10 Best Famous Starter Poems

Here is a collection of the top 10 all-time best famous Starter poems. This is a select list of the best famous Starter poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Starter poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of starter poems.

• All Famous Starter Poems

 1
TO think of time—of all that retrospection! 
To think of to-day, and the ages continued henceforward! 

Have you guess’d you yourself would not continue? 
Have you dreaded these earth-beetles? 
Have you fear’d the future would be nothing to you?

Is to-day nothing? Is the beginningless past nothing? 
If the future is nothing, they are just as surely nothing. 

To think that the sun rose in the east! that men and women were flexible, real, alive!
 that
 everything was alive! 
To think that you and I did not see, feel, think, nor bear our part! 
To think that we are now here, and bear our part!

2
Not a day passes—not a minute or second, without an accouchement! 
Not a day passes—not a minute or second, without a corpse! 

The dull nights go over, and the dull days also, 
The soreness of lying so much in bed goes over, 
The physician, after long putting off, gives the silent and terrible look for an answer,
The children come hurried and weeping, and the brothers and sisters are sent for, 
Medicines stand unused on the shelf—(the camphor-smell has long pervaded the rooms,) 
The faithful hand of the living does not desert the hand of the dying, 
The twitching lips press lightly on the forehead of the dying, 
The breath ceases, and the pulse of the heart ceases,
The corpse stretches on the bed, and the living look upon it, 
It is palpable as the living are palpable. 

The living look upon the corpse with their eye-sight, 
But without eye-sight lingers a different living, and looks curiously on the corpse. 

3
To think the thought of Death, merged in the thought of materials!
To think that the rivers will flow, and the snow fall, and fruits ripen, and act upon
 others as
 upon us now—yet not act upon us! 
To think of all these wonders of city and country, and others taking great interest in
 them—and we taking no interest in them! 

To think how eager we are in building our houses! 
To think others shall be just as eager, and we quite indifferent! 

(I see one building the house that serves him a few years, or seventy or eighty years at
 most,
I see one building the house that serves him longer than that.) 

Slow-moving and black lines creep over the whole earth—they never cease—they are
 the
 burial lines, 
He that was President was buried, and he that is now President shall surely be buried. 

4
A reminiscence of the vulgar fate, 
A frequent sample of the life and death of workmen,
Each after his kind: 
Cold dash of waves at the ferry-wharf—posh and ice in the river, half-frozen mud in
 the
 streets, a gray, discouraged sky overhead, the short, last daylight of Twelfth-month, 
A hearse and stages—other vehicles give place—the funeral of an old Broadway
 stage-driver, the cortege mostly drivers. 

Steady the trot to the cemetery, duly rattles the death-bell, the gate is pass’d, the
 new-dug grave is halted at, the living alight, the hearse uncloses, 
The coffin is pass’d out, lower’d and settled, the whip is laid on the coffin,
 the
 earth is swiftly shovel’d in,
The mound above is flatted with the spades—silence, 
A minute—no one moves or speaks—it is done, 
He is decently put away—is there anything more? 

He was a good fellow, free-mouth’d, quick-temper’d, not bad-looking, able to
 take his
 own part, witty, sensitive to a slight, ready with life or death for a friend, fond of
 women,
 gambled, ate hearty, drank hearty, had known what it was to be flush, grew low-spirited
 toward
 the last, sicken’d, was help’d by a contribution, died, aged forty-one
 years—and
 that was his funeral. 

Thumb extended, finger uplifted, apron, cape, gloves, strap, wet-weather clothes, whip
 carefully chosen, boss, spotter, starter, hostler, somebody loafing on you, you loafing
 on
 somebody, headway, man before and man behind, good day’s work, bad day’s work,
 pet
 stock, mean stock, first out, last out, turning-in at night;
To think that these are so much and so nigh to other drivers—and he there takes no
 interest in them! 

5
The markets, the government, the working-man’s wages—to think what account they
 are
 through our nights and days! 
To think that other working-men will make just as great account of them—yet we make
 little
 or no account! 

The vulgar and the refined—what you call sin, and what you call goodness—to
 think how
 wide a difference! 
To think the difference will still continue to others, yet we lie beyond the difference.

To think how much pleasure there is! 
Have you pleasure from looking at the sky? have you pleasure from poems? 
Do you enjoy yourself in the city? or engaged in business? or planning a nomination and
 election? or with your wife and family? 
Or with your mother and sisters? or in womanly housework? or the beautiful maternal cares?

