10 Best Famous Tenements Poems

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

• All Famous Tenements Poems

 The bells of waiting Advent ring,
The Tortoise stove is lit again
And lamp-oil light across the night
Has caught the streaks of winter rain
In many a stained-glass window sheen
From Crimson Lake to Hookers Green.

The holly in the windy hedge
And round the Manor House the yew
Will soon be stripped to deck the ledge,
The altar, font and arch and pew,
So that the villagers can say
'The church looks nice' on Christmas Day.

Provincial Public Houses blaze,
Corporation tramcars clang,
On lighted tenements I gaze,
Where paper decorations hang,
And bunting in the red Town Hall
Says 'Merry Christmas to you all'.

And London shops on Christmas Eve
Are strung with silver bells and flowers
As hurrying clerks the City leave
To pigeon-haunted classic towers,
And marbled clouds go scudding by
The many-steepled London sky.

And girls in slacks remember Dad,
And oafish louts remember Mum,
And sleepless children's hearts are glad.
And Christmas-morning bells say 'Come!'
Even to shining ones who dwell
Safe in the Dorchester Hotel.

And is it true,
This most tremendous tale of all,
Seen in a stained-glass window's hue,
A Baby in an ox's stall ?
The Maker of the stars and sea
Become a Child on earth for me ?

And is it true ? For if it is,
No loving fingers tying strings
Around those tissued fripperies,
The sweet and silly Christmas things,
Bath salts and inexpensive scent
And hideous tie so kindly meant,

No love that in a family dwells,
No carolling in frosty air,
Nor all the steeple-shaking bells
Can with this single Truth compare -
That God was man in Palestine
And lives today in Bread and Wine.

 They say you can jinx a poem
if you talk about it before it is done.
If you let it out too early, they warn,
your poem will fly away,
and this time they are absolutely right.

Take the night I mentioned to you
I wanted to write about the madmen,
as the newspapers so blithely call them,
who attack art, not in reviews,
but with breadknives and hammers
in the quiet museums of Prague and Amsterdam.

Actually, they are the real artists,
you said, spinning the ice in your glass.
The screwdriver is their brush.
The real vandals are the restorers,
you went on, slowly turning me upside-down,
the ones in the white doctor's smocks
who close the wound in the landscape,
and thus ruin the true art of the mad.

I watched my poem fly down to the front
of the bar and hover there
until the next customer walked in--
then I watched it fly out the open door into the night
and sail away, I could only imagine,
over the dark tenements of the city.

All I had wished to say
was that art was also short,
as a razor can teach with a slash or two,
that it only seems long compared to life,
but that night, I drove home alone
with nothing swinging in the cage of my heart
except the faint hope that I might
catch a glimpse of the thing
in the fan of my headlights,
maybe perched on a road sign or a street lamp,
poor unwritten bird, its wings folded,
staring down at me with tiny illuminated eyes.

Only teaching on Tuesdays, book-worming
in pajamas fresh from the washer each morning,
I hog a whole house on Boston's 
"hardly passionate Marlborough Street,"
where even the man
scavenging filth in the back alley trash cans,
has two children, a beach wagon, a helpmate,
and is "a young Republican."
I have a nine months' daughter,
young enough to be my granddaughter.
Like the sun she rises in her flame-flamingo infants' wear. 

These are the tranquilized Fifties,
and I am forty. Ought I to regret my seedtime?
I was a fire-breathing Catholic C.O.,
and made my manic statement,
telling off the state and president, and then
sat waiting sentence in the bull pen
beside a ***** boy with curlicues
of marijuana in his hair.

Given a year,
I walked on the roof of the West Street Jail, a short
enclosure like my school soccer court,
and saw the Hudson River once a day
through sooty clothesline entanglements
and bleaching khaki tenements.
Strolling, I yammered metaphysics with Abramowitz,
a jaundice-yellow ("it's really tan")
and fly-weight pacifist,
so vegetarian,
he wore rope shoes and preferred fallen fruit.
He tried to convert Bioff and Brown,
the Hollywood pimps, to his diet.
Hairy, muscular, suburban,
wearing chocolate double-breasted suits,
they blew their tops and beat him black and blue.

