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Best Famous Stork Poems

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

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Written by Alfred Lord Tennyson | Create an image from this poem

The Talking Oak

 Once more the gate behind me falls; 
Once more before my face 
I see the moulder'd Abbey-walls, 
That stand within the chace.
Beyond the lodge the city lies, Beneath its drift of smoke; And ah! with what delighted eyes I turn to yonder oak.
For when my passion first began, Ere that, which in me burn'd, The love, that makes me thrice a man, Could hope itself return'd; To yonder oak within the field I spoke without restraint, And with a larger faith appeal'd Than Papist unto Saint.
For oft I talk'd with him apart And told him of my choice, Until he plagiarized a heart, And answer'd with a voice.
Tho' what he whisper'd under Heaven None else could understand; I found him garrulously given, A babbler in the land.
But since I heard him make reply Is many a weary hour; 'Twere well to question him, and try If yet he keeps the power.
Hail, hidden to the knees in fern, Broad Oak of Sumner-chace, Whose topmost branches can discern The roofs of Sumner-place! Say thou, whereon I carved her name, If ever maid or spouse, As fair as my Olivia, came To rest beneath thy boughs.
--- "O Walter, I have shelter'd here Whatever maiden grace The good old Summers, year by year Made ripe in Sumner-chace: "Old Summers, when the monk was fat, And, issuing shorn and sleek, Would twist his girdle tight, and pat The girls upon the cheek, "Ere yet, in scorn of Peter's-pence, And number'd bead, and shrift, Bluff Harry broke into the spence And turn'd the cowls adrift: "And I have seen some score of those Fresh faces that would thrive When his man-minded offset rose To chase the deer at five; "And all that from the town would stroll, Till that wild wind made work In which the gloomy brewer's soul Went by me, like a stork: "The slight she-slips of royal blood, And others, passing praise, Straight-laced, but all-too-full in bud For puritanic stays: "And I have shadow'd many a group Of beauties, that were born In teacup-times of hood and hoop, Or while the patch was worn; "And, leg and arm with love-knots gay About me leap'd and laugh'd The modish Cupid of the day, And shrill'd his tinsel shaft.
"I swear (and else may insects prick Each leaf into a gall) This girl, for whom your heart is sick, Is three times worth them all.
"For those and theirs, by Nature's law, Have faded long ago; But in these latter springs I saw Your own Olivia blow, "From when she gamboll'd on the greens A baby-germ, to when The maiden blossoms of her teens Could number five from ten.
"I swear, by leaf, and wind, and rain, (And hear me with thine ears,) That, tho' I circle in the grain Five hundred rings of years--- "Yet, since I first could cast a shade, Did never creature pass So slightly, musically made, So light upon the grass: "For as to fairies, that will flit To make the greensward fresh, I hold them exquisitely knit, But far too spare of flesh.
" Oh, hide thy knotted knees in fern, And overlook the chace; And from thy topmost branch discern The roofs of Sumner-place.
But thou, whereon I carved her name, That oft hast heard my vows, Declare when last Olivia came To sport beneath thy boughs.
"O yesterday, you know, the fair Was holden at the town; Her father left his good arm-chair, And rode his hunter down.
"And with him Albert came on his.
I look'd at him with joy: As cowslip unto oxlip is, So seems she to the boy.
"An hour had past---and, sitting straight Within the low-wheel'd chaise, Her mother trundled to the gate Behind the dappled grays.
"But as for her, she stay'd at home, And on the roof she went, And down the way you use to come, She look'd with discontent.
"She left the novel half-uncut Upon the rosewood shelf; She left the new piano shut: She could not please herseif "Then ran she, gamesome as the colt, And livelier than a lark She sent her voice thro' all the holt Before her, and the park.
"A light wind chased her on the wing, And in the chase grew wild, As close as might be would he cling About the darling child: "But light as any wind that blows So fleetly did she stir, The flower, she touch'd on, dipt and rose, And turn'd to look at her.
"And here she came, and round me play'd, And sang to me the whole Of those three stanzas that you made About my Ôgiant bole;' "And in a fit of frolic mirth She strove to span my waist: Alas, I was so broad of girth, I could not be embraced.
"I wish'd myself the fair young beech That here beside me stands, That round me, clasping each in each, She might have lock'd her hands.
