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Best Famous Transition Poems

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

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Written by Walt Whitman | Create an image from this poem

Thoughts

 1
OF these years I sing, 
How they pass and have pass’d, through convuls’d pains as through parturitions; 
How America illustrates birth, muscular youth, the promise, the sure fulfillment, the
 Absolute
 Success, despite of people—Illustrates evil as well as good; 
How many hold despairingly yet to the models departed, caste, myths, obedience,
 compulsion, and
 to infidelity; 
How few see the arrived models, the Athletes, the Western States—or see freedom or
 spirituality—or hold any faith in results,
(But I see the Athletes—and I see the results of the war glorious and
 inevitable—and
 they again leading to other results;) 
How the great cities appear—How the Democratic masses, turbulent, wilful, as I love
 them; 
How the whirl, the contest, the wrestle of evil with good, the sounding and resounding,
 keep on
 and on; 
How society waits unform’d, and is for awhile between things ended and things begun; 
How America is the continent of glories, and of the triumph of freedom, and of the
 Democracies,
 and of the fruits of society, and of all that is begun;
And how The States are complete in themselves—And how all triumphs and glories are
 complete in themselves, to lead onward, 
And how these of mine, and of The States, will in their turn be convuls’d, and serve
 other
 parturitions and transitions, 
And how all people, sights, combinations, the Democratic masses, too, serve—and how
 every
 fact, and war itself, with all its horrors, serves, 
And how now, or at any time, each serves the exquisite transition of death.
2 OF seeds dropping into the ground—of birth, Of the steady concentration of America, inland, upward, to impregnable and swarming places, Of what Indiana, Kentucky, Ohio and the rest, are to be, Of what a few years will show there in Nebraska, Colorado, Nevada, and the rest; (Or afar, mounting the Northern Pacific to Sitka or Aliaska;) Of what the feuillage of America is the preparation for—and of what all sights, North, South, East and West, are; Of This Union, soak’d, welded in blood—of the solemn price paid—of the unnamed lost, ever present in my mind; —Of the temporary use of materials, for identity’s sake, Of the present, passing, departing—of the growth of completer men than any yet, Of myself, soon, perhaps, closing up my songs by these shores, Of California, of Oregon—and of me journeying to live and sing there; Of the Western Sea—of the spread inland between it and the spinal river, Of the great pastoral area, athletic and feminine, of all sloping down there where the fresh free giver, the mother, the Mississippi flows, Of future women there—of happiness in those high plateaus, ranging three thousand miles, warm and cold; Of mighty inland cities yet unsurvey’d and unsuspected, (as I am also, and as it must be;) Of the new and good names—of the modern developments—of inalienable homesteads; Of a free and original life there—of simple diet and clean and sweet blood; Of litheness, majestic faces, clear eyes, and perfect physique there; Of immense spiritual results, future years, far west, each side of the Anahuacs; Of these leaves, well understood there, (being made for that area;) Of the native scorn of grossness and gain there; (O it lurks in me night and day—What is gain, after all, to savageness and freedom?)


Written by Dorothy Parker | Create an image from this poem

Transition

 Too long and quickly have I lived to vow
The woe that stretches me shall never wane,
Too often seen the end of endless pain
To swear that peace no more shall cool my brow.
I know, I know- again the shriveled bough Will burgeon sweetly in the gentle rain, And these hard lands be quivering with grain- I tell you only: it is Winter now.
What if I know, before the Summer goes Where dwelt this bitter frenzy shall be rest? What is it now, that June shall surely bring New promise, with the swallow and the rose? My heart is water, that I first must breast The terrible, slow loveliness of Spring.
Written by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow | Create an image from this poem

Resignation

THERE is no flock however watched and tended  
But one dead lamb is there! 
There is no fireside howsoe'er defended  
But has one vacant chair! 

The air is full of farewells to the dying 5 
And mournings for the dead; 
The heart of Rachel for her children crying  
Will not be comforted! 

Let us be patient! These severe afflictions 
Not from the ground arise 10 
But oftentimes celestial benedictions 
Assume this dark disguise.
We see but dimly through the mists and vapors; Amid these earthly damps What seem to us but sad funereal tapers 15 May be heaven's distant lamps.
There is no Death! What seems so is transition; This life of mortal breath Is but a suburb of the life elysian Whose portal we call Death.
20 She is not dead ¡ªthe child of our affection ¡ª But gone unto that school Where she no longer needs our poor protection And Christ himself doth rule.
In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion 25 By guardian angels led Safe from temptation safe from sin's pollution She lives whom we call dead Day after day we think what she is doing In those bright realms of air; 30 Year after year her tender steps pursuing Behold her grown more fair.
Thus do we walk with her and keep unbroken The bond which nature gives Thinking that our remembrance though unspoken 35 May reach her where she lives.
Not as a child shall we again behold her; For when with raptures wild In our embraces we again enfold her She will not be a child; 40 But a fair maiden in her Father's mansion Clothed with celestial grace; And beautiful with all the soul's expansion Shall we behold her face.
And though at times impetuous with emotion 45 And anguish long suppressed The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean That cannot be at rest ¡ª We will be patient and assuage the feeling We may not wholly stay; 50 By silence sanctifying not concealing The grief that must have way.
Written by Alexander Pope | Create an image from this poem

