10 Best Famous Thrushes Poems

Here is a collection of the top 10 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.

• All Famous Thrushes Poems

 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?

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. 

 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.

 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.

 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.

 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!

 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.

 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.

 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.

 Do ye hear the children weeping, O my brothers,
Ere the sorrow comes with years?
They are leaning their young heads against their mothers,
And that cannot stop their tears.
The young lambs are bleating in the meadows,
The young birds are chirping in the nest,
The young fawns are playing with the shadows,
The young flowers are blowing toward the west— 
But the young, young children, O my brothers,
They are weeping bitterly!
They are weeping in the playtime of the others,
In the country of the free.

Do you question the young children in their sorrow,
Why their tears are falling so?
The old man may weep for his tomorrow,
Which is lost in Long Ago;
The old tree is leafless in the forest,
The old year is ending in the frost,
The old wound, if stricken, is the sorest,
The old hope is hardest to be lost:
But the young, young children, O my brothers,
Do you ask them why they stand
Weeping sore before the bosoms of their mothers,
In our happy Fatherland?

They look up with their pale and sunken faces,
And their looks are sad to see,
For the man's hoary anguish draws and presses
Down the cheeks of infancy;
"Your old earth," they say, "is very dreary;
Our young feet," they say, "are very weak!
Few paces have we taken, yet are weary— 
Our grave-rest is very far to seek.
Ask the aged why they weep, and not the children,
For the outside earth is cold,
And we young ones stand without, in our bewildering,
And the graves are for the old."

"True," say the children, "it may happen
That we die before our time.
Little Alice died last year—her grave is shapen
Like a snowball, in the rime.
We looked into the pit prepared to take her:
Was no room for any work in the close clay!
From the sleep wherein she lieth none will wake her,
Crying 'Get up, little Alice! it is day.'
If you listen by that grave, in sun and shower,
With your ear down, little Alice never cries;
Could we see her face, be sure we should not know her,
For the smile has time for growing in her eyes:
And merry go her moments, lulled and stilled in
The shroud by the kirk-chime.
It is good when it happens," say the children,
"That we die before our time."

Alas, alas, the children! They are seeking
Death in life, as best to have;
They are binding up their hearts away from breaking,
With a cerement from the grave.
Go out, children, from the mine and from the city,
Sing out, children, as the little thrushes do;
Pluck your handfuls of the meadow-cowslips pretty,
Laugh aloud, to feel your fingers let them through!
But they answer, "Are your cowslips of the meadows
Like our weeds anear the mine?
Leave us quiet in the dark of the coal-shadows,
From your pleasures fair and fine!

"For oh," say the children, "we are weary,
And we cannot run or leap;
If we cared for any meadows, it were merely
To drop down in them and sleep.
Our knees tremble sorely in the stooping,
We fall upon our faces, trying to go;
And, underneath our heavy eyelids drooping,
The reddest flower would look as pale as snow.
For, all day, we drag our burden tiring
Through the coal-dark, underground;
Or, all day, we drive the wheels of iron
In the factories, round and round.

"For all day the wheels are droning, turning;
Their wind comes in our faces,— 
Till our hearts turn, our heads with pulses burning,
And the walls turn in their places:
Turns the sky in the high window blank and reeling,
Turns the long light that drops adown the wall,
Turn the black flies that crawl along the ceiling,— 
All are turning, all the day, and we with all.
And all day, the iron wheels are droning,
And sometimes we could pray,
'O ye wheels,' (breaking out in a mad moaning)
'Stop! be silent for today!' "

Ay, be silent! Let them hear each other breathing
For a moment, mouth to mouth!
Let them touch each other's hands, in a fresh wreathing
Of their tender human youth!
Let them feel that this cold metallic motion
Is not all the life God fashions or reveals:
Let them prove their living souls against the notion
That they live in you, or under you, O wheels!
Still, all day, the iron wheels go onward,
Grinding life down from its mark;
And the children's souls, which God is calling sunward,
Spin on blindly in the dark.

Now tell the poor young children, O my brothers,
To look up to Him and pray;
So the blessed One, who blesseth all the others,
Will bless them another day.
They answer, "Who is God that He should hear us,
While the rushing of the iron wheels is stirred?
When we sob aloud, the human creatures near us
Pass by, hearing not, or answer not a word.
And we hear not (for the wheels in their resounding)
Strangers speaking at the door:
Is it likely God, with angels singing round Him,
Hears our weeping any more?

"Two words, indeed, of praying we remember,
And at midnight's hour of harm,
'Our Father,' looking upward in the chamber,
We say softly for a charm.
We know no other words except 'Our Father,'
And we think that, in some pause of angels' song,
God may pluck them with the silence sweet to gather,
And hold both within His right hand which is strong.
'Our Father!' If He heard us, He would surely
(For they call Him good and mild)
Answer, smiling down the steep world very purely,
'Come and rest with me, my child.'

"But, no!" say the children, weeping faster,
"He is speechless as a stone:
And they tell us, of His image is the master
Who commands us to work on.
Go to!" say the children,—"up in heaven,
Dark, wheel-like, turning clouds are all we find.
Do not mock us; grief has made us unbelieving— 
We look up for God, but tears have made us blind."
Do you hear the children weeping and disproving,
O my brothers, what ye preach?
For God's possible is taught by His world's loving,
And the children doubt of each.

And well may the children weep before you!
They are weary ere they run;
They have never seen the sunshine, nor the glory
Which is brighter than the sun.
They know the grief of man, without its wisdom;
They sink in man's despair, without its calm,— 
Are slaves, without the liberty in Christdom,— 
Are martyrs, by the pang without the palm,— 
Are worn as if with age, yet unretrievingly
The harvest of its memories cannot reap,— 
Are orphans of the earthly love and heavenly.
Let them weep! let them weep!

They look up with their pale and sunken faces,
And their look is dread to see,
For they mind you of their angels in high places,
With eyes turned on Deity;— 
"How long," they say, "how long, O cruel nation,
Will you stand, to move the world, on a child's heart,— 
Stifle down with a mailed heel its palpitation,
And tread onward to your throne amid the mart?
Our blood splashes upward, O gold-heaper,
And its purple shows your path!
But the child's sob in the silence curses deeper
Than the strong man in his wrath."