Best Famous Thrushes Poems

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

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• All Famous Thrushes Poems

Written by Robert William Service | My Garden The world is sadly sick, they say, And plagued by woe and pain. But look! How looms my garden gay, With blooms in golden reign! With lyric music in the air, Of joy fulfilled in song, I can't believe that anywhere Is hate and harm and wrong. A paradise my garden is, And there my day is spent; A steep myself in sunny bliss, Incredibly content. Feeling that I am truly part Of peace so rapt and still, There's not a care within my heart . . . How can the world be ill? Aye, though the land be sick they say, And named unto pain, My garden never was so gay, So innocent, so sane. My roses mock at misery, My thrushes vie in song . . . When only beauty I can see, How can the world be wrong?

Written by Ralph Waldo Emerson | Ode to W. H. Channing Though loath to grieve The evil time's sole patriot, I cannot leave My honied thought For the priest's cant, Or statesman's rant. If I refuse My study for their politique, Which at the best is trick, The angry Muse Puts confusion in my brain. But who is he that prates Of the culture of mankind, Of better arts and life? Go, blindworm, go, Behold the famous States Harrying Mexico With rifle and with knife! Or who, with accent bolder, Dare praise the freedom-loving mountaineer? I found by thee, O rushing Contoocook! And in thy valleys, Agiochook! The jackals of the *****-holder. The God who made New Hampshire Taunted the lofty land With little men;-- Small bat and wren House in the oak:-- If earth-fire cleave The upheaved land, and bury the folk, The southern crocodile would grieve. Virtue palters; Right is hence; Freedom praised, but hid; Funeral eloquence Rattles the coffin-lid. What boots thy zeal, O glowing friend, That would indignant rend The northland from the south? Wherefore? to what good end? Boston Bay and Bunker Hill Would serve things still;-- Things are of the snake. The horseman serves the horse, The neatherd serves the neat, The merchant serves the purse, The eater serves his meat; 'T is the day of the chattel, Web to weave, and corn to grind; Things are in the saddle, And ride mankind. There are two laws discrete, Not reconciled,-- Law for man, and law for thing; The last builds town and fleet, But it runs wild, And doth the man unking. 'T is fit the forest fall, The steep be graded, The mountain tunnelled, The sand shaded, The orchard planted, The glebe tilled, The prairie granted, The steamer built. Let man serve law for man; Live for friendship, live for love, For truth's and harmony's behoof; The state may follow how it can, As Olympus follows Jove. Yet do not I implore The wrinkled shopman to my sounding woods, Nor bid the unwilling senator Ask votes of thrushes in the solitudes. Every one to his chosen work;-- Foolish hands may mix and mar; Wise and sure the issues are. Round they roll till dark is light, Sex to sex, and even to odd;-- The over-god Who marries Right to Might, Who peoples, unpeoples,-- He who exterminates Races by stronger races, Black by white faces,-- Knows to bring honey Out of the lion; Grafts gentlest scion On pirate and Turk. The Cossack eats Poland, Like stolen fruit; Her last noble is ruined, Her last poet mute: Straight, into double band The victors divide; Half for freedom strike and stand;-- The astonished Muse finds thousands at her side.

Written by Robert Louis Stevenson | A Good Boy I woke before the morning, I was happy all the day, I never said an ugly word, but smiled and stuck to play. And now at last the sun is going down behind the wood, And I am very happy, for I know that I've been good. My bed is waiting cool and fresh, with linen smooth and fair, And I must be off to sleepsin-by, and not forget my prayer. I know that, till to-morrow I shall see the sun arise, No ugly dream shall fright my mind, no ugly sight my eyes. But slumber hold me tightly till I waken in the dawn, And hear the thrushes singing in the lilacs round the lawn.