"Yet seem'd the pressure thrice as sweet As woodbine's fragile hold, Or when I feel about my feet The berried briony fold.
" O muffle round thy knees with fern, And shadow Sumner-chace! Long may thy topmost branch discern The roofs of Sumner-place! But tell me, did she read the name I carved with many vows When last with throbbing heart I came To rest beneath thy boughs? "O yes, she wander'd round and round These knotted knees of mine, And found, and kiss'd the name she found, And sweetly murmur'd thine.
"A teardrop trembled from its source, And down my surface crept.
My sense of touch is something coarse, But I believe she wept.
"Then flush'd her cheek with rosy light, She glanced across the plain; But not a creature was in sight: She kiss'd me once again.
"Her kisses were so close and kind, That, trust me on my word, Hard wood I am, and wrinkled rind, But yet my sap was stirr'd: "And even into my inmost ring A pleasure I discern'd, Like those blind motions of the Spring, That show the year is turn'd.
"Thrice-happy he that may caress The ringlet's waving balm--- The cushions of whose touch may press The maiden's tender palm.
"I, rooted here among the groves But languidly adjust My vapid vegetable loves With anthers and with dust: "For ah! my friend, the days were brief Whereof the poets talk, When that, which breathes within the leaf, Could slip its bark and walk.
"But could I, as in times foregone, From spray, and branch, and stem, Have suck'd and gather'd into one The life that spreads in them, "She had not found me so remiss; But lightly issuing thro', I would have paid her kiss for kiss, With usury thereto.
" O flourish high, with leafy towers, And overlook the lea, Pursue thy loves among the bowers But leave thou mine to me.
O flourish, hidden deep in fern, Old oak, I love thee well; A thousand thanks for what I learn And what remains to tell.
" ÔTis little more: the day was warm; At last, tired out with play, She sank her head upon her arm And at my feet she lay.
"Her eyelids dropp'd their silken eaves I breathed upon her eyes Thro' all the summer of my leaves A welcome mix'd with sighs.
"I took the swarming sound of life--- The music from the town--- The murmurs of the drum and fife And lull'd them in my own.
"Sometimes I let a sunbeam slip, To light her shaded eye; A second flutter'd round her lip Like a golden butterfly; "A third would glimmer on her neck To make the necklace shine; Another slid, a sunny fleck, From head to ankle fine, "Then close and dark my arms I spread, And shadow'd all her rest--- Dropt dews upon her golden head, An acorn in her breast.
"But in a pet she started up, And pluck'd it out, and drew My little oakling from the cup, And flung him in the dew.
"And yet it was a graceful gift--- I felt a pang within As when I see the woodman lift His axe to slay my kin.
"I shook him down because he was The finest on the tree.
He lies beside thee on the grass.
O kiss him once for me.
"O kiss him twice and thrice for me, That have no lips to kiss, For never yet was oak on lea Shall grow so fair as this.
' Step deeper yet in herb and fern, Look further thro' the chace, Spread upward till thy boughs discern The front of Sumner-place.
This fruit of thine by Love is blest, That but a moment lay Where fairer fruit of Love may rest Some happy future day.
I kiss it twice, I kiss it thrice, The warmth it thence shall win To riper life may magnetise The baby-oak within.
But thou, while kingdoms overset, Or lapse from hand to hand, Thy leaf shall never fail, nor yet Thine acorn in the land.
May never saw dismember thee, Nor wielded axe disjoint, That art the fairest-spoken tree From here to Lizard-point.
O rock upon thy towery-top All throats that gurgle sweet! All starry culmination drop Balm-dews to bathe thy feet! All grass of silky feather grow--- And while he sinks or swells The full south-breeze around thee blow The sound of minster bells.
The fat earth feed thy branchy root, That under deeply strikes! The northern morning o'er thee shoot, High up, in silver spikes! Nor ever lightning char thy grain, But, rolling as in sleep, Low thunders bring the mellow rain, That makes thee broad and deep! And hear me swear a solemn oath, That only by thy side Will I to Olive plight my troth, And gain her for my bride.
And when my marriage morn may fall, She, Dryad-like, shall wear Alternate leaf and acorn-ball In wreath about her hair.
And I will work in prose and rhyme, And praise thee more in both Than bard has honour'd beech or lime, Or that Thessalian growth, In which the swarthy ringdove sat, And mystic sentence spoke; And more than England honours that, Thy famous brother-oak, Wherein the younger Charles abode Till all the paths were dim, And far below the Roundhead rode, And humm'd a surly hymn.