—These also flow onward to others—you and I flow onward,
But in due time, you and I shall take less interest in them. 

Your farm, profits, crops,—to think how engross’d you are! 
To think there will still be farms, profits, crops—yet for you, of what avail? 

6
What will be, will be well—for what is, is well, 
To take interest is well, and not to take interest shall be well.

The sky continues beautiful, 
The pleasure of men with women shall never be sated, nor the pleasure of women with men,
 nor
 the pleasure from poems, 
The domestic joys, the daily housework or business, the building of houses—these are
 not
 phantasms—they have weight, form, location; 
Farms, profits, crops, markets, wages, government, are none of them phantasms, 
The difference between sin and goodness is no delusion,
The earth is not an echo—man and his life, and all the things of his life, are
 well-consider’d. 

You are not thrown to the winds—you gather certainly and safely around yourself; 
Yourself! Yourself! Yourself, forever and ever! 

7
It is not to diffuse you that you were born of your mother and father—it is to
 identify
 you; 
It is not that you should be undecided, but that you should be decided;
Something long preparing and formless is arrived and form’d in you, 
You are henceforth secure, whatever comes or goes. 

The threads that were spun are gather’d, the weft crosses the warp, the pattern is
 systematic. 

The preparations have every one been justified, 
The orchestra have sufficiently tuned their instruments—the baton has given the
 signal.

The guest that was coming—he waited long, for reasons—he is now housed, 
He is one of those who are beautiful and happy—he is one of those that to look upon
 and be
 with is enough. 

The law of the past cannot be eluded, 
The law of the present and future cannot be eluded, 
The law of the living cannot be eluded—it is eternal,
The law of promotion and transformation cannot be eluded, 
The law of heroes and good-doers cannot be eluded, 
The law of drunkards, informers, mean persons—not one iota thereof can be eluded. 

8
Slow moving and black lines go ceaselessly over the earth, 
Northerner goes carried, and Southerner goes carried, and they on the Atlantic side, and
 they
 on the Pacific, and they between, and all through the Mississippi country, and all over
 the
 earth.

The great masters and kosmos are well as they go—the heroes and good-doers are well, 
The known leaders and inventors, and the rich owners and pious and distinguish’d, may
 be
 well, 
But there is more account than that—there is strict account of all. 

The interminable hordes of the ignorant and wicked are not nothing, 
The barbarians of Africa and Asia are not nothing,
The common people of Europe are not nothing—the American aborigines are not nothing, 
The infected in the immigrant hospital are not nothing—the murderer or mean person is
 not
 nothing, 
The perpetual successions of shallow people are not nothing as they go, 
The lowest prostitute is not nothing—the mocker of religion is not nothing as he
 goes. 

9
Of and in all these things,
I have dream’d that we are not to be changed so much, nor the law of us changed, 
I have dream’d that heroes and good-doers shall be under the present and past law, 
And that murderers, drunkards, liars, shall be under the present and past law, 
For I have dream’d that the law they are under now is enough. 

If otherwise, all came but to ashes of dung,
If maggots and rats ended us, then Alarum! for we are betray’d! 
Then indeed suspicion of death. 

Do you suspect death? If I were to suspect death, I should die now, 
Do you think I could walk pleasantly and well-suited toward annihilation? 

10
Pleasantly and well-suited I walk,
Whither I walk I cannot define, but I know it is good, 
The whole universe indicates that it is good, 
The past and the present indicate that it is good. 

How beautiful and perfect are the animals! 
How perfect the earth, and the minutest thing upon it!

What is called good is perfect, and what is called bad is just as perfect, 
The vegetables and minerals are all perfect, and the imponderable fluids are perfect; 
Slowly and surely they have pass’d on to this, and slowly and surely they yet pass
 on. 

11
I swear I think now that everything without exception has an eternal Soul! 
The trees have, rooted in the ground! the weeds of the sea have! the animals!

I swear I think there is nothing but immortality! 
That the exquisite scheme is for it, and the nebulous float is for it, and the cohering is
 for
 it; 
And all preparation is for it! and identity is for it! and life and materials are
 altogether
 for it

 Oh the wife she tried to tell me that 'twas nothing but the thrumming
 Of a wood-pecker a-rapping on the hollow of a tree;
And she thought that I was fooling when I said it was the drumming
 Of the mustering of legions, and 'twas calling unto me;
 'Twas calling me to pull my freight and hop across the sea.

