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Best Famous Tribute Poems

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

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12
Written by Robert Frost | Create an image from this poem

Pauls Wife

 To drive Paul out of any lumber camp
All that was needed was to say to him,
"How is the wife, Paul?"--and he'd disappear.
Some said it was because be bad no wife, And hated to be twitted on the subject; Others because he'd come within a day Or so of having one, and then been Jilted; Others because he'd had one once, a good one, Who'd run away with someone else and left him; And others still because he had one now He only had to be reminded of-- He was all duty to her in a minute: He had to run right off to look her up, As if to say, "That's so, how is my wife? I hope she isn't getting into mischief.
" No one was anxious to get rid of Paul.
He'd been the hero of the mountain camps Ever since, just to show them, he bad slipped The bark of a whole tamarack off whole As clean as boys do off a willow twig To make a willow whistle on a Sunday April by subsiding meadow brooks.
They seemed to ask him just to see him go, "How is the wife, Paul?" and he always went.
He never stopped to murder anyone Who asked the question.
He just disappeared-- Nobody knew in what direction, Although it wasn't usually long Before they beard of him in some new camp, The same Paul at the same old feats of logging.
The question everywhere was why should Paul Object to being asked a civil question-- A man you could say almost anything to Short of a fighting word.
You have the answers.
And there was one more not so fair to Paul: That Paul had married a wife not his equal.
Paul was ashamed of her.
To match a hero She would have had to be a heroine; Instead of which she was some half-breed squaw.
But if the story Murphy told was true, She wasn't anything to be ashamed of.
You know Paul could do wonders.
Everyone's Heard how he thrashed the horses on a load That wouldn't budge, until they simply stretched Their rawhide harness from the load to camp.
Paul told the boss the load would be all right, "The sun will bring your load in"--and it did-- By shrinking the rawhide to natural length.
That's what is called a stretcher.
But I guess The one about his jumping so's to land With both his feet at once against the ceiling, And then land safely right side up again, Back on the floor, is fact or pretty near fact.
Well, this is such a yarn.
Paul sawed his wife Out of a white-pine log.
Murphy was there And, as you might say, saw the lady born.
Paul worked at anything in lumbering.
He'd been bard at it taking boards away For--I forget--the last ambitious sawyer To want to find out if he couldn't pile The lumber on Paul till Paul begged for mercy.
They'd sliced the first slab off a big butt log, And the sawyer had slammed the carriage back To slam end-on again against the saw teeth.
To judge them by the way they caught themselves When they saw what had happened to the log, They must have had a guilty expectation Something was going to go with their slambanging.
Something bad left a broad black streak of grease On the new wood the whole length of the log Except, perhaps, a foot at either end.
But when Paul put his finger in the grease, It wasn't grease at all, but a long slot.
The log was hollow.
They were sawing pine.
"First time I ever saw a hollow pine.
That comes of having Paul around the place.
Take it to bell for me," the sawyer said.
Everyone had to have a look at it And tell Paul what he ought to do about it.
(They treated it as his.
) "You take a jackknife, And spread the opening, and you've got a dugout All dug to go a-fishing in.
" To Paul The hollow looked too sound and clean and empty Ever to have housed birds or beasts or bees.
There was no entrance for them to get in by.
It looked to him like some new kind of hollow He thought he'd better take his jackknife to.
So after work that evening be came back And let enough light into it by cutting To see if it was empty.
He made out in there A slender length of pith, or was it pith? It might have been the skin a snake had cast And left stood up on end inside the tree The hundred years the tree must have been growing.
More cutting and he bad this in both hands, And looking from it to the pond nearby, Paul wondered how it would respond to water.
Not a breeze stirred, but just the breath of air He made in walking slowly to the beach Blew it once off his hands and almost broke it.
He laid it at the edge, where it could drink.
At the first drink it rustled and grew limp.
At the next drink it grew invisible.
Paul dragged the shallows for it with his fingers, And thought it must have melted.
It was gone.
And then beyond the open water, dim with midges, Where the log drive lay pressed against the boom, It slowly rose a person, rose a girl, Her wet hair heavy on her like a helmet, Who, leaning on a log, looked back at Paul.
And that made Paul in turn look back To see if it was anyone behind him That she was looking at instead of him.
(Murphy had been there watching all the time, But from a shed where neither of them could see him.
) There was a moment of suspense in birth When the girl seemed too waterlogged to live, Before she caught her first breath with a gasp And laughed.
Then she climbed slowly to her feet, And walked off, talking to herself or Paul, Across the logs like backs of alligators, Paul taking after her around the pond.
Next evening Murphy and some other fellows Got drunk, and tracked the pair up Catamount, From the bare top of which there is a view TO other hills across a kettle valley.
And there, well after dark, let Murphy tell it, They saw Paul and his creature keeping house.
It was the only glimpse that anyone Has had of Paul and her since Murphy saw them Falling in love across the twilight millpond.
More than a mile across the wilderness They sat together halfway up a cliff In a small niche let into it, the girl Brightly, as if a star played on the place, Paul darkly, like her shadow.
All the light Was from the girl herself, though, not from a star, As was apparent from what happened next.
All those great ruffians put their throats together, And let out a loud yell, and threw a bottle, As a brute tribute of respect to beauty.
Of course the bottle fell short by a mile, But the shout reached the girl and put her light out.
She went out like a firefly, and that was all.
So there were witnesses that Paul was married And not to anyone to be ashamed of Everyone had been wrong in judging Paul.
Murphy told me Paul put on all those airs About his wife to keep her to himself.
Paul was what's called a terrible possessor.
Owning a wife with him meant owning her.
She wasn't anybody else's business, Either to praise her or much as name her, And he'd thank people not to think of her.
Murphy's idea was that a man like Paul Wouldn't be spoken to about a wife In any way the world knew how to speak.
Written by Sarojini Naidu | Create an image from this poem