I was so out of things, I'd never heard
of the Jehovah's Witnesses.
"Are you a C.O.?" I asked a fellow jailbird.
"No," he answered, "I'm a J.W."
He taught me the "hospital tuck,"
and pointed out the T-shirted back
of Murder Incorporated's Czar Lepke,
there piling towels on a rack,
or dawdling off to his little segregated cell full
of things forbidden to the common man:
a portable radio, a dresser, two toy American
flags tied together with a ribbon of Easter palm.
Flabby, bald, lobotomized,
he drifted in a sheepish calm,
where no agonizing reappraisal
jarred his concentration on the electric chair
hanging like an oasis in his air
of lost connections. . . .

 What is unwisdom but the lusting after
Longevity: to be old and full of days!
For the vast and unremitting tide of years
Casts up to view more sorrowful things than joyful;
And as for pleasures, once beyond our prime,
They all drift out of reach, they are washed away.
And the same gaunt bailiff calls upon us all.
Summoning into Darkness, to those wards
Where is no music, dance, or marriage hymn
That soothes or gladdens. To the tenements of Death.

Not to be born is, past all yearning, best.
And second best is, having seen the light.
To return at once to deep oblivion.
When youth has gone, and the baseless dreams of youth,
What misery does not then jostle man's elbow,
Join him as a companion, share his bread?
Betrayal, envy, calumny and bloodshed
Move in on him, and finally Old Age--
Infirm, despised Old Age--joins in his ruin,
The crowning taunt of his indignities.

So is it with that man, not just with me.
He seems like a frail jetty facing North
Whose pilings the waves batter from all quarters;
From where the sun comes up, from where it sets,
From freezing boreal regions, from below,
A whole winter of miseries now assails him,
Thrashes his sides and breaks over his head.

 Because I was content with these poor fields, 
Low, open meads, slender and sluggish streams, 
And found a home in haunts which others scorned, 
The partial wood-gods overpaid my love, 
And granted me the freedom of their state, 
And in their secret senate have prevailed 
With the dear, dangerous lords that rule our life, 
Made moon and planets parties to their bond, 
And through my rock-like, solitary wont 
Shot million rays of thought and tenderness. 
For me, in showers, insweeping showers, the Spring 
Visits the valley;--break away the clouds,-- 
I bathe in the morn's soft and silvered air, 
And loiter willing by yon loitering stream. 
Sparrows far off, and nearer, April's bird, 
Blue-coated, flying before from tree to tree, 
Courageous sing a delicate overture 
To lead the tardy concert of the year. 
Onward and nearer rides the sun of May; 
And wide around, the marriage of the plants 
Is sweetly solemnized. Then flows amain 
The surge of summer's beauty; dell and crag, 
Hollow and lake, hillside and pine arcade, 
Are touched with genius. Yonder ragged cliff 
Has thousand faces in a thousand hours.

Beneath low hills, in the broad interval 
Through which at will our Indian rivulet 
Winds mindful still of sannup and of squaw, 
Whose pipe and arrow oft the plough unburies, 
Here in pine houses built of new-fallen trees, 
Supplanters of the tribe, the farmers dwell. 
Traveller, to thee, perchance, a tedious road, 
Or, it may be, a picture; to these men, 
The landscape is an armory of powers, 
Which, one by one, they know to draw and use. 
They harness beast, bird, insect, to their work; 
They prove the virtues of each bed of rock, 
And, like the chemist 'mid his loaded jars 
Draw from each stratum its adapted use 
To drug their crops or weapon their arts withal. 
They turn the frost upon their chemic heap, 
They set the wind to winnow pulse and grain, 
They thank the spring-flood for its fertile slime, 
And, on cheap summit-levels of the snow, 
Slide with the sledge to inaccessible woods 
O'er meadows bottomless. So, year by year, 
They fight the elements with elements 
(That one would say, meadow and forest walked. 
Transmuted in these men to rule their like), 
And by the order in the field disclose 
The order regnant in the yeoman's brain. 
What these strong masters wrote at large in miles, 
I followed in small copy in my acre; 
For there's no rood has not a star above it; 
The cordial quality of pear or plum 
Ascends as gladly in a single tree 
As in broad orchards resonant with bees; 
And every atom poises for itself, 
And for the whole. The gentle deities 
Showed me the lore of colors and of sounds, 
The innumerable tenements of beauty, 
The miracle of generative force, 
Far-reaching concords of astronomy 
Felt in the plants and in the punctual birds; 
Better, the linked purpose of the whole, 
And, chiefest prize, found I true liberty 
In the glad home plain-dealing Nature gave. 
The polite found me impolite; the great 
Would mortify me, but in vain; for still 
I am a willow of the wilderness, 
Loving the wind that bent me. All my hurts 
My garden spade can heal. A woodland walk, 
A quest of river-grapes, a mocking thrush, 
A wild-rose, or rock-loving columbine, 
Salve my worst wounds. 
For thus the wood-gods murmured in my ear: 
'Dost love our mannersi Canst thou silent lie? 
Canst thou, thy pride forgot, like Nature pass 
Into the winter night's extinguished mood? 
Canst thou shine now, then darkle, 
And being latent, feel thyself no less? 
As, when the all-worshipped moon attracts the eye, 
The river, hill, stems, foliage are obscure, 
Yet envies none, none are unenviable.'