The Rape of the Lock: Canto 1

 Nolueram, Belinda, tuos violare capillos;
Sedjuvat, hoc precibus me tribuisse tuis.
(Martial, Epigrams 12.
84) What dire offence from am'rous causes springs, What mighty contests rise from trivial things, I sing--This verse to Caryl, Muse! is due: This, ev'n Belinda may vouchsafe to view: Slight is the subject, but not so the praise, If she inspire, and he approve my lays.
Say what strange motive, Goddess! could compel A well-bred lord t' assault a gentle belle? O say what stranger cause, yet unexplor'd, Could make a gentle belle reject a lord? In tasks so bold, can little men engage, And in soft bosoms dwells such mighty rage? Sol thro' white curtains shot a tim'rous ray, And op'd those eyes that must eclipse the day; Now lap-dogs give themselves the rousing shake, And sleepless lovers, just at twelve, awake: Thrice rung the bell, the slipper knock'd the ground, And the press'd watch return'd a silver sound.
Belinda still her downy pillow press'd, Her guardian sylph prolong'd the balmy rest: 'Twas he had summon'd to her silent bed The morning dream that hover'd o'er her head; A youth more glitt'ring than a birthnight beau, (That ev'n in slumber caus'd her cheek to glow) Seem'd to her ear his winning lips to lay, And thus in whispers said, or seem'd to say.
"Fairest of mortals, thou distinguish'd care Of thousand bright inhabitants of air! If e'er one vision touch'd thy infant thought, Of all the nurse and all the priest have taught, Of airy elves by moonlight shadows seen, The silver token, and the circled green, Or virgins visited by angel pow'rs, With golden crowns and wreaths of heav'nly flow'rs, Hear and believe! thy own importance know, Nor bound thy narrow views to things below.
Some secret truths from learned pride conceal'd, To maids alone and children are reveal'd: What tho' no credit doubting wits may give? The fair and innocent shall still believe.
Know then, unnumber'd spirits round thee fly, The light militia of the lower sky; These, though unseen, are ever on theg, Hang o'er the box, and hover round the Ring.
Think what an equipage thou hast in air, And view with scorn two pages and a chair.
As now your own, our beings were of old, And once inclos'd in woman's beauteous mould; Thence, by a soft transition, we repair From earthly vehicles to these of air.
Think not, when woman's transient breath is fled, That all her vanities at once are dead; Succeeding vanities she still regards, And tho' she plays no more, o'erlooks the cards.
Her joy in gilded chariots, when alive, And love of ombre, after death survive.
For when the fair in all their pride expire, To their first elements their souls retire: The sprites of fiery termagants in flame Mount up, and take a Salamander's name.
Soft yielding minds to water glide away, And sip with Nymphs, their elemental tea.
The graver prude sinks downward to a Gnome, In search of mischief still on earth to roam.
The light coquettes in Sylphs aloft repair, And sport and flutter in the fields of air.
Know further yet; whoever fair and chaste Rejects mankind, is by some sylph embrac'd: For spirits, freed from mortal laws, with ease Assume what sexes and what shapes they please.
What guards the purity of melting maids, In courtly balls, and midnight masquerades, Safe from the treach'rous friend, the daring spark, The glance by day, the whisper in the dark, When kind occasion prompts their warm desires, When music softens, and when dancing fires? 'Tis but their sylph, the wise celestials know, Though honour is the word with men below.
Some nymphs there are, too conscious of their face, For life predestin'd to the gnomes' embrace.
These swell their prospects and exalt their pride, When offers are disdain'd, and love denied: Then gay ideas crowd the vacant brain, While peers, and dukes, and all their sweeping train, And garters, stars, and coronets appear, And in soft sounds 'Your Grace' salutes their ear.
'Tis these that early taint the female soul, Instruct the eyes of young coquettes to roll, Teach infant cheeks a bidden blush to know, And little hearts to flutter at a beau.
Oft, when the world imagine women stray, The Sylphs through mystic mazes guide their way, Thro' all the giddy circle they pursue, And old impertinence expel by new.
What tender maid but must a victim fall To one man's treat, but for another's ball? When Florio speaks, what virgin could withstand, If gentle Damon did not squeeze her hand? With varying vanities, from ev'ry part, They shift the moving toyshop of their heart; Where wigs with wigs, with sword-knots sword-knots strive, Beaux banish beaux, and coaches coaches drive.
This erring mortals levity may call, Oh blind to truth! the Sylphs contrive it all.
Of these am I, who thy protection claim, A watchful sprite, and Ariel is my name.
Late, as I rang'd the crystal wilds of air, In the clear mirror of thy ruling star I saw, alas! some dread event impend, Ere to the main this morning sun descend, But Heav'n reveals not what, or how, or where: Warn'd by the Sylph, oh pious maid, beware! This to disclose is all thy guardian can.
Beware of all, but most beware of man!" He said; when Shock, who thought she slept too long, Leap'd up, and wak'd his mistress with his tongue.
'Twas then, Belinda, if report say true, Thy eyes first open'd on a billet-doux; Wounds, charms, and ardors were no sooner read, But all the vision vanish'd from thy head.
And now, unveil'd, the toilet stands display'd, Each silver vase in mystic order laid.
First, rob'd in white, the nymph intent adores With head uncover'd, the cosmetic pow'rs.
A heav'nly image in the glass appears, To that she bends, to that her eyes she rears; Th' inferior priestess, at her altar's side, Trembling, begins the sacred rites of pride.
Unnumber'd treasures ope at once, and here The various off'rings of the world appear; From each she nicely culls with curious toil, And decks the goddess with the glitt'ring spoil.
This casket India's glowing gems unlocks, And all Arabia breathes from yonder box.
The tortoise here and elephant unite, Transform'd to combs, the speckled and the white.
Here files of pins extend their shining rows, Puffs, powders, patches, bibles, billet-doux.
Now awful beauty puts on all its arms; The fair each moment rises in her charms, Repairs her smiles, awakens ev'ry grace, And calls forth all the wonders of her face; Sees by degrees a purer blush arise, And keener lightnings quicken in her eyes.
The busy Sylphs surround their darling care; These set the head, and those divide the hair, Some fold the sleeve, whilst others plait the gown; And Betty's prais'd for labours not her own.
Written by Thomas Moore | Create an image from this poem