And a-mending of my fish-nets sure I started up in wonder,
 For I heard a savage roaring and 'twas coming from afar;
Oh the wife she tried to tell me that 'twas only summer thunder,
 And she laughed a bit sarcastic when I told her it was War;
 'Twas the chariots of battle where the mighty armies are.

Then down the lake came Half-breed Tom with russet sail a-flying,
 And the word he said was "War" again, so what was I to do?
Oh the dogs they took to howling, and the missis took to crying,
 As I flung my silver foxes in the little birch canoe:
 Yes, the old girl stood a-blubbing till an island hid the view.

Says the factor: "Mike, you're crazy! They have soldier men a-plenty.
 You're as grizzled as a badger, and you're sixty year or so."
"But I haven't missed a scrap," says I, "since I was one and twenty.
 And shall I miss the biggest? You can bet your whiskers -- no!"
 So I sold my furs and started . . . and that's eighteen months ago.

For I joined the Foreign Legion, and they put me for a starter
 In the trenches of the Argonne with the Boche a step away;
And the partner on my right hand was an apache from Montmartre;
 On my left there was a millionaire from Pittsburg, U. S. A.
 (Poor fellow! They collected him in bits the other day.)

But I'm sprier than a chipmunk, save a touch of the lumbago,
 And they calls me Old Methoosalah, and `blagues' me all the day.
I'm their exhibition sniper, and they work me like a Dago,
 And laugh to see me plug a Boche a half a mile away.
 Oh I hold the highest record in the regiment, they say.

And at night they gather round me, and I tell them of my roaming
 In the Country of the Crepuscule beside the Frozen Sea,
Where the musk-ox runs unchallenged, and the cariboo goes homing;
 And they sit like little children, just as quiet as can be:
 Men of every crime and colour, how they harken unto me!

And I tell them of the Furland, of the tumpline and the paddle,
 Of secret rivers loitering, that no one will explore;
And I tell them of the ranges, of the pack-strap and the saddle,
 And they fill their pipes in silence, and their eyes beseech for more;
 While above the star-shells fizzle and the high explosives roar.

And I tell of lakes fish-haunted, where the big bull moose are calling,
 And forests still as sepulchres with never trail or track;
And valleys packed with purple gloom, and mountain peaks appalling,
 And I tell them of my cabin on the shore at Fond du Lac;
 And I find myself a-thinking: Sure I wish that I was back.

So I brag of bear and beaver while the batteries are roaring,
 And the fellows on the firing steps are blazing at the foe;
And I yarn of fur and feather when the `marmites' are a-soaring,
 And they listen to my stories, seven `poilus' in a row,
 Seven lean and lousy poilus with their cigarettes aglow.

And I tell them when it's over how I'll hike for Athabaska;
 And those seven greasy poilus they are crazy to go too.
And I'll give the wife the "pickle-tub" I promised, and I'll ask her
 The price of mink and marten, and the run of cariboo,
 And I'll get my traps in order, and I'll start to work anew.

For I've had my fill of fighting, and I've seen a nation scattered,
 And an army swung to slaughter, and a river red with gore,
And a city all a-smoulder, and . . . as if it really mattered,
 For the lake is yonder dreaming, and my cabin's on the shore;
And the dogs are leaping madly, and the wife is singing gladly,
 And I'll rest in Athabaska, and I'll leave it nevermore.

 "Aye," said the boozer, "I tell you it's true, sir, 
I once was a punter with plenty of pelf, 
But gone is my glory, I'll tell you the story 
How I stiffened my horse and got stiffened myself. 
"'Twas a mare called the Cracker, I came down to back her, 
But found she was favourite all of a rush, 
The folk just did pour on to lay six to four on, 
And several bookies were killed in the crush. 

"It seems old Tomato was stiff, though a starter; 
They reckoned him fit for the Caulfield to keep. 
The Bloke and the Donah were scratched by their owner, 
He only was offered three-fourths of the sweep. 

"We knew Salamander was slow as a gander, 
The mare could have beat him the length of the straight, 
And old Manumission was out of condition, 
And most of the others were running off weight. 

"No doubt someone 'blew it', for everyone knew it, 
The bets were all gone, and I muttered in spite, 
'If I can't get a copper, by Jingo, I'll stop her, 
Let the public fall in, it will serve the brutes right.' 

