10 Best Famous Touching Poems

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

• All Famous Touching Poems

Give me your hand

Make room for me
to lead and follow
you
beyond this rage of poetry.

Let others have
the privacy of
touching words
and love of loss
of love.

For me
Give me your hand.

 The petals of the vagina unfold
like Christofer Columbus
taking off his shoes.

Is there anything more beautiful
than the bow of a ship
touching a new world?

 On March 1, 1958, four deserters from the French Army of North Africa, 
August Rein, Henri Bruette, Jack Dauville, & Thomas Delain, robbed a 
government pay station at Orleansville. Because of the subsequent 
confession of Dauville the other three were captured or shot. Dauville 
was given his freedom and returned to the land of his birth, the U.S.A.

AUGUST REIN: 
from a last camp near St. Remy

 I dig in the soft earth all 
 afternoon, spacing the holes 
 a foot or so from the wall. 
 Tonight we eat potatoes, 
 tomorrow rice and carrots. 
 The earth here is like the earth 
 nowhere, ancient with wood rot. 
 How can anything come forth, 

 I wonder; and the days are 
 all alike, if there is more 
 than one day. If there is more 
 of this I will not endure. 
 I have grown so used to being 
 watched I can no longer sleep 
 without my watcher. The thing 
 I fought against, the dark cape, 

 crimsoned with terror that 
 I so hated comforts me now. 
 Thomas is dead; insanity, 
 prison, cowardice, or slow 
 inner capitulation 
 has found us all, and all men 
 turn from us, knowing our pain 
 is not theirs or caused by them.

HENRI BRUETTE: 
from a hospital in Algiers

 Dear Suzanne: this letter will 
 not reach you because I can't 
 write it; I have no pencil, 
 no paper, only the blunt 
 end of my anger. My dear, 
 if I had words how could I 
 report the imperfect failure 
 for which I began to die? 

 I might begin by saying 
 that it was for clarity, 
 though I did not find it in 
 terror: dubiously 
 entered each act, unsure 
 of who I was and what I 
 did, touching my face for fear 
 I was another inside 

 my head I played back pictures 
 of my childhood, of my wife 
 even, for it was in her 
 I found myself beaten, safe, 
 and furthest from the present. 
 It is her face I see now 
 though all I say is meant 
 for you, her face in the slow 

 agony of sexual 
 release. I cannot see you. 
 The dark wall ribbed with spittle 
 on which I play my childhood 
 brings me to this bed, mastered 
 by what I was, betrayed by 
 those I trusted. The one word 
 my mouth must open to is why.

JACK DAUVILLE: 
from a hotel in Tampa, Florida

 From Orleansville we drove 
 south until we reached the hills, 
 then east until 
 the road stopped. I was nervous 
 and couldn't eat. Thomas took 
 over, told us when to think 
 and when to ****. 
 We turned north and reached Blida 
 by first dawn and the City 

 by morning, having dumped our 
 weapons beside an empty 
 road. We were free. 
 We parted, and to this hour 
 I haven't seen them, except 
 in photographs: the black hair 
 and torn features 
 of Thomas Delain captured 
 a moment before his death 

 on the pages of the world, 
 smeared in the act. I tortured 
 myself with their 
 betrayal: alone I hurled 
 them into freedom, inner 
 freedom which I can't find 
 nor ever will 
 until they are dead. In my mind 
 Delain stands against the wall 

 precise in detail, steadied 
 for the betrayal. "La France 
 C'Est Moi," he cried, 
 but the irony was lost. Since 
 I returned to the U.S. 
 nothing goes well. I stay up 
 too late, don't sleep, 
 and am losing weight. Thomas, 
 I say, is dead, but what use 

 telling myself what I won't 
 believe. The hotel quiets 
 early at night, 
 the aged brace themselves for 
 another sleep, and offshore 
 the sea quickens its pace. I 
 am suddenly 
 old, caught in a strange country 
 for which no man would die.

THOMAS DELAIN: 
from a journal found on his person

 At night wakened by the freight 
 trains boring through the suburbs 
 of Lyon, I watched first light 
 corrode the darkness, disturb 
 what little wildlife was left 
 in the alleys: birds moved from 
 branch to branch, and the dogs leapt 
 at the garbage. Winter numbed 
 even the hearts of the young 
 who had only their hearts. We 
 heard the war coming; the long 
 wait was over, and we moved 
 along the crowded roads south 
 not looking for what lost loves 
 fell by the roadsides. To flee 
 at all cost, that was my youth. 

