Best Famous Themes Poems

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

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• All Famous Themes Poems

Written by Barry Tebb | Incompatabilities For Brenda Williams La lune diminue; divin septembre. Divine September the moon wanes. Pierre Jean Jouve Themes for poems and the detritus of dreams coalesce: This is one September I shall not forget. The grammar-school caretaker always had the boards re-blacked And the floors waxed, but I never shone. The stripes of the red and black blazer Were prison-grey. You could never see things that way: Your home had broken windows to the street. You had the mortification of lice in your hair While I had the choice of Brylcreem or orange pomade. Four children, an alcoholic father and An Irish immigrant mother. Failure’s metaphor. I did not make it like Alan Bennett, Who still sends funny postcards About our Leeds childhood. Of your’s, you could never speak And found my nostalgia Wholly inappropriate. Forgetting your glasses for the eleven plus, No money for the uniform for the pass at thirteen. It wasn’t - as I imagined - shame that kept you from telling But fear of the consequences for your mother Had you sobbed the night’s terrors Of your father’s drunken homecomings, Your mother sat with the door open In all weathers while you, the oldest, Waited with her, perhaps Something might have been done. He never missed a day’s work digging graves, Boasting he could do a six-footer Single-handed in two hours flat. That hackneyed phrase ‘He drank all his wages’ Doesn’t convey his nightly rages The flow of obscenities about menstruation While the three younger ones were in bed And you waited with your mother To walk the streets of Seacroft. “Your father murdered your mother” As Auntie Margaret said, Should a witness Need indicting. Your mother’s growing cancer went diagnosed, but unremarked Until the final days She was too busy auxiliary nursing Or working in the Lakeside Caf?. It was her wages that put bread and jam And baked beans into your stomachs. Her final hospitalisation Was the arena for your father’s last rage Her fare interfering with the night’s drinking; He fought in the Burma Campaign but won no medals. Some kind of psychiatric discharge- ‘paranoia’ Lurked in his papers. The madness went undiagnosed Until his sixtieth birthday. You never let me meet him Even after our divorce. In the end you took me on a visit with the children. A neat flat with photographs of grandchildren, Stacks of wood for the stove, washing hung precisely In the kitchen, a Sunday suit in the wardrobe. An unwrinkling of smiles, the hard handshake Of work-roughened hands. One night he smashed up the tidy flat. The TV screen was powder The clock ticked on the neat lawn ‘Murder in Seacroft Hospital’ Emblazoned on the kitchen wall. I went with you and your sister in her car to Roundhay Wing. Your sister had to leave for work or sleep You had to back to meet the children from school. For Ward 42 it wasn’t an especially difficult admission. My first lesson: I shut one set of firedoors while the charge nurse Bolted the other but after five minutes his revolt Was over and he signed the paper. The nurse on nights had a sociology degree And an interest in borderline schizophrenia. After lightsout we chatted about Kohut and Kernberg And Melanie Klein. Your father was occasionally truculent, Barricading himself in on one home leave. Nothing out of the way For a case of that kind. The old ladies on the estate sighed, Single men were very scarce. Always a gentleman, tipping His cap to the ladies. There seems to be objections in the family to poetry Or at least to the kind that actually speaks And fails to lie down quietly on command. Yours seems to have set mine alight- I must get something right.

Written by Walt Whitman | A Clear Midnight THIS is thy hour O Soul, thy free flight into the wordless, Away from books, away from art, the day erased, the lesson done, Thee fully forth emerging, silent, gazing, pondering the themes thou lovest best. Night, sleep, and the stars.

Written by Phillis Wheatley | To S. M. a young African Painter on seeing his Works To show the lab'ring bosom's deep intent, And thought in living characters to paint, When first thy pencil did those beauties give, And breathing figures learnt from thee to live, How did those prospects give my soul delight, A new creation rushing on my sight? Still, wond'rous youth! each noble path pursue, On deathless glories fix thine ardent view: Still may the painter's and the poet's fire To aid thy pencil, and thy verse conspire! And may the charms of each seraphic theme Conduct thy footsteps to immortal fame! High to the blissful wonders of the skies Elate thy soul, and raise thy wishful eyes. Thrice happy, when exalted to survey That splendid city, crown'd with endless day, Whose twice six gates on radiant hinges ring: Celestial Salem blooms in endless spring. Calm and serene thy moments glide along, And may the muse inspire each future song! Still, with the sweets of contemplation bless'd, May peace with balmy wings your soul invest! But when these shades of time are chas'd away, And darkness ends in everlasting day, On what seraphic pinions shall we move, And view the landscapes in the realms above? There shall thy tongue in heav'nly murmurs flow, And there my muse with heav'nly transport glow: No more to tell of Damon's tender sighs, Or rising radiance of Aurora's eyes, For nobler themes demand a nobler strain, And purer language on th' ethereal plain. Cease, gentle muse! the solemn gloom of night Now seals the fair creation from my sight.