"I said to the jockey, 'Now, listen, my cocky, 
You watch as you're cantering down by the stand, 
I'll wait where that toff is and give you the office, 
You're only to win if I lift up my hand.' 

"I then tried to back her -- 'What price is the Cracker?' 
'Our books are all full, sir,' each bookie did swear; 
My mind, then, I made up, my fortune I played up 
I bet every shilling against my own mare. 

"I strolled to the gateway, the mare, in the straight way 
Was shifting and dancing, and pawing the ground, 
The boy saw me enter and wheeled for his canter, 
When a darned great mosquito came buzzing around. 

"They breed 'em at Hexham, it's risky to vex 'em, 
They suck a man dry at a sitting, no doubt, 
But just as the mare passed, he fluttered my hair past, 
I lifted my hand, and I flattened him out. 

"I was stunned when they started, the mare simply darted 
Away to the front when the flag was let fall, 
For none there could match her, and none tried to catch her -- 
She finished a furlong in front of them all. 

"You bet that I went for the boy, whom I sent for 
The moment he weighed and came out of the stand -- 
"Who paid you to win it? Come, own up this minute." 
"Lord love yer," said he, "why, you lifted your hand." 

`'Twas true, by St Peter, that cursed 'muskeeter' 
Had broke me so broke that I hadn't a brown, 
And you'll find the best course is when dealing with horses 
To win when you're able, and keep your hands down."

 'Twixt the coastline and the border lay the town of Grog-an'-Grumble 
In the days before the bushman was a dull 'n' heartless drudge, 
An' they say the local meeting was a drunken rough-and-tumble, 
Which was ended pretty often by an inquest on the judge. 
An' 'tis said the city talent very often caught a tartar 
In the Grog-an'-Grumble sportsman, 'n' returned with broken heads, 
For the fortune, life, and safety of the Grog-an'-Grumble starter 
Mostly hung upon the finish of the local thoroughbreds. 

Pat M'Durmer was the owner of a horse they called the Screamer, 
Which he called "the quickest stepper 'twixt the Darling and the sea", 
And I think it's very doubtful if the stomach-troubled dreamer 
Ever saw a more outrageous piece of equine scenery; 
For his points were most decided, from his end to his beginning, 
He had eyes of different colour, and his legs they wasn't mates. 
Pat M'Durmer said he always came "widin a flip of winnin'", 
An' his sire had come from England, 'n' his dam was from the States. 

Friends would argue with M'Durmer, and they said he was in error 
To put up his horse the Screamer, for he'd lose in any case, 
And they said a city racer by the name of Holy Terror 
Was regarded as the winner of the coming steeplechase; 
But he said he had the knowledge to come in when it was raining, 
And irrevelantly mentioned that he knew the time of day, 
So he rose in their opinion. It was noticed that the training 
Of the Screamer was conducted in a dark, mysterious way. 

Well, the day arrived in glory; 'twas a day of jubilation 
With careless-hearted bushmen for a hundred miles around, 
An' the rum 'n' beer 'n' whisky came in waggons from the station, 
An' the Holy Terror talent were the first upon the ground. 
Judge M'Ard – with whose opinion it was scarcely safe to wrestle – 
Took his dangerous position on the bark-and-sapling stand: 
He was what the local Stiggins used to speak of as a "wessel 
Of wrath", and he'd a bludgeon that he carried in his hand. 

"Off ye go!" the starter shouted, as down fell a stupid jockey – 
Off they started in disorder – left the jockey where he lay – 
And they fell and rolled and galloped down the crooked course and rocky, 
Till the pumping of the Screamer could be heard a mile away. 
But he kept his legs and galloped; he was used to rugged courses, 
And he lumbered down the gully till the ridge began to quake: 
And he ploughed along the siding, raising earth till other horses 
An' their riders, too, were blinded by the dust-cloud in his wake. 

From the ruck he'd struggled slowly – they were much surprised to find him 
Close abeam of the Holy Terror as along the flat they tore – 
Even higher still and denser rose the cloud of dust behind him, 
While in more divided splinters flew the shattered rails before. 
"Terror!" "Dead heat!" they were shouting – "Terror!" but the Screamer hung out 
Nose to nose with Holy Terror as across the creek they swung, 
An' M'Durmer shouted loudly, "Put yer toungue out! put yer tongue out!" 
An ' the Screamer put his tongue out, and he won by half-a-tongue.