Get Your Premium Membership

Best Famous Tantalized Poems

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

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

See Also:
Written by Edgar Allan Poe | Create an image from this poem

For Annie

 Thank Heaven! the crisis- 
The danger is past, 
And the lingering illness 
Is over at last- 
And the fever called "Living" 
Is conquered at last.
Sadly, I know I am shorn of my strength, And no muscle I move As I lie at full length- But no matter!-I feel I am better at length.
And I rest so composedly, Now, in my bed That any beholder Might fancy me dead- Might start at beholding me, Thinking me dead.
The moaning and groaning, The sighing and sobbing, Are quieted now, With that horrible throbbing At heart:- ah, that horrible, Horrible throbbing! The sickness- the nausea- The pitiless pain- Have ceased, with the fever That maddened my brain- With the fever called "Living" That burned in my brain.
And oh! of all tortures That torture the worst Has abated- the terrible Torture of thirst For the naphthaline river Of Passion accurst:- I have drunk of a water That quenches all thirst:- Of a water that flows, With a lullaby sound, From a spring but a very few Feet under ground- From a cavern not very far Down under ground.
And ah! let it never Be foolishly said That my room it is gloomy And narrow my bed; For man never slept In a different bed- And, to sleep, you must slumber In just such a bed.
My tantalized spirit Here blandly reposes, Forgetting, or never Regretting its roses- Its old agitations Of myrtles and roses: For now, while so quietly Lying, it fancies A holier odor About it, of pansies- A rosemary odor, Commingled with pansies- With rue and the beautiful Puritan pansies.
And so it lies happily, Bathing in many A dream of the truth And the beauty of Annie- Drowned in a bath Of the tresses of Annie.
She tenderly kissed me, She fondly caressed, And then I fell gently To sleep on her breast- Deeply to sleep From the heaven of her breast.
When the light was extinguished, She covered me warm, And she prayed to the angels To keep me from harm- To the queen of the angels To shield me from harm.
And I lie so composedly, Now, in my bed, (Knowing her love) That you fancy me dead- And I rest so contentedly, Now, in my bed, (With her love at my breast) That you fancy me dead- That you shudder to look at me, Thinking me dead.
But my heart it is brighter Than all of the many Stars in the sky, For it sparkles with Annie- It glows with the light Of the love of my Annie- With the thought of the light Of the eyes of my Annie.


Written by Robert Browning | Create an image from this poem

Two In The Campagna

 I wonder how you feel to-day
As I have felt since, hand in hand,
We sat down on the grass, to stray
In spirit better through the land,
This morn of Rome and May?

For me, I touched a thought, I know,
Has tantalized me many times,
(Like turns of thread the spiders throw
Mocking across our path) for rhymes
To catch at and let go.
Help me to hold it! First it left The yellow fennel, run to seed There, branching from the brickwork's cleft, Some old tomb's ruin: yonder weed Took up the floating weft, Where one small orange cup amassed Five beetles,—blind and green they grope Among the honey meal: and last, Everywhere on the grassy slope O traced it.
Hold it fast! The champaign with its endless fleece Of feathery grasses everywhere! Silence and passion, joy and peace, An everlasting wash of air— Rome's ghost since her decease.
Such life here, through such lengths of hours, Such miracles performed in play, Such primal naked forms of flowers, Such letting nature have her way While heaven looks from its towers! How say you? Let us, O my dove, Let us be unashamed of soul, As earth lies bare to heaven above! How is it under our control To love or not to love? I would that you were all to me, You that are just so much, no more.
Nor yours nor mine, nor slave nor free! Where does the fault lie? What the core O' the wound, since wound must be? I would I could adopt your will, See with your eyes, and set my heart Beating by yours, and drink my fill At your soul's springs,— your part my part In life, for good and ill.
No.
I yearn upward, touch you close, Then stand away.
I kiss your cheek, Catch your soul's warmth,— I pluck the rose And love it more than tongue can speak— Then the good minute goes.
Already how am I so far Our of that minute? Must I go Still like the thistle-ball, no bar, Onward, whenever light winds blow, Fixed by no friendly star? Just when I seemed about to learn! Where is the thread now? Off again! The Old trick! Only I discern— Infinite passion, and the pain Of finite hearts that yearn.

Book: Shattered Sighs