 Because I was content with these poor fields,
Low open meads, slender and sluggish streams,
And found a home in haunts which others scorned,
The partial wood-gods overpaid my love,
And granted me the freedom of their state,
And in their secret senate have prevailed
With the dear dangerous lords that rule our life,
Made moon and planets parties to their bond,
And pitying through my solitary wont
Shot million rays of thought and tenderness.

For me in showers, in sweeping showers, the spring
Visits the valley:—break away the clouds,
I bathe in the morn's soft and silvered air,
And loiter willing by yon loitering stream.
Sparrows far off, and, nearer, yonder bird
Blue-coated, flying before, from tree to tree,
Courageous sing a delicate overture,
To lead the tardy concert of the year.
Onward, and nearer draws the sun of May,
And wide around the marriage of the plants
Is sweetly solemnized; then flows amain
The surge of summer's beauty; dell and crag,
Hollow and lake, hill-side, and pine arcade,
Are touched with genius. Yonder ragged cliff
Has thousand faces in a thousand hours.

Here friendly landlords, men ineloquent,
Inhabit, and subdue the spacious farms.
Traveller! to thee, perchance, a tedious road,
Or soon forgotten picture,— to these men
The landscape is an armory of powers,
Which, one by one, they know to draw and use.
They harness, beast, bird, insect, to their work;
They prove the virtues of each bed of rock,
And, like a chemist 'mid his loaded jars,
Draw from each stratum its adapted use,
To drug their crops, or weapon their arts withal. 
They turn the frost upon their chemic heap;
They set the wind to winnow vetch and grain;
They thank the spring-flood for its fertile slime;
And, on cheap summit-levels of the snow,
Slide with the sledge to inaccessible woods,
O'er meadows bottomless. So, year by year,
They fight the elements with elements,
(That one would say, meadow and forest walked
Upright in human shape to rule their like.)
And by the order in the field disclose,
The order regnant in the yeoman's brain.

What these strong masters wrote at large in miles,
I followed in small copy in my acre:
For there's no rood has not a star above it;
The cordial quality of pear or plum
Ascends as gladly in a single tree,
As in broad orchards resonant with bees;
And every atom poises for itself,
And for the whole. The gentle Mother of all
Showed me the lore of colors and of sounds;
The innumerable tenements of beauty;
The miracle of generative force;
Far-reaching concords of astronomy
Felt in the plants and in the punctual birds;
Mainly, the linked purpose of the whole;
And, chiefest prize, found I true liberty,
The home of homes plain-dealing Nature gave.

The polite found me impolite; the great
Would mortify me, but in vain:
I am a willow of the wilderness,
Loving the wind that bent me. All my hurts
My garden-spade can heal. A woodland walk,
A wild rose, or rock-loving columbine,
Salve my worst wounds, and leave no cicatrice.
For thus the wood-gods murmured in my ear,
Dost love our manners? Canst thou silent lie?
Canst thou, thy pride forgot, like nature pass
Into the winter night's extinguished mood?
Canst thou shine now, then darkle,
And being latent, feel thyself no less?
As when the all-worshipped moon attracts the eye,
The river, hill, stems, foliage, are obscure,
Yet envies none, none are unenviable.