Written by Ralph Waldo Emerson | Ode To William H. Channing Though loth to grieve The evil time's sole patriot, I cannot leave My buried thought For the priest's cant, Or statesman's rant. If I refuse My study for their politique, Which at the best is trick, The angry muse Puts confusion in my brain. But who is he that prates Of the culture of mankind, Of better arts and life? Go, blind worm, go, Behold the famous States Harrying Mexico With rifle and with knife. Or who, with accent bolder, Dare praise the freedom-loving mountaineer, I found by thee, O rushing Contoocook! And in thy valleys, Agiochook! The jackals of the *****-holder. The God who made New Hampshire Taunted the lofty land With little men. Small bat and wren House in the oak. If earth fire cleave The upheaved land, and bury the folk, The southern crocodile would grieve. Virtue palters, right is hence, Freedom praised but hid; Funeral eloquence Rattles the coffin-lid. What boots thy zeal, O glowing friend, That would indignant rend The northland from the south? Wherefore? To what good end? Boston Bay and Bunker Hill Would serve things still: Things are of the snake. The horseman serves the horse, The neat-herd serves the neat, The merchant serves the purse, The eater serves his meat; 'Tis the day of the chattel, Web to weave, and corn to grind, Things are in the saddle, And ride mankind. There are two laws discrete Not reconciled, Law for man, and law for thing; The last builds town and fleet, But it runs wild, And doth the man unking. 'Tis fit the forest fall, The steep be graded, The mountain tunnelled, The land shaded, The orchard planted, The globe tilled, The prairie planted, The steamer built. Live for friendship, live for love, For truth's and harmony's behoof; The state may follow how it can, As Olympus follows Jove. Yet do not I implore The wrinkled shopman to my sounding woods, Nor bid the unwilling senator Ask votes of thrushes in the solitudes. Every one to his chosen work. Foolish hands may mix and mar, Wise and sure the issues are. Round they roll, till dark is light, Sex to sex, and even to odd; The over-God, Who marries Right to Might, Who peoples, unpeoples, He who exterminates Races by stronger races, Black by white faces, Knows to bring honey Out of the lion, Grafts gentlest scion On Pirate and Turk. The Cossack eats Poland, Like stolen fruit; Her last noble is ruined, Her last poet mute; Straight into double band The victors divide, Half for freedom strike and stand, The astonished muse finds thousands at her side.

Written by Wang Wei | Farewell Farewell to the bushy clump close to the river And the flags where the butter-bump hides in forever; Farewell to the weedy nook, hemmed in by waters; Farewell to the miller's brook and his three bonny daughters; Farewell to them all while in prison I lie— In the prison a thrall sees naught but the sky. Shut out are the green fields and birds in the bushes; In the prison yard nothing builds, blackbirds or thrushes. Farewell to the old mill and dash of waters, To the miller and, dearer still, to his three bonny daughters. In the nook, the larger burdock grows near the green willow; In the flood, round the moor-cock dashes under the billow; To the old mill farewell, to the lock, pens, and waters, To the miller himsel', and his three bonny daughters.

Written by George Eliot | Two Lovers Two lovers by a moss-grown spring: They leaned soft cheeks together there, Mingled the dark and sunny hair, And heard the wooing thrushes sing. O budding time! O love's blest prime! Two wedded from the portal stept: The bells made happy carolings, The air was soft as fanning wings, White petals on the pathway slept. O pure-eyed bride! O tender pride! Two faces o'er a cradle bent: Two hands above the head were locked: These pressed each other while they rocked, Those watched a life that love had sent. O solemn hour! O hidden power! Two parents by the evening fire: The red light fell about their knees On heads that rose by slow degrees Like buds upon the lily spire. O patient life! O tender strife! The two still sat together there, The red light shone about their knees; But all the heads by slow degrees Had gone and left that lonely pair. O voyage fast! O vanished past! The red light shone upon the floor And made the space between them wide; They drew their chairs up side by side, Their pale cheeks joined, and said, "Once more!" O memories! O past that is!

Written by Li Po | Clearing at Dawn The fields are chill, the sparse rain has stopped; The colours of Spring teem on every side. With leaping fish the blue pond is full; With singing thrushes the green boughs droop. The flowers of the field have dabbled their powdered cheeks; The mountain grasses are bent level at the waist. By the bamboo stream the last fragment of cloud Blown by the wind slowly scatters away.

Written by William Allingham | Robin Redbreast Good-bye, good-bye to Summer! For Summer's nearly done; The garden smiling faintly, Cool breezes in the sun; Our Thrushes now are silent, Our Swallows flown away, -- But Robin's here, in coat of brown, With ruddy breast-knot gay. Robin, Robin Redbreast, O Robin dear! Robin singing sweetly In the falling of the year. Bright yellow, red, and orange, The leaves come down in hosts; The trees are Indian Princes, But soon they'll turn to Ghosts; The scanty pears and apples Hang russet on the bough, It's Autumn, Autumn, Autumn late, 'Twill soon be Winter now. Robin, Robin Redbreast, O Robin dear! And welaway! my Robin, For pinching times are near. The fireside for the Cricket, The wheatstack for the Mouse, When trembling night-winds whistle And moan all round the house; The frosty ways like iron, The branches plumed with snow, -- Alas! in Winter, dead and dark, Where can poor Robin go? Robin, Robin Redbreast, O Robin dear! And a crumb of bread for Robin, His little heart to cheer.