Written by Adrienne Rich | A Valediction Forbidding Mourning My swirling wants. Your frozen lips. The grammar turned and attacked me. Themes, written under duress. Emptiness of the notations. They gave me a drug that slowed the healing of wounds. I want you to see this before I leave: the experience of repetition as death the failure of criticism to locate the pain the poster in the bus that said: my bleeding is under control A red plant in a cemetary of plastic wreaths. A last attempt: the language is a dialect called metaphor. These images go unglossed: hair, glacier, flashlight. When I think of a landscape I am thinking of a time. When I talk of taking a trip I mean forever. I could say: those mountains have a meaning but further than that I could not say. To do something very common, in my own way.

Written by Emily Dickinson | The look of thee what is it like The look of thee, what is it like Hast thou a hand or Foot Or Mansion of Identity And what is thy Pursuit? Thy fellows are they realms or Themes Hast thou Delight or Fear Or Longing -- and is that for us Or values more severe? Let change transfuse all other Traits Enact all other Blame But deign this least certificate -- That thou shalt be the same.

Written by George (Lord) Byron | Farewell To The Muse Thou Power! who hast ruled me through Infancy's days, Young offspring of Fancy, 'tis time we should part; Then rise on the gale this the last of my lays, The coldest effusion which springs from my heart. This bosom, responsive to rapture no more, Shall hush thy wild notes, nor implore thee to sing; The feelings of childhood, which taught thee to soar, Are wafted far distant on Apathy's wing. Though simple the themes of my rude flowing Lyre, Yet even these themes are departed for ever; No more beam the eyes which my dream could inspire, My visions are flown, to return,---alas, never! When drain'd is the nectar which gladdens the bowl, How vain is the effort delight to prolong! When cold is the beauty which dwelt in my soul, What magic of Fancy can lengthen my song? Can the lips sing of Love in the desert alone, Of kisses and smiles which they now must resign ? Or dwell with delight on the hours that are flown ? Ah, no! for those hours can no longer be mine. Can they speak of the friends that I lived but to love? Ah, surely Affection ennobles the strain! But how can my numbers in sympathy move, When I scarcely can hope to behold them again? Can I sing of the deeds which my Fathers have done, And raise my loud harp to the fame of my Sires? For glories like theirs, oh, how faint is my tone! For Heroes' exploits how unequal my fires! Untouch'd, then, my Lyre shall reply to the blast--- 'Tis hush'd; and my feeble endeavors are o'er; And those who have heard it will pardon the past, When they know that its murmurs shall vibrate no more. And soon shall its wild erring notes be forgot, Since early affection and love is o'ercast: Oh! blest had my Fate been, and happy my lot, Had the first strain of love been the dearest, the last. Farewell, my young Muse! since we now can ne'er meet; If our songs have been languid, they surely are few: Let us hope that the present at least will be sweet--- The present---which seals our eternal Adieu.

Written by William Cowper | On Receipt Of My Mothers Picture Oh that those lips had language! Life has pass'd With me but roughly since I heard thee last. Those lips are thine--thy own sweet smiles I see, The same that oft in childhood solaced me; Voice only fails, else, how distinct they say, "Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!" The meek intelligence of those dear eyes (Blest be the art that can immortalize, The art that baffles time's tyrannic claim To quench it) here shines on me still the same. Faithful remembrancer of one so dear, Oh welcome guest, though unexpected, here! Who bidd'st me honour with an artless song, Affectionate, a mother lost so long, I will obey, not willingly alone, But gladly, as the precept were her own; And, while that face renews my filial grief, Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief-- Shall steep me in Elysian reverie, A momentary dream, that thou art she. My mother! when I learn'd that thou wast dead, Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed? Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, Wretch even then, life's journey just begun? Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unseen, a kiss; Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss-- Ah that maternal smile! it answers--Yes. I heard the bell toll'd on thy burial day, I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away, And, turning from my nurs'ry window, drew A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu! But was it such?--It was.--Where thou art gone Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown. May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, The parting sound shall pass my lips no more! Thy maidens griev'd themselves at my concern, Oft gave me promise of a quick return. What ardently I wish'd, I long believ'd, And, disappointed still, was still deceiv'd; By disappointment every day beguil'd, Dupe of to-morrow even from a child. Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went, Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent, I learn'd at last submission to my lot; But, though I less deplor'd thee, ne'er forgot. Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more, Children not thine have trod my nurs'ry floor; And where the gard'ner Robin, day by day, Drew me to school along the public way, Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapt In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capt, 'Tis now become a history little known, That once we call'd the past'ral house our own. Short-liv'd possession! but the record fair That mem'ry keeps of all thy kindness there, Still outlives many a storm that has effac'd A thousand other themes less deeply trac'd. Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, That thou might'st know me safe and warmly laid; Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, The biscuit, or confectionary plum; The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestow'd By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glow'd; All this, and more endearing still than all, Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall, Ne'er roughen'd by those cataracts and brakes That humour interpos'd too often makes; All this still legible in mem'ry's page, And still to be so, to my latest age, Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay Such honours to thee as my numbers may; Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere, Not scorn'd in heav'n, though little notic'd here. Could time, his flight revers'd, restore the hours, When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flow'rs, The violet, the pink, and jessamine, I prick'd them into paper with a pin, (And thou wast happier than myself the while, Would'st softly speak, and stroke my head and smile) Could those few pleasant hours again appear, Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here? I would not trust my heart--the dear delight Seems so to be desir'd, perhaps I might.-- But no--what here we call our life is such, So little to be lov'd, and thou so much, That I should ill requite thee to constrain Thy unbound spirit into bonds again. Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast (The storms all weather'd and the ocean cross'd) Shoots into port at some well-haven'd isle, Where spices breathe and brighter seasons smile, There sits quiescent on the floods that show Her beauteous form reflected clear below, While airs impregnated with incense play Around her, fanning light her streamers gay; So thou, with sails how swift! hast reach'd the shore "Where tempests never beat nor billows roar," And thy lov'd consort on the dang'rous tide Of life, long since, has anchor'd at thy side. But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest, Always from port withheld, always distress'd-- Me howling winds drive devious, tempest toss'd, Sails ript, seams op'ning wide, and compass lost, And day by day some current's thwarting force Sets me more distant from a prosp'rous course. But oh the thought, that thou art safe, and he! That thought is joy, arrive what may to me. My boast is not that I deduce my birth From loins enthron'd, and rulers of the earth; But higher far my proud pretensions rise-- The son of parents pass'd into the skies. And now, farewell--time, unrevok'd, has run His wonted course, yet what I wish'd is done. By contemplation's help, not sought in vain, I seem t' have liv'd my childhood o'er again; To have renew'd the joys that once were mine, Without the sin of violating thine: And, while the wings of fancy still are free, And I can view this mimic shew of thee, Time has but half succeeded in his theft-- Thyself remov'd, thy power to sooth me left.