Written by Robert Desnos | Create an image from this poem

If You Only Knew

 Far from me and like the stars, the sea and all the trappings of poetic myth,
Far from me but here all the same without your knowing,
Far from me and even more silent because I imagine you endlessly.
Far from me, my lovely mirage and eternal dream, you cannot know.
If you only knew.
Far from me and even farther yet from being unaware of me and still unaware.
Far from me because you undoubtedly do not love me or, what amounts to the same thing, that I doubt you do.
Far from me because you consciously ignore my passionate desires.
Far from me because you are cruel.
If you only knew.
Far from me, joyful as a flower dancing in the river at the tip of its aquatic stem, sad as seven p.
m.
in a mushroom bed.
Far from me yet silent in my presence and still joyful like a stork-shaped hour falling from on high.
Far from me at the moment when the stills are singing, at the moment when the silent and loud sea curls up on its white pillows.
If you only knew.
Far from me, o my ever-present torment, far from me in the magnificent noise of oyster shells crushed by a night owl passing a restaurant at first light.
If you only knew.
Far from me, willed, physical mirage.
Far from me there's an island that turns aside when ships pass.
Far from me a calm herd of cattle takes the wrong path, pulls up stubbornly at the edge of a steep cliff, far from me, cruel woman.
Far from me, a shooting star falls into the poet's nightly bottle.
He corks it right away and from then on watches the star enclosed in the glass, the constellations born on its walls, far from me, you are so far from me.
If you only knew.
Far from me a house has just been built.
A bricklayer in white coveralls at the top of the scaffolding sings a very sad little song and, suddenly, in the tray full of mortar, the future of the house appears: lovers' kisses and double suicides nakedness in the bedrooms strange beautiful women and their midnight dreams, voluptuous secrets caught in the act by the parquet floors.
Far from me, If you only knew.
If you only knew how I love you and, though you do not love me, how happy I am, how strong and proud I am, with your image in my mind, to leave the universe.
How happy I am to die for it.
If you only knew how the world has yielded to me.
And you, beautiful unyielding woman, how you too are my prisoner.
O you, far-from-me, who I yield to.
If you only knew.
Written by Ella Wheeler Wilcox | Create an image from this poem

Poverty And Wealth

 The stork flew over a town one day, 
And back of each wing an infant lay; 
One to a rich man’s home he brought, 
And one he left at a labourer’s cot.
The rich man said, ‘My son shall be A lordly ruler o’er land and sea.
’ The labourer sighed, ‘’Tis the good God’s will That I have another mouth to fill.
’ The rich man’s son grew strong and fair, And proud with the pride of a millionaire.
His motto in life was, ‘Live while you may, ’ And he crowded years in a single day.
He bought position and name and place, And he bought him a wife with a handsome face.
He journeyed over the whole wide world, But discontent his heart lay curled Like a serpent hidden in leaves and moss, And life seemed hollow and gold was dross.
He scoffed at woman, and doubted God, And died like a beast and went back to the sod.
The son of the labourer tilled the soil, And thanked God daily for health and toil.
He wedded for love in his youthful prime, And two lives chorded in tune and time.
His wants were simple, and simple his creed, To trust God fully: it served his need, And lightened his labour, and helped him to die With a smile on his lips and a hope in his eye.
When all is over and all is done, Now which of these men was the richer one?
Written by Anna Akhmatova | Create an image from this poem

I Taught Myself To Live Simply

 I taught myself to live simply and wisely,
to look at the sky and pray to God,
and to wander long before evening
to tire my superfluous worries.
When the burdocks rustle in the ravine and the yellow-red rowanberry cluster droops I compose happy verses about life's decay, decay and beauty.
I come back.
The fluffy cat licks my palm, purrs so sweetly and the fire flares bright on the saw-mill turret by the lake.
Only the cry of a stork landing on the roof occasionally breaks the silence.
If you knock on my door I may not even hear.
Written by Victor Hugo | Create an image from this poem

EXPECTATION

 ("Moune, écureuil.") 
 
 {xx.} 


 Squirrel, mount yon oak so high, 
 To its twig that next the sky 
 Bends and trembles as a flower! 
 Strain, O stork, thy pinion well,— 
 From thy nest 'neath old church-bell, 
 Mount to yon tall citadel, 
 And its tallest donjon tower! 
 To your mountain, eagle old, 
 Mount, whose brow so white and cold, 
 Kisses the last ray of even! 
 And, O thou that lov'st to mark 
 Morn's first sunbeam pierce the dark, 
 Mount, O mount, thou joyous lark— 
 Joyous lark, O mount to heaven! 
 And now say, from topmost bough, 
 Towering shaft, and peak of snow, 
 And heaven's arch—O, can you see 
 One white plume that like a star, 
 Streams along the plain afar, 
 And a steed that from the war 
 Bears my lover back to me? 
 
 JOHN L. O'SULLIVAN. 


 




Written by Victor Hugo | Create an image from this poem

THE TURKISH CAPTIVE

 ("Si je n'était captive.") 
 
 {IX., July, 1828.} 


 Oh! were I not a captive, 
 I should love this fair countree; 
 Those fields with maize abounding, 
 This ever-plaintive sea: 
 I'd love those stars unnumbered, 
 If, passing in the shade, 
 Beneath our walls I saw not 
 The spahi's sparkling blade. 
 
