10 Best Famous Terza Poems

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

• All Famous Terza Poems

O WILD West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being¡ª 
Thou from whose unseen presence the leaves dead 
Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing, 
Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red, 
Pestilence-stricken multitudes!¡ªO thou 5 
Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed 
The wing¨¨d seeds, where they lie cold and low, 
Each like a corpse within its grave, until 
Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow 
Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill 10 
(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air) 
With living hues and odours plain and hill¡ª 
Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere¡ª 
Destroyer and Preserver¡ªhear, O hear! 

Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's commotion, 15 
Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed, 
Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven and Ocean, 
Angels of rain and lightning! they are spread 
On the blue surface of thine airy surge, 
Like the bright hair uplifted from the head 20 
Of some fierce M?nad, ev'n from the dim verge 
Of the horizon to the zenith's height¡ª 
The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge 
Of the dying year, to which this closing night 
Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre, 25 
Vaulted with all thy congregated might 
Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere 
Black rain, and fire, and hail will burst:¡ªO hear! 

Thou who didst waken from his summer-dreams 
The blue Mediterranean, where he lay, 30 
Lull'd by the coil of his crystalline streams, 
Beside a pumice isle in Bai?'s bay, 
And saw in sleep old palaces and towers 
Quivering within the wave's intenser day, 
All overgrown with azure moss, and flowers 35 
So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou 
For whose path the Atlantic's level powers 
Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below 
The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear 
The sapless foliage of the ocean, know 40 
Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear 
And tremble and despoil themselves:¡ªO hear! 

If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear; 
If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee; 
A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share 45 
The impulse of thy strength, only less free 
Than thou, O uncontrollable!¡ªif even 
I were as in my boyhood, and could be 
The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven, 
As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed 50 
Scarce seem'd a vision,¡ªI would ne'er have striven 
As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need. 
O lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud! 
I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed! 
A heavy weight of hours has chain'd and bow'd 55 
One too like thee¡ªtameless, and swift, and proud. 

Make me thy lyre, ev'n as the forest is: 
What if my leaves are falling like its own! 
The tumult of thy mighty harmonies 
Will take from both a deep autumnal tone, 60 
Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce, 
My spirit! be thou me, impetuous one! 
Drive my dead thoughts over the universe, 
Like wither'd leaves, to quicken a new birth; 
And, by the incantation of this verse, 65 
Scatter, as from an unextinguish'd hearth 
Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind! 
Be through my lips to unawaken'd earth 
The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind, 
If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind? 70 

 I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain --and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.

I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.

I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over houses from another street,

But not to call me back or say good-bye;
And further still at an unearthly height
One luminary clock against the sky

Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
I have been one acquainted with the night.

 In a solitude of the sea
Deep from human vanity,
And the Pride of Life that planned her, stilly couches she.

Steel chambers, late the pyres
Of her salamandrine fires,
Cold currents thrid, and turn to rhythmic tidal lyres.

Over the mirrors meant
To glass the opulent
The sea-worm crawls -- grotesque, slimed, dumb, indifferent.

Jewels in joy designed
To ravish the sensuous mind
Lie lightless, all their sparkles bleared and black and blind.

Dim moon-eyed fishes near
Gaze at the gilded gear
And query: "What does this vaingloriousness down here?" ...

Well: while was fashioning
This creature of cleaving wing,
The Immanent Will that stirs and urges everything

Prepared a sinister mate
For her -- so gaily great --
A Shape of Ice, for the time far and dissociate.

And as the smart ship grew
In stature, grace, and hue,
In shadowy silent distance grew the Iceberg too.

Alien they seemed to be;
No mortal eye could see
The intimate welding of their later history,

Or sign that they were bent
By paths coincident 
On being anon twin halves of one august event,

Till the Spinner of the Years
Said "Now!" And each one hears,
And consummation comes, and jars two hemispheres.

[Pg 322]
 
PETRARCH'S TRIUMPHS.