Written by Henry Vaughan | They are all Gone into the World of Light 1 They are all gone into the world of light! 2 And I alone sit ling'ring here; 3 Their very memory is fair and bright, 4 And my sad thoughts doth clear. 5 It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast, 6 Like stars upon some gloomy grove, 7 Or those faint beams in which this hill is drest, 8 After the sun's remove. 9 I see them walking in an air of glory, 10 Whose light doth trample on my days: 11 My days, which are at best but dull and hoary, 12 Mere glimmering and decays. 13 O holy Hope! and high Humility, 14 High as the heavens above! 15 These are your walks, and you have show'd them me 16 To kindle my cold love. 17 Dear, beauteous Death! the jewel of the just, 18 Shining nowhere, but in the dark; 19 What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust 20 Could man outlook that mark! 21 He that hath found some fledg'd bird's nest, may know 22 At first sight, if the bird be flown; 23 But what fair well or grove he sings in now, 24 That is to him unknown. 25 And yet as angels in some brighter dreams 26 Call to the soul, when man doth sleep: 27 So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes 28 And into glory peep. 29 If a star were confin'd into a tomb, 30 Her captive flames must needs burn there; 31 But when the hand that lock'd her up, gives room, 32 She'll shine through all the sphere. 33 O Father of eternal life, and all 34 Created glories under thee! 35 Resume thy spirit from this world of thrall 36 Into true liberty. 37 Either disperse these mists, which blot and fill 38 My perspective still as they pass, 39 Or else remove me hence unto that hill, 40 Where I shall need no glass.

Written by William Shakespeare | Sonnet 105: Let not my love be called idolatry Let not my love be called idolatry, Nor my belovèd as an idol show, Since all alike my songs and praises be To one, of one, still such, and ever so. Kind is my love today, tomorrow kind, Still constant in a wondrous excellence; Therefore my verse to constancy confined, One thing expressing, leaves out difference. "Fair, kind, and true" is all my argument, "Fair, kind, and true" varying to other words; And in this change is my invention spent, Three themes in one, which wondrous scope affords. Fair, kind, and true, have often lived alone. Which three till now never kept seat in one.

Written by Phillis Wheatley | To S.M. A Young African Painter On Seeing His Works O show the lab'ring bosom's deep intent, And thought in living characters to paint, When first thy pencil did those beauties give, And breathing figures learnt from thee to live, How did those prospects give my soul delight, A new creation rushing on my sight? Still, wond'rous youth! each noble path pursue, On deathless glories fix thine ardent view: Still may the painter's and the poet's fire To aid thy pencil, and thy verse conspire! And may the charms of each seraphic theme Conduct thy footsteps to immortal fame! High to the blissful wonders of the skies Elate thy soul, and raise thy wishful eyes. Thrice happy, when exalted to survey That splendid city, crown'd with endless day, Whose twice six gates on radiant hinges ring: Celestial Salem blooms in endless spring. Calm and serene thy moments glide along, And may the muse inspire each future song! Still, with the sweets of contemplation bless'd, May peace with balmy wings your soul invest! But when these shades of time are chas'd away, And darkness ends in everlasting day, On what seraphic pinions shall we move, And view the landscapes in the realms above? There shall thy tongue in heav'nly murmurs flow, And there my muse with heav'nly transport glow: No more to tell of Damon's tender sighs, Or rising radiance of Aurora's eyes, For nobler themes demand a nobler strain, And purer language on th' ethereal plain. Cease, gentle muse! the solemn gloom of night Now seals the fair creation from my sight.