The Donkey and His Panniers

 A Donkey, whose talent for burdens was wondrous,
So much that you'd swear he rejoic'd in a load,
One day had to jog under panniers so pond'rous,
That -- down the poor Donkey fell smack on the road!

His owners and drivers stood round in amaze --
What! Neddy, the patient, the prosperous Neddy,
So easy to drive, through the dirtiest ways,
For every description of job-work so ready!

One driver (whom Ned might have "hail'd" as a "brother")
Had just been proclaiming his Donkey's renown
For vigour, for spirit, for one thing or another --
When, lo, 'mid his praises, the Donkey came down!

But, how to upraise him? - one shouts, t'other whistles,
While Jenky, the Conjurer, wisest of all,
Declar'd that an "over-production of thistles" --
(Here Ned gave a stare) -- "was the cause of his fall.
" Another wise Solomon cries, as he passes -- "There, let him alone, and the fit will soon cease; The beast has been fighting with other jack-asses, And this is his mode of "transition to peace".
" Some look'd at his hoofs, and with learned grimaces, Pronounc'd that too long without shoes he had gone -- "Let the blacksmith provide him a sound metal basis (The wise-acres said), and he's sure to jog on.
" Meanwhile, the poor Neddy, in torture and fear, Lay under his panniers, scarce able to groan; And -- what was still dolefuller - lending an ear To advisers, whose ears were a match for his own.
At length, a plain rustic, whose wit went so far As to see others' folly, roar'd out, as he pass'd -- "Quick -- off with the panniers, all dolts as ye are, Or, your prosperous Neddy will soon kick his last!"


Written by Conrad Aiken | Create an image from this poem

The House Of Dust: Part 02: 05: Retrospect

 Round white clouds roll slowly above the housetops,
Over the clear red roofs they flow and pass.
A flock of pigeons rises with blue wings flashing, Rises with whistle of wings, hovers an instant, And settles slowly again on the tarnished grass.
And one old man looks down from a dusty window And sees the pigeons circling about the fountain And desires once more to walk among those trees.
Lovers walk in the noontime by that fountain.
Pigeons dip their beaks to drink from the water.
And soon the pond must freeze.
The light wind blows to his ears a sound of laughter, Young men shuffle their feet, loaf in the sunlight; A girl's laugh rings like a silver bell.
But clearer than all these sounds is a sound he hears More in his secret heart than in his ears,— A hammer's steady crescendo, like a knell.
He hears the snarl of pineboards under the plane, The rhythmic saw, and then the hammer again,— Playing with delicate strokes that sombre scale .
.
.
And the fountain dwindles, the sunlight seems to pale.
Time is a dream, he thinks, a destroying dream; It lays great cities in dust, it fills the seas; It covers the face of beauty, and tumbles walls.
Where was the woman he loved? Where was his youth? Where was the dream that burned his brain like fire? Even a dream grows grey at last and falls.
He opened his book once more, beside the window, And read the printed words upon that page.
The sunlight touched his hand; his eyes moved slowly, The quiet words enchanted time and age.
'Death is never an ending, death is a change; Death is beautiful, for death is strange; Death is one dream out of another flowing; Death is a chorded music, softly going By sweet transition from key to richer key.
Death is a meeting place of sea and sea.
'

Book: Radiant Verses: A Journey Through Inspiring Poetry