 Here in the African night 
 wakened by what I do not 
 know and shivering in the heat, 
 listen as the men fight 
 with sleep. Loosed from their weapons 
 they cry out, frightened and young, 
 who have never been children. 
 Once merely to be strong, 
 to live, was moral. Within 
 these uniforms we accept 
 the evil we were chosen 
 to deliver, and no act 
 human or benign can free 
 us from ourselves. Wait, sleep, blind 
 soldiers of a blind will, and 
 listen for that old command 
 dreaming of authority.

 Earth has not anything to show more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty:
This City now doth like a garment wear
The beauty of the morning; silent , bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
Open unto the fields, and to the sky,
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
Never did the sun more beautifully steep
In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill;
Ne'er saw I, never felt a calm so deep!
The river glideth at his own sweet will:
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still!

 We sow the glebe, we reap the corn, 
We build the house where we may rest, 
And then, at moments, suddenly, 
We look up to the great wide sky, 
Inquiring wherefore we were born… 
For earnest or for jest? 

The senses folding thick and dark 
About the stifled soul within, 
We guess diviner things beyond, 
And yearn to them with yearning fond; 
We strike out blindly to a mark 
Believed in, but not seen. 

We vibrate to the pant and thrill 
Wherewith Eternity has curled 
In serpent-twine about God’s seat; 
While, freshening upward to His feet, 
In gradual growth His full-leaved will 
Expands from world to world. 

And, in the tumult and excess 
Of act and passion under sun, 
We sometimes hear—oh, soft and far, 
As silver star did touch with star, 
The kiss of Peace and Righteousness 
Through all things that are done. 

God keeps His holy mysteries 
Just on the outside of man’s dream; 
In diapason slow, we think 
To hear their pinions rise and sink, 
While they float pure beneath His eyes, 
Like swans adown a stream. 

Abstractions, are they, from the forms 
Of His great beauty?—exaltations 
From His great glory?—strong previsions 
Of what we shall be?—intuitions 
Of what we are—in calms and storms, 
Beyond our peace and passions? 

Things nameless! which, in passing so, 
Do stroke us with a subtle grace. 
We say, ‘Who passes?’—they are dumb. 
We cannot see them go or come: 
Their touches fall soft, cold, as snow 
Upon a blind man’s face. 

Yet, touching so, they draw above 
Our common thoughts to Heaven’s unknown, 
Our daily joy and pain advance 
To a divine significance, 
Our human love—O mortal love, 
That light is not its own! 

And sometimes horror chills our blood 
To be so near such mystic Things, 
And we wrap round us for defence 
Our purple manners, moods of sense— 
As angels from the face of God 
Stand hidden in their wings. 

And sometimes through life’s heavy swound 
We grope for them!—with strangled breath 
We stretch our hands abroad and try 
To reach them in our agony,— 
And widen, so, the broad life-wound 
Which soon is large enough for death.

 You've asked me what the lobster is weaving there with 
 his golden feet?
I reply, the ocean knows this.
You say, what is the ascidia waiting for in its transparent 
 bell? What is it waiting for?
I tell you it is waiting for time, like you.
You ask me whom the Macrocystis alga hugs in its arms?
Study, study it, at a certain hour, in a certain sea I know.
You question me about the wicked tusk of the narwhal, 
 and I reply by describing
how the sea unicorn with the harpoon in it dies.
You enquire about the kingfisher's feathers,
which tremble in the pure springs of the southern tides?
Or you've found in the cards a new question touching on 
 the crystal architecture
of the sea anemone, and you'll deal that to me now?
You want to understand the electric nature of the ocean 
 spines?
 The armored stalactite that breaks as it walks?
 The hook of the angler fish, the music stretched out
 in the deep places like a thread in the water?

 I want to tell you the ocean knows this, that life in its 
 jewel boxes
 is endless as the sand, impossible to count, pure,
 and among the blood-colored grapes time has made the 
 petal
 hard and shiny, made the jellyfish full of light
 and untied its knot, letting its musical threads fall
 from a horn of plenty made of infinite mother-of-pearl.

 I am nothing but the empty net which has gone on ahead
 of human eyes, dead in those darknesses,
 of fingers accustomed to the triangle, longitudes
 on the timid globe of an orange.

 I walked around as you do, investigating
 the endless star,
 and in my net, during the night, I woke up naked,
 the only thing caught, a fish trapped inside the wind.