Written by Bliss Carman | Behind the Arras I like the old house tolerably well, Where I must dwell Like a familiar gnome; And yet I never shall feel quite at home. I love to roam. Day after day I loiter and explore From door to door; So many treasures lure The curious mind. What histories obscure They must immure! I hardly know which room I care for best; This fronting west, With the strange hills in view, Where the great sun goes,—where I may go too, When my lease is through,— Or this one for the morning and the east, Where a man may feast His eyes on looming sails, And be the first to catch their foreign hails Or spy their bales Then the pale summer twilights towards the pole! It thrills my soul With wonder and delight, When gold-green shadows walk the world at night, So still, so bright. There at the window many a time of year, Strange faces peer, Solemn though not unkind, Their wits in search of something left behind Time out of mind; As if they once had lived here, and stole back To the window crack For a peep which seems to say, "Good fortune, brother, in your house of clay!" And then, "Good day!" I hear their footsteps on the gravel walk, Their scraps of talk, And hurrying after, reach Only the crazy sea-drone of the beach In endless speech. And often when the autumn noons are still, By swale and hill I see their gipsy signs, Trespassing somewhere on my border lines; With what designs? I forth afoot; but when I reach the place, Hardly a trace, Save the soft purple haze Of smouldering camp-fires, any hint betrays Who went these ways. Or tatters of pale aster blue, descried By the roadside, Reveal whither they fled; Or the swamp maples, here and there a shred Of Indian red. But most of all, the marvellous tapestry Engrosses me, Where such strange things are rife, Fancies of beasts and flowers, and love and strife, Woven to the life; Degraded shapes and splendid seraph forms, And teeming swarms Of creatures gauzy dim That cloud the dusk, and painted fish that swim, At the weaver's whim; And wonderful birds that wheel and hang in the air; And beings with hair, And moving eyes in the face, And white bone teeth and hideous grins, who race From place to place; They build great temples to their John-a-nod, And fume and plod To deck themselves with gold, And paint themselves like chattels to be sold, Then turn to mould. Sometimes they seem almost as real as I; I hear them sigh; I see them bow with grief, Or dance for joy like any aspen leaf; But that is brief. They have mad wars and phantom marriages; Nor seem to guess There are dimensions still, Beyond thought's reach, though not beyond love's will, For soul to fill. And some I call my friends, and make believe Their spirits grieve, Brood, and rejoice with mine; I talk to them in phrases quaint and fine Over the wine; I tell them all my secrets; touch their hands; One understands Perhaps. How hard he tries To speak! And yet those glorious mild eyes, His best replies! I even have my cronies, one or two, My cherished few. But ah, they do not stay! For the sun fades them and they pass away, As I grow gray. Yet while they last how actual they seem! Their faces beam; I give them all their names, Bertram and Gilbert, Louis, Frank and James, Each with his aims; One thinks he is a poet, and writes verse His friends rehearse; Another is full of law; A third sees pictures which his hand can draw Without a flaw. Strangest of all, they never rest. Day long They shift and throng, Moved by invisible will, Like a great breath which puffs across my sill, And then is still; It shakes my lovely manikins on the wall; Squall after squall, Gust upon crowding gust, It sweeps them willy nilly like blown dust With glory or lust. It is the world-ghost, the time-spirit, come None knows wherefrom, The viewless draughty tide And wash of being. I hear it yaw and glide, And then subside, Along these ghostly corridors and halls Like faint footfalls; The hangings stir in the air; And when I start and challenge, "Who goes there?" It answers, "Where?" The wail and sob and moan of the sea's dirge, Its plangor and surge; The awful biting sough Of drifted snows along some arctic bluff, That veer and luff, And have the vacant boding human cry, As they go by;— Is it a banished soul Dredging the dark like a distracted mole Under a knoll? Like some invisible henchman old and gray, Day after day I hear it come and go, With stealthy swift unmeaning to and fro, Muttering low, Ceaseless and daft and terrible and blind, Like a lost mind. I often chill with fear When I bethink me, What if it should peer At my shoulder here! Perchance he drives the merry-go-round whose track Is the zodiac; His name is No-man's-friend; And his gabbling parrot-talk has neither trend, Beginning, nor end. A prince of madness too, I'd cry, "A rat!" And lunge thereat,— Let out at one swift thrust The cunning arch-delusion of the dust I so mistrust, But that I fear I should disclose a face Wearing the trace Of my own human guise, Piteous, unharmful, loving, sad, and wise With the speaking eyes. I would the house were rid of his grim