quite nerveless, for I felt The first time what a thing was perfect dread. But mightily the gentle voice came down: "Rise up, and look and listen, Galahad, Good knight of God, for you will see no frown Upon my face; I come to make you glad. "For that you say that you are all alone, I will be with you always, and fear not You are uncared for, though no maiden moan Above your empty tomb; for Launcelot, "He in good time shall be my servant too, Meantime, take note whose sword first made him knight, And who has loved him alway, yea, and who Still trusts him alway, though in all men's sight, "He is just what you know, O Galahad, This love is happy even as you say, But would you for a little time be glad, To make ME sorry long, day after day? "Her warm arms round his neck half throttle ME, The hot love-tears burn deep like spots of lead, Yea, and the years pass quick: right dismally Will Launcelot at one time hang his head; "Yea, old and shrivell'd he shall win my love. Poor Palomydes fretting out his soul! Not always is he able, son, to move His love, and do it honour: needs must roll "The proudest destrier sometimes in the dust, And then 'tis weary work; he strives beside Seem better than he is, so that his trust Is always on what chances may betide; "And so he wears away, my servant, too, When all these things are gone, and wretchedly He sits and longs to moan for Iseult, who Is no care now to Palomydes: see, "O good son, Galahad, upon this day, Now even, all these things are on your side, But these you fight not for; look up, I say, And see how I can love you, for no pride "Closes your eyes, no vain lust keeps them down. See now you have ME always; following That holy vision, Galahad, go on, Until at last you come to ME to sing "In Heaven always, and to walk around The garden where I am." He ceased, my face And wretched body fell upon the ground; And when I look'd again, the holy place Was empty; but right so the bell again Came to the chapel-door, there entered Two angels first, in white, without a stain, And scarlet wings, then, after them, a bed Four ladies bore, and set it down beneath The very altar-step, and while for fear I scarcely dared to move or draw my breath, Those holy ladies gently came a-near, And quite unarm'd me, saying: "Galahad, Rest here awhile and sleep, and take no thought Of any other thing than being glad; Hither the Sangreal will be shortly brought, "Yet must you sleep the while it stayeth here." Right so they went away, and I, being weary, Slept long and dream'd of Heaven: the bell comes near, I doubt it grows to morning. Miserere! [Enter Two Angels in white, with scarlet wings; also, Four Ladies in gowns of red and green; also an Angel, bearing in his hands a surcoat of white, with a red cross.] AN ANGEL O servant of the high God, Galahad! Rise and be arm'd: the Sangreal is gone forth Through the great forest, and you must be had Unto the sea that lieth on the north: There shall you find the wondrous ship wherein The spindles of King Solomon are laid, And the sword that no man draweth without sin, But if he be most pure: and there is stay'd, Hard by, Sir Launcelot, whom you will meet In some short space upon that ship: first, though, Will come here presently that lady sweet, Sister of Percival, whom you well know, And with her Bors and Percival: stand now, These ladies will to arm you. [FIRST LADY, putting on the hauberk] Galahad, That I may stand so close beneath your brow, Margaret of Antioch, am glad. [SECOND LADY, girding him with the sword.] That I may stand and touch you with my hand, O Galahad, I, Cecily, am glad. [THIRD LADY, buckling on the spurs.] That I may kneel while up above you stand, And gaze at me, O holy Galahad, I, Lucy, am most glad. [FOURTH LADY, putting on the basnet.] O gentle knight, That you bow down to us in reverence, We are most glad, I, Katherine, with delight Must needs fall trembling. [ANGEL, putting on the crossed surcoat.] Galahad, we go hence, For here, amid the straying of the snow, Come Percival's sister, Bors, and Percival. [The Four Ladies carry out the bed, and all go but Galahad.] GALAHAD. How still and quiet everything seems now: They come, too, for I hear the horsehoofs fall. [Enter Sir Bors, Sir Percival and his Sister.] Fair friends and gentle lady, God you save! A many marvels have been here to-night; Tell me what news of Launcelot you have, And has God's body ever been in sight? SIR BORS. Why, as for seeing that same holy thing, As we were riding slowly side by side, An hour ago, we heard a sweet voice sing, And through the bare twigs saw a great light glide, With many-colour'd raiment, but far off; And so pass'd quickly: from the court nought good; Poor merry Dinadan, that with jape and scoff Kept us all merry, in a little wood Was found all hack'd and dead: Sir Lionel And Gauwaine have come back from the great quest, Just merely shamed; and Lauvaine, who loved well Your father Launcelot, at the king's behest Went out to seek him, but was almost slain, Perhaps is dead now; everywhere The knights come foil'd from the great quest, in vain; In vain they struggle for the vision fair.

Written by William Butler Yeats | The Withering Of The Boughs I cried when the moon was mutmuring to the birds: 'Let peewit call and curlew cry where they will, I long for your merry and tender and pitiful words, For the roads are unending, and there is no place to my mind.' The honey-pale moon lay low on the sleepy hill, And I fell asleep upon lonely Echtge of streams. No boughs have withered because of the wintry wind; The boughs have withered because I have told them my, dreams. I know of the leafy paths that the witches take Who come with their crowns of pearl and their spindles of wool, And their secret smile, out of the depths of the lake; I know where a dim moon drifts, where the Danaan kind Wind and unwind their dances when the light grows cool On the island lawns, their feet where the pale foam gleams. No boughs have withered because of the wintry wind; The boughs have withered because I have told them my dreams. I know of the sleepy country, where swans fly round Coupled with golden chains, and sing as they fly. A king and a queen are wandering there, and the sound Has made them so happy and hopeless, so deaf and so blind With wisdom, they wander till all the years have gone by; I know, and the curlew and peewit on Echtge of streams. No boughs have withered because of the wintry wind; The boughs have withered because I have told them my dreams.

Written by Jean Arp | Kaspar Is Dead alas our good kaspar is dead. who will bury a burning flag in the wings of the clouds who will pull black wool over our eyes day by day. who will turn the coffee mills in the primal barrel. who will lure the idyllic roe from his petrified paperbag. who will sneeze oceanliners unbrellas windudders beekeepers spindles of ozone who will pick clean the pyramids' bones. alas alas alas our good kaspar is dead. holy saint bong kaspar is dead. the clappers raise heart-rending echoes of sorrow in the barns of the bells when we murmur his name. therefore i will only sigh out his surname kaspar kaspar kaspar. why hast thou forsaken us. in what shape has thy lovely great soul taken flight. hast thou changed to a star or a chain made of water in a tropical whirlwind or a teat of black light or a transparent brick in a drum that howls for its craggy existence. now the soles of our feet and the crowns of our heads have dried up and the fairies are lying half-charred on the funeral piles. now the black bowling alleys thunder in back of the sun and no one is setting a compass or spinning the wheelbarrow's wheels. who will eat with the phosphorized rat on the lonely barefooted table. who will chase the siroccoco devil that's trying to lead off our horses. who will decipher the monograms scratched on the stars. his bust shall adorn the mantels of people ennobled by truth through it leaves but small comfort or snuff for his death's head.

Written by Kathleen Raine | Vegetation O never harm the dreaming world, the world of green, the world of leaves, but let its million palms unfold the adoration of the trees. It is a love in darkness wrought obedient to the unseen sun, longer than memory, a thought deeper than the graves of time. The turning spindles of the cells weave a slow forest over space, the dance of love, creation, out of time moves not a leaf, and out of summer, not a shade.