Harvest Hymn

 Mens Voices:

LORD of the lotus, lord of the harvest, 
Bright and munificent lord of the morn! 
Thine is the bounty that prospered our sowing, 
Thine is the bounty that nurtured our corn.
We bring thee our songs and our garlands for tribute, The gold of our fields and the gold of our fruit; O giver of mellowing radiance, we hail thee, We praise thee, O Surya, with cymbal and flute.
Lord of the rainbow, lord of the harvest, Great and beneficent lord of the main! Thine is the mercy that cherished our furrows, Thine is the mercy that fostered our grain.
We bring thee our thanks and our garlands for tribute, The wealth of our valleys, new-garnered and ripe; O sender of rain and the dewfall, we hail thee, We praise thee, Varuna, with cymbal and pipe.
Womens Voices: Queen of the gourd-flower, queen of the har- vest, Sweet and omnipotent mother, O Earth! Thine is the plentiful bosom that feeds us, Thine is the womb where our riches have birth.
We bring thee our love and our garlands for tribute, With gifts of thy opulent giving we come; O source of our manifold gladness, we hail thee, We praise thee, O Prithvi, with cymbal and drum.
All Voices: Lord of the Universe, Lord of our being, Father eternal, ineffable Om! Thou art the Seed and the Scythe of our harvests, Thou art our Hands and our Heart and our Home.
We bring thee our lives and our labours for tribute, Grant us thy succour, thy counsel, thy care.
O Life of all life and all blessing, we hail thee, We praise thee, O Bramha, with cymbal and prayer
Written by Anne Bronte | Create an image from this poem

Memory

 Brightly the sun of summer shone,
Green fields and waving woods upon,
And soft winds wandered by;
Above, a sky of purest blue,
Around, bright flowers of loveliest hue,
Allured the gazer's eye.
But what were all these charms to me, When one sweet breath of memory Came gently wafting by? I closed my eyes against the day, And called my willing soul away, From earth, and air, and sky; That I might simply fancy there One little flower -- a primrose fair, Just opening into sight; As in the days of infancy, An opening primrose seemed to me A source of strange delight.
Sweet Memory! ever smile on me; Nature's chief beauties spring from thee, Oh, still thy tribute bring! Still make the golden crocus shine Among the flowers the most divine, The glory of the spring.
Still in the wall-flower's fragrance dwell; And hover round the slight blue bell, My childhood's darling flower.
Smile on the little daisy still, The buttercup's bright goblet fill With all thy former power.
For ever hang thy dreamy spell Round mountain star and heather bell, And do not pass away From sparkling frost, or wreathed snow, And whisper when the wild winds blow, Or rippling waters play.
Is childhood, then, so all divine? Or Memory, is the glory thine, That haloes thus the past? Not all divine; its pangs of grief, (Although, perchance, their stay be brief,) Are bitter while they last.
Nor is the glory all thine own, For on our earliest joys alone That holy light is cast.
With such a ray, no spell of thine Can make our later pleasures shine, Though long ago they passed.
Written by Thomas Gray | Create an image from this poem