 When I get to be a composer
I'm gonna write me some music about
Daybreak in Alabama
And I'm gonna put the purtiest songs in it
Rising out of the ground like a swamp mist
And falling out of heaven like soft dew.
I'm gonna put some tall tall trees in it
And the scent of pine needles
And the smell of red clay after rain
And long red necks
And poppy colored faces
And big brown arms
And the field daisy eyes
Of black and white black white black people
And I'm gonna put white hands
And black hands and brown and yellow hands
And red clay earth hands in it
Touching everybody with kind fingers
And touching each other natural as dew
In that dawn of music when I
Get to be a composer
And write about daybreak
In Alabama.

To find the hidden place 
Longing freely to explore 
Break obstacles and recognize 
Invisible sparks emanating 
From the deserved discovery 
Of nothing between us 
Shining longing only 
Wakening stars in the Garden 
Witnessing the birth of new landscapes, 
Future cities and temples 
Hearing new stories, falling 
From the fountains of the secret art 
All old sounds and colors reviving 
And you, blindingly bright, 
Into new senses are melting me 
And into the core I grow 
With invisible roots piercing 
Touching the core of fire 
Traveling far to the place, before 
Space and time, and coming back 
To this Garden to find you 
To see the real you swimming 
And flying ahead of the light 
To find you where the light never was 
And to learn that you are its source

 This is the hardest part:
When I came back to life
I was a good family dog
and not too friendly to strangers.
I got a thirty-five dollar raise
in salary, and through the pea-soup fogs 
I drove the General, and introduced him 
at rallies. I had a totalitarian approach 
and was a massive boost to his popularity. 
I did my best to reduce the number of people. 
The local bourgeoisie did not exist.
One of them was a mystic 
and walked right over me 
as if I were a bed of hot coals.
This is par for the course-
I will be employing sundry golf metaphors 
henceforth, because a dog, best friend 
and chief advisor to the General, should. 
While dining with the General I said,
"Let's play the back nine in a sacred rage. 
Let's tee-off over the foredoomed community 
and putt ourselves thunderously, touching bottom." 
He drank it all in, rugged and dusky.
I think I know what he was thinking. 
He held his automatic to my little head 
and recited a poem about my many weaknesses, 
for which I loved him so.

BURLY dozing humble-bee  
Where thou art is clime for me. 
Let them sail for Porto Rique  
Far-off heats through seas to seek; 
I will follow thee alone 5 
Thou animated torrid-zone! 
Zigzag steerer desert cheerer  
Let me chase thy waving lines; 
Keep me nearer me thy hearer  
Singing over shrubs and vines. 10 

Insect lover of the sun  
Joy of thy dominion! 
Sailor of the atmosphere; 
Swimmer through the waves of air; 
Voyager of light and noon; 15 
Epicurean of June; 
Wait I prithee till I come 
Within earshot of thy hum ¡ª 
All without is martyrdom. 

When the south wind in May days 20 
With a net of shining haze 
Silvers the horizon wall  
And with softness touching all  
Tints the human countenance 
With a color of romance 25 
And infusing subtle heats  
Turns the sod to violets  
Thou in sunny solitudes  
Rover of the underwoods  
The green silence dost displace 30 
With thy mellow breezy bass. 

Hot midsummer's petted crone  
Sweet to me thy drowsy tone 
Tells of countless sunny hours  
Long days and solid banks of flowers; 35 
Of gulfs of sweetness without bound 
In Indian wildernesses found; 
Of Syrian peace immortal leisure  
Firmest cheer and bird-like pleasure. 
Aught unsavory or unclean 40 
Hath my insect never seen; 
But violets and bilberry bells  
Maple-sap and daffodels  
Grass with green flag half-mast high  
Succory to match the sky 45 
Columbine with horn of honey  
Scented fern and agrimony  
Clover catchfly adder's-tongue 
And brier-roses dwelt among; 
All beside was unknown waste 50 
All was picture as he passed. 

Wiser far than human seer  
blue-breeched philosopher! 
Seeing only what is fair  
Sipping only what is sweet 55 
Thou dost mock at fate and care  
Leave the chaff and take the wheat. 
When the fierce northwestern blast 
Cools sea and land so far and fast  
Thou already slumberest deep; 60 
Woe and want thou canst outsleep; 
Want and woe which torture us  
Thy sleep makes ridiculous.