pranks, Moaning from banks Of pine trees in the moon, Startling the silence like a demoniac loon At dead of noon. Or whispering his fool-talk to the leaves About my eaves. And yet how can I know 'T is not a happy Ariel masking so In mocking woe? Then with a little broken laugh I say, Snatching away The curtain where he grinned (My feverish sight thought) like a sin unsinned, "Only the wind!" Yet often too he steals so softly by. With half a sigh, I deem he must be mild, Fair as a woman, gentle as a child, And forest wild. Passing the door where an old wind-harp swings, With its five strings, Contrived long years ago By my first predecessor bent to show His handcraft so, He lay his fingers on the aeolian wire, As a core of fire Is laid upon the blast To kindle and glow and fill the purple vast Of dark at last. Weird wise, and low, piercing and keen and glad, Or dim and sad As a forgotten strain Born when the broken legions of the rain Swept through the plain— He plays, like some dread veiled mysteriarch, Lighting the dark, Bidding the spring grow warm, The gendering merge and loosing of spirit in form, Peace out of storm. For music is the sacrament of love; He broods above The virgin silence, till She yields for rapture shuddering, yearning still To his sweet will. I hear him sing, "Your harp is like a mesh, Woven of flesh And spread within the shoal Of life, where runs the tide-race of the soul In my control. "Though my wild way may ruin what it bends, It makes amends To the frail downy clocks, Telling their seed a secret that unlocks The granite rocks. "The womb of silence to the crave of sound Is heaven unfound, Till I, to soothe and slake Being's most utter and imperious ache, Bid rhythm awake. "If with such agonies of bliss, my kin, I enter in Your prison house of sense, With what a joyous freed intelligence I shall go hence." I need no more to guess the weaver's name, Nor ask his aim, Who hung each hall and room With swarthy-tinged vermilion upon gloom; I know that loom. Give me a little space and time enough, From ravelings rough I could revive, reweave, A fabric of beauty art might well believe Were past retrieve. O men and women in that rich design, Sleep-soft, sun-fine, Dew-tenuous and free, A tone of the infinite wind-themes of the sea, Borne in to me, Reveals how you were woven to the might Of shadow and light. You are the dream of One Who loves to haunt and yet appears to shun My door in the sun; As the white roving sea tern fleck and skim The morning's rim; Or the dark thrushes clear Their flutes of music leisurely and sheer, Then hush to hear. I know him when the last red brands of day Smoulder away, And when the vernal showers Bring back the heart to all my valley flowers In the soft hours. O hand of mine and brain of mine, be yours, While time endures, To acquiesce and learn! For what we best may dare and drudge and yearn, Let soul discern. So, fellows, we shall reach the gusty gate, Early or late, And part without remorse, A cadence dying down unto its source In music's course; You to the perfect rhythms of flowers and birds, Colors and words, The heart-beats of the earth, To be remoulded always of one worth From birth to birth; I to the broken rhythm of thought and man, The sweep and span Of memory and hope About the orbit where they still must grope For wider scope, To be through thousand springs restored, renewed, With love imbrued, With increments of will Made strong, perceiving unattainment still From each new skill. Always the flawless beauty, always the chord Of the Overword, Dominant, pleading, sure, No truth too small to save and make endure. No good too poor! And since no mortal can at last disdain That sweet refrain, But lets go strife and care, Borne like a strain of bird notes on the air, The wind knows where; Some quiet April evening soft and strange, When comes the change No spirit can deplore, I shall be one with all I was before, In death once more.

Written by Ted Hughes | Thrushes Terrifying are the attent sleek thrushes on the lawn, More coiled steel than living - a poised Dark deadly eye, those delicate legs Triggered to stirrings beyond sense - with a start, a bounce, a stab Overtake the instant and drag out some writhing thing. No indolent procrastinations and no yawning states, No sighs or head-scratchings. Nothing but bounce and stab And a ravening second. Is it their single-mind-sized skulls, or a trained Body, or genius, or a nestful of brats Gives their days this bullet and automatic Purpose? Mozart's brain had it, and the shark's mouth That hungers down the blood-smell even to a leak of its own Side and devouring of itself: efficiency which Strikes too streamlined for any doubt to pluck at it Or obstruction deflect. With a man it is otherwise. Heroisms on horseback, Outstripping his desk-diary at a broad desk, Carving at a tiny ivory ornament For years: his act worships itself - while for him, Though he bends to be blent in the prayer, how loud and above what Furious spaces of fire do the distracting devils Orgy and hosannah, under what wilderness Of black silent waters weep.