 Before thy shrine I kneel, an unknown worshipper,
Chanting strange hymns to thee and sorrowful litanies,
Incense of dirges, prayers that are as holy myrrh.

Ah, goddess, on thy throne of tears and faint low sighs,
Weary at last to theeward come the feet that err,
And empty hearts grown tired of the world's vanities.

How fair this cool deep silence to a wanderer
Deaf with the roar of winds along the open skies!
Sweet, after sting and bitter kiss of sea-water,

The pale Lethean wine within thy chalices!
I come before thee, I, too tired wanderer,
To heed the horror of the shrine, the distant cries,

And evil whispers in the gloom, or the swift whirr
Of terrible wings -- I, least of all thy votaries,
With a faint hope to see the scented darkness stir,

And, parting, frame within its quiet mysteries
One face, with lips than autumn-lilies tenderer,
And voice more sweet than the far plaint of viols is,

Or the soft moan of any grey-eyed lute-player.

 Florence, rejoice! For thou o'er land and sea 
So spread'st thy pinions that the fame of thee 
Hath reached no less into the depths of Hell. 
So noble were the five I found to dwell 
Therein -- thy sons -- whence shame accrues to me 
And no great praise is thine; but if it be 
That truth unveil in dreamings before dawn, 
Then is the vengeful hour not far withdrawn 
When Prato shall exult within her walls 
To see thy suffering. Whate'er befalls, 
Let it come soon, since come it must, for later, 
Each year would see my grief for thee the greater. 


We left; and once more up the craggy side 
By the blind steps of our descent, my guide, 
Remounting, drew me on. So we pursued 
The rugged path through that steep solitude, 
Where rocks and splintered fragments strewed the land 
So thick, that foot availed not without hand. 
Grief filled me then, and still great sorrow stirs 
My heart as oft as memory recurs 
To what I saw; that more and more I rein 
My natural powers, and curb them lest they strain 
Where Virtue guide not, -- that if some good star, 
Or better thing, have made them what they are, 
That good I may not grudge, nor turn to ill. 


As when, reclining on some verdant hill -- 
What season the hot sun least veils his power 
That lightens all, and in that gloaming hour 
The fly resigns to the shrill gnat -- even then, 
As rustic, looking down, sees, o'er the glen, 
Vineyard, or tilth where lies his husbandry, 
Fireflies innumerable sparkle: so to me, 
Come where its mighty depth unfolded, straight 
With flames no fewer seemed to scintillate 
The shades of the eighth pit. And as to him 
Whose wrongs the bears avenged, dim and more dim 
Elijah's chariot seemed, when to the skies 
Uprose the heavenly steeds; and still his eyes 
Strained, following them, till naught remained in view 
But flame, like a thin cloud against the blue: 
So here, the melancholy gulf within, 
Wandered these flames, concealing each its sin, 
Yet each, a fiery integument, 
Wrapped round a sinner. 


On the bridge intent, 
Gazing I stood, and grasped its flinty side, 
Or else, unpushed, had fallen. And my guide, 
Observing me so moved, spake, saying: "Behold 
Where swathed each in his unconsuming fold, 
The spirits lie confined." Whom answering, 
"Master," I said, "thy words assurance bring 
To that which I already had supposed; 
And I was fain to ask who lies enclosed 
In the embrace of that dividing fire, 
Which seems to curl above the fabled pyre, 
Where with his twin-born brother, fiercely hated, 
Eteocles was laid." He answered, "Mated 
In punishment as once in wrath they were, 
Ulysses there and Diomed incur 
The eternal pains; there groaning they deplore 
The ambush of the horse, which made the door 
For Rome's imperial seed to issue: there 
In anguish too they wail the fatal snare 
Whence dead Deidamia still must grieve, 
Reft of Achilles; likewise they receive 
Due penalty for the Palladium." 
"Master," I said, "if in that martyrdom 
The power of human speech may still be theirs, 
I pray -- and think it worth a thousand prayers -- 
That, till this horned flame be come more nigh, 
We may abide here; for thou seest that I 
With great desire incline to it." And he: 
"Thy prayer deserves great praise; which willingly 
I grant; but thou refrain from speaking; leave 
That task to me; for fully I conceive 
What thing thou wouldst, and it might fall perchance 
That these, being Greeks, would scorn thine utterance." 