Elegy Written In A Country Churchyard

 The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea,
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds; Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such as, wandering near her secret bower, Molest her ancient solitary reign.
Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.
The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.
For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or busy housewife ply her evening-care; No children run to lisp their sire's return, Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.
Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke: How jocund did they drive their team afield! How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys and destiny obscure; Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor.
The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Awaits alike th' inevitable hour.
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, Where through the long-drawn aisle, and fretted vault, The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.
Can storied urn, or animated bust, Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust, Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of Death? Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; Hands, that the rod of empire might have swayed, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre; But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page, Rich with the spoils of Time, did ne'er unroll; Chill Penury repressed their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.
Full many a gem of purest ray serene The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear; Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air.
Some village-Hampden that with dauntless breast The little tyrant of his fields withstood, Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest, Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood.
Th' applause of list'ning senates to command, The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, And read their history in a nation's eyes, Their lot forbad: nor circumscribed alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined; Forbad to wade through slaughter to a throne, And shut the Gates of Mercy on mankind, The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride With incense kindled at the Muse's flame.
Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife Their sober wishes never learned to stray; Along the cool sequestered vale of life They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.
Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protect Some frail memorial still erected nigh, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked, Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
Their name, their years, spelt by th' unlettered Muse, The place of fame and elegy supply: And many a holy text around she strews, That teach the rustic moralist to die.
For who, to dumb Forgetfulness a prey, This pleasing anxious being e'er resigned, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor cast one longing ling'ring look behind? On some fond breast the parting soul relies, Some pious drops the closing eye requires; Ev'n from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, Ev'n in our ashes live their wonted fires.
For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonoured dead, Dost in these lines their artless tale relate; If chance, by lonely Contemplation led, Some kindred spirit shall enquire thy fate,— Haply some hoary-headed swain may say "Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn Brushing with hasty steps the dews away To meet the sun upon the upland lawn; "There at the foot of yonder nodding beech, That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, His listless length at noon-tide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that babbles by.
"Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, Mutt'ring his wayward fancies would he rove; Now drooping, woeful-wan, like one forlorn, Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love.
"One morn I missed him from the customed hill, Along the heath, and near his fav'rite tree; Another came; nor yet beside the rill, Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he: "The next, with dirges due in sad array Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne,— Approach and read, for thou can'st read, the lay Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.
" THE EPITAPH Here rests his head upon the lap of earth A Youth, to Fortune and to Fame unknown: Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth, And Melancholy marked him for her own.
Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, Heaven did a recompense as largely send: He gave to Misery (all he had) a tear, He gained from Heaven ('twas all he wished) a friend.
No farther seek his merits to disclose, Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, (There they alike in trembling hope repose,) The bosom of his Father and his God.
Written by Percy Bysshe Shelley | Create an image from this poem

Mont Blanc

 (Lines written in the Vale of Chamouni)