 The tired cars go grumbling by, 
The moaning, groaning cars, 
And the old milk carts go rumbling by 
Under the same dull stars. 
Out of the tenements, cold as stone, 
Dark figures start for work; 
I watch them sadly shuffle on, 
'Tis dawn, dawn in New York. 

But I would be on the island of the sea, 
In the heart of the island of the sea, 
Where the cocks are crowing, crowing, crowing, 
And the hens are cackling in the rose-apple tree, 
Where the old draft-horse is neighing, neighing, neighing, 
Out on the brown dew-silvered lawn, 
And the tethered cow is lowing, lowing, lowing, 
And dear old Ned is braying, braying, braying, 
And the shaggy Nannie goat is calling, calling, calling 
From her little trampled corner of the long wide lea 
That stretches to the waters of the hill-stream falling 
Sheer upon the flat rocks joyously! 
There, oh, there! on the island of the sea, 
There would I be at dawn. 

The tired cars go grumbling by, 
The crazy, lazy cars, 
And the same milk carts go rumbling by 
Under the dying stars. 
A lonely newsboy hurries by, 
Humming a recent ditty; 
Red streaks strike through the gray of the sky, 
The dawn comes to the city. 

But I would be on the island of the sea, 
In the heart of the island of the sea, 
Where the cocks are crowing, crowing, crowing, 
And the hens are cackling in the rose-apple tree, 
Where the old draft-horse is neighing, neighing, neighing 
Out on the brown dew-silvered lawn, 
And the tethered cow is lowing, lowing, lowing, 
And dear old Ned is braying, braying, braying, 
And the shaggy Nannie goat is calling, calling, calling, 
From her little trampled corner of the long wide lea 
That stretches to the waters of the hill-stream falling 
Sheer upon the flat rocks joyously! 
There, oh, there! on the island of the sea, 
There I would be at dawn.

 CHANGE and chancefulness in my flowering youthtime,
Set me sun by sun near to one unchosen;
Wrought us fellowly, and despite divergence,
Friends interblent us.

"Cherish him can I while the true one forthcome--
Come the rich fulfiller of my prevision;
Life is roomy yet, and the odds unbounded."
So self-communed I.

Thwart my wistful way did a damsel saunter,
Fair not fairest, good not best of her feather;
"Maiden meet," held I, "till arise my forefelt
Wonder of women."

Long a visioned hermitage deep desiring,
Tenements uncouth I was fain to house in;
"Let such lodging be for a breath-while," thought I,
"Soon a more seemly.

"Then, high handiwork will I make my life-deed,
Truth and Light outshow; but the ripe time pending,
Intermissive aim at the thing sufficeth."
Thus I ... But lo, me!

Mistress, friend, place, aims to be bettered straightway,
Bettered not has Fate or my hand's achieving;
Sole the showance those of my onward earth-track--
Never transcended!

 Some we see no more, Tenements of Wonder
Occupy to us though perhaps to them
Simpler are the Days than the Supposition
Leave us to presume

That oblique Belief which we call Conjecture
Grapples with a Theme stubborn as Sublime
Able as the Dust to equip its feature
Adequate as Drums
To enlist the Tomb.

 Grimy men with picks and shovels
 Who in darkness sweat unseen,
Climb from out your lousy hovels,
 Build a palace for the Queen;
Praise the powers that be for giving
 You a chance to make a living.

Yet it would be better far
 Could you build with cosy lure
Skyey tenements where are
 Rabbit-warrens of the poor;
With a hope bright as a gem
 Some day you might live in them.

Could the Queen just say: 'A score
 Of rich palaces have I.
Do not make me any more,--
 Raise a hostel heaven-high;
House the hundreds who have need,
 To their misery give heed.'

Could she make this gesture fine
 To the pit where labour grovels,
Mother hearts would cease to pine,
 Weary men would wave their shovels.
All would cry with hope serene:
 'Little children, bless the Queen!'