So when the flame had come where time and place 
Seemed not unfitting to my guide with grace 
To question, thus he spoke at my desire: 
"O ye that are two souls within one fire, 
If in your eyes some merit I have won -- 
Merit, or more or less -- for tribute done 
When in the world I framed my lofty verse: 
Move not; but fain were we that one rehearse 
By what strange fortunes to his death he came." 
The elder crescent of the antique flame 
Began to wave, as in the upper air 
A flame is tempest-tortured, here and there 
Tossing its angry height, and in its sound 
As human speech it suddenly had found, 
Rolled forth a voice of thunder, saying: "When, 
The twelvemonth past in Circe's halls, again 
I left Gaeta's strand (ere thither came 
Aeneas, and had given it that name) 
Not love of son, nor filial reverence, 
Nor that affection that might recompense 
The weary vigil of Penelope, 
Could so far quench the hot desire in me 
To prove more wonders of the teeming earth, -- 
Of human frailty and of manly worth. 
In one small bark, and with the faithful band 
That all awards had shared of Fortune's hand, 
I launched once more upon the open main. 
Both shores I visited as far as Spain, -- 
Sardinia, and Morocco, and what more 
The midland sea upon its bosom wore. 
The hour of our lives was growing late 
When we arrived before that narrow strait 
Where Hercules had set his bounds to show 
That there Man's foot shall pause, and further none shall go. 
Borne with the gale past Seville on the right, 
And on the left now swept by Ceuta's site, 
`Brothers,' I cried, `that into the far West 
Through perils numberless are now addressed, 
In this brief respite that our mortal sense 
Yet hath, shrink not from new experience; 
But sailing still against the setting sun, 
Seek we new worlds where Man has never won 
Before us. Ponder your proud destinies: 
Born were ye not like brutes for swinish ease, 
But virtue and high knowledge to pursue.' 
My comrades with such zeal did I imbue 
By these brief words, that scarcely could I then 
Have turned them from their purpose; so again 
We set out poop against the morning sky, 
And made our oars as wings wherewith to fly 
Into the Unknown. And ever from the right 
Our course deflecting, in the balmy night 
All southern stars we saw, and ours so low, 
That scarce above the sea-marge it might show. 
So five revolving periods the soft, 
Pale light had robbed of Cynthia, and as oft 
Replenished since our start, when far and dim 
Over the misty ocean's utmost rim, 
Rose a great mountain, that for very height 
Passed any I had seen. Boundless delight 
Filled us -- alas, and quickly turned to dole: 
For, springing from our scarce-discovered goal, 
A whirlwind struck the ship; in circles three 
It whirled us helpless in the eddying sea; 
High on the fourth the fragile stern uprose, 
The bow drove down, and, as Another chose, 
Over our heads we heard the surging billows close."

 Tout le ciel vert se meurt
Le dernier arbre brûle.

The whole green sky is dying. The last tree flares
With a great burst of supernatural rose
Under a canopy of poisonous airs.

Could we imagine our return to prayers
To end in time before time's final throes,
The green sky dying as the last tree flares?

But we were young in judgment, gray in hairs
Who could make peace; but it was war we chose,
To spread its canopy of poisoning airs.

Not all our children's pleas and women's stares
Could steer us from this Hell. And now God knows
His whole green sky is dying as it flares.

Our crops of wheat have turned to fields of tares.
This dreadful century staggers to its close
And the sky dies for us, its poisoned heirs.

All rain was dust. Its granules were our cares.
Throats burst as everywhere winter arose
To dye the dead sky green. The last tree bears
Within its canopy ripe poisoned pears.