 I am no Tartar maiden 
 That a blackamoor of price 
 Should tune my lute and hold to me 
 My glass of sherbet-ice. 
 Far from these haunts of vices, 
 In my dear countree, we 
 With sweethearts in the even 
 May chat and wander free. 
 
 But still I love this climate, 
 Where never wintry breeze 
 Invades, with chilly murmur, 
 These open lattices; 
 Where rain is warm in summer, 
 And the insect glossy green, 
 Most like a living emerald, 
 Shines 'mid the leafy screen. 
 
 With her chapelles fair Smyrna— 
 A gay princess is she! 
 Still, at her summons, round her 
 Unfading spring ye see. 
 And, as in beauteous vases, 
 Bright groups of flowers repose, 
 So, in her gulfs are lying 
 Her archipelagoes. 
 
 I love these tall red turrets; 
 These standards brave unrolled; 
 And, like an infant's playthings, 
 These houses decked with gold. 
 I love forsooth these reveries, 
 Though sandstorms make me pant, 
 Voluptuously swaying 
 Upon an elephant. 
 
 Here in this fairy palace, 
 Full of such melodies, 
 Methinks I hear deep murmurs 
 That in the deserts rise; 
 Soft mingling with the music 
 The Genii's voices pour, 
 Amid the air, unceasing, 
 Around us evermore. 
 
 I love the burning odors 
 This glowing region gives; 
 And, round each gilded lattice, 
 The trembling, wreathing leaves; 
 And, 'neath the bending palm-tree, 
 The gayly gushing spring; 
 And on the snow-white minaret, 
 The stork with snowier wing. 
 
 I love on mossy couch to sing 
 A Spanish roundelay, 
 And see my sweet companions 
 Around commingling gay,— 
 A roving band, light-hearted, 
 In frolicsome array,— 
 Who 'neath the screening parasols 
 Dance down the merry day. 
 But more than all enchanting 
 At night, it is to me, 
 To sit, where winds are sighing, 
 Lone, musing by the sea; 
 And, on its surface gazing, 
 To mark the moon so fair, 
 Her silver fan outspreading, 
 In trembling radiance there. 
 
 W.D., Tait's Edin. Magazine 


 




Written by Robert Browning | Create an image from this poem

Thus the Mayne glideth

 THUS the Mayne glideth 
Where my Love abideth; 
Sleep 's no softer: it proceeds 
On through lawns, on through meads, 
On and on, whate'er befall, 
Meandering and musical, 
Though the niggard pasturage 
Bears not on its shaven ledge 
Aught but weeds and waving grasses 
To view the river as it passes, 
Save here and there a scanty patch 
Of primroses too faint to catch 
A weary bee.
.
.
.
And scarce it pushes Its gentle way through strangling rushes Where the glossy kingfisher Flutters when noon-heats are near, Glad the shelving banks to shun, Red and steaming in the sun, Where the shrew-mouse with pale throat Burrows, and the speckled stoat; Where the quick sandpipers flit In and out the marl and grit That seems to breed them, brown as they: Naught disturbs its quiet way, Save some lazy stork that springs, Trailing it with legs and wings, Whom the shy fox from the hill Rouses, creep he ne'er so still.


Written by Eugene Field | Create an image from this poem

The stork

 Last night the Stork came stalking,
And, Stork, beneath your wing
Lay, lapped in dreamless slumber,
The tiniest little thing!
From Babyland, out yonder
Beside a silver sea,
You brought a priceless treasure
As gift to mine and me!

Last night my dear one listened -
And, wife, you knew the cry -
The dear old Stork has sought our home
A many times gone by!
And in your gentle bosom
I found the pretty thing
That from the realm out yonder
Our friend the Stork did bring.
Last night a babe awakened, And, babe, how strange and new Must seem the home and people The Stork has brought you to; And yet methinks you like them - You neither stare nor weep, But closer to my dear one You cuddle, and you sleep! Last night my heart grew fonder - 0 happy heart of mine, Sing of the inspirations That round my pathway shine! And sing your sweetest love-song To this dear nestling wee The Stork from 'Way-Out-Yonder Hath brought to mine and me!
Written by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | Create an image from this poem

THE STORKS VOCATION

 THE stork who worms and frogs devours

That in our ponds reside,
Why should he dwell on high church-towers,

With which he's not allied?

Incessantly he chatters there,

And gives our ears no rest;
But neither old nor young can dare

To drive him from his nest.
I humbly ask it,--how can he Give of his title proof, Save by his happy tendency To soil the church's roof?