 (I)
if you can’t scientifically explain it
dawkins says it has no value – some hope
inside the mechanical framework of a guess
(as far as any fact can truly grope)
doubts roam – mere looking can’t attain it

twentieth-century science perceived that mess
the more you probed the inner – more the scope
for chaos (uncertainty) – no mind could drain it
tie it to a marriage it must elope
clarity of thinking must make worse the stress

the artist looks at truth and has to feign it
stirs mud makes shapes (gives up) disturbs old rope
what’s not there’s there (says who) – such wantonness

(II)
revelation comes in flits and starts
each one’s a bundle of the genes’ loose ends
there’s a sparking deep down in the dark
that (come to light) can’t find its plain amends
can’t sport a price-tag in exchange and marts

who wants mathematics in a singing lark
(oh it’s there all right – it’s not what listening spends)
the mystic truth lies somewhere in the heart – 
lies (you see) - all best truth has the bends
it’s blood not thought that asks the muse to heark

no artist helps – no doughty horse but cart
receptacle for undeciphered legends
science hunts (it’s art that haunts) the quark

 Done Aug. 8. 1653. Terzetti.


Why do the Gentiles tumult, and the Nations
Muse a vain thing, the Kings of th'earth upstand
With power, and Princes in their Congregations
Lay deep their plots together through each Land,
Against the Lord and his Messiah dear.
Let us break off; say they, by strength of hand
Their bonds, and cast from us, no more to wear,
Their twisted cords: he who in Heaven doth dwell
Shall laugh, the Lord shall scoff them, then severe
Speak to them in his wrath, and in his fell 
And fierce ire trouble them; but I saith hee
Anointed have my King (though ye rebell)
On Sion my holi' hill. A firm decree
I will declare; the Lord to me hath say'd
Thou art my Son I have begotten thee
This day, ask of me, and the grant is made;
As thy possession I on thee bestow
Th'Heathen, and as thy conquest to be sway'd
Earths utmost bounds: them shalt thou bring full low
With Iron Sceptir bruis'd, and them disperse 
Like to a potters vessel shiver'd so.
And now be wise at length ye Kings averse
Be taught ye Judges of the earth; with fear
Jehovah serve and let your joy converse
With trembling; Kiss the Son least he appear
In anger and ye perish in the way
If once his wrath take fire like fuel sere.
Happy all those who have in him their stay.

 [This curious imitation of the ternary metre 
of Dante was written at the age of 77.]

WITHIN a gloomy charnel-house one day

I view'd the countless skulls, so strangely mated,
And of old times I thought, that now were grey.

Close pack'd they stand, that once so fiercely hated,
And hardy bones, that to the death contended,

Are lying cross'd,--to lie for ever, fated.
What held those crooked shoulder-blades suspended?

No one now asks; and limbs with vigour fired,
The hand, the foot--their use in life is ended.

Vainly ye sought the tomb for rest when tired;
Peace in the grave may not be yours; ye're driven

Back into daylight by a force inspired;
But none can love the wither'd husk, though even

A glorious noble kernel it contained.
To me, an adept, was the writing given

Which not to all its holy sense explained,
When 'mid the crowd, their icy shadows flinging,

I saw a form, that glorious still remained.
And even there, where mould and damp were clinging,

Gave me a blest, a rapture-fraught emotion,
As though from death a living fount were springing.

What mystic joy I felt! What rapt devotion!
That form, how pregnant with a godlike trace!

A look, how did it whirl me tow'rd that ocean
Whose rolling billows mightier shapes embrace!

Mysterious vessel! Oracle how dear!
Even to grasp thee is my hand too base,

Except to steal thee from thy prison here
With pious purpose, and devoutly go

Back to the air, free thoughts, and sunlight clear.
What greater gain in life can man e'er know

Than when God-Nature will to him explain
How into Spirit steadfastness may flow,

How steadfast, too, the Spirit-Born remain.

 1826.