1

The everlasting universe of things
Flows through the mind, and rolls its rapid waves,
Now dark - now glittering - now reflecting gloom -
Now lending splendor, where from secret springs
The source of human thought its tribute brings
Of waters, - with a sound but half its own,
Such as a feeble brook will oft assume
In the wild woods, amon the mountains lone,
Where waterfalls around it leap for ever,
Where woods and winds contend, and a vast river
Over its rocks ceaselessly bursts and raves.
2 Thus thou, Ravine of Arve - dark, deep Ravine- Thou many-colored, many voiced vale, Over whose pines, and crags, and caverns sail Fast cloud-shadows and sunbeams: awful scene, Where Power in likeness of the Arve comes down From the ice-gulfs that gird his secret throne, Bursting through these dark mountains like the flame Of lightning through the tempest; -thou dost lie, Thy giant brood of pines around thee clinging, Children of elder time, in whose devotion The chainless winds still come and ever came To drink their odors, and their mighty swinging To hear - an old and solemn harmony; Thine earthly rainbows stretched across the sweep Of the ethereal waterfall, whose veil Robes some unsculptured image; the strange sleep Which when the voices of the desert fail Wraps all in its own deep eternity;- Thy caverns echoing to the Arve's commotion, A loud, lone sound no other sound can tame; Thou art pervaded with that ceaseless motion, Thou art the path of that unresting sound- Dizzy Ravine! and when I gaze on thee I seem as in a trance sublime and strange To muse on my own separate fantasy, My own, my human mind, which passively Now renders and receives fast influencings, Holding an unremitting interchange With the clear universe of things around; One legion of wild thoughts, whose wandering wings Now float above thy darkness, and now rest Where that or thou art no unbidden guest, In the still cave of the witch Poesy, Seeking among the shadows that pass by Ghosts of all things that are, some shade of thee, Some phantom, some faint image; till the breast From which they fled recalls them, thou art there! 3 Some say that gleams of a remoter world Visit the soul in sleep,-that death is slumber, And that its shapes the busy thoughts outnumber Of those who wake and live.
-I look on high; Has some unknown omnipotence unfurled The veil of life and death? or do I lie In dream, and does the mightier world of sleep Spread far and round and inaccessibly Its circles? For the very spirit fails, Driven like a homeless cloud from steep to steep That vanishes amon the viewless gales! Far, far above, piercing the infinite sky, Mont Blanc appears,-still snowy and serene- Its subject mountains their unearthly forms Pile around it, ice and rock; broad vales between Of frozen floods, unfathomable deeps, Blue as the overhanging heaven, that spread And wind among the accumulated steeps; A desert peopled by the storms alone, Save when the eagle brings some hunter's bone, And the wolf tracks her there - how hideously Its shapes are heaped around! rude, bare, and high, Ghastly, and scarred, and riven.
-Is this the scene Where the old Earthquake-demon taught her young Ruin? Were these their toys? or did a sea Of fire envelop once this silent snow? None can reply - all seems eternal now.
The wilderness has a mysterious tongue Which teaches awful doubt, or faith so mild, So solemn, so serene, that man may be, But for such faith, with nature reconciled; Thou hast a voice, great Mountain, to repeal Large codes of fraud and woe; not understood By all, but which the wise, and great, and good Interpret, or make felt, or deeply feel.
4 The fields, the lakes, the forests, and the streams, Ocean, and all the living things that dwell Within the daedal earth; lightning, and rain, Earthquake, and fiery flood, and hurricane, The torpor of the year when feeble dreams Visit the hidden buds, or dreamless sleep Holds every future leaf and flower; -the bound With which from that detested trance they leap; The works and ways of man, their death and birth, And that of him, and all that his may be; All things that move and breathe with toil and sound Are born and die; revolve, subside, and swell.
Power dwells apart in its tranquility, Remote, serene, and inaccessible: And this, the naked countenance of earth, On which I gaze, even these primeval mountains Teach the adverting mind.
The glaciers creep Like snakes that watch their prey, from their far fountains, Slow rolling on; there, many a precipice, Frost and the Sun in scorn of mortal power Have piled: dome, pyramid, and pinnacle, A city of death, distinct with many a tower And wall impregnable of beaming ice.
Yet not a city, but a flood of ruin Is there, that from the boundaries of the sky Rolls its perpetual stream; vast pines are strewing Its destined path, or in the mangled soil Branchless and shattered stand; the rocks, drawn down From yon remotest waste, have overthrown The limits of the dead and living world, Never to be reclaimed.
The dwelling-place Of insects, beasts, and birds, becomes its spoil Their food and their retreat for ever gone, So much of life and joy is lost.
The race Of man flies far in dread; his work and dwelling Vanish, like smoke before the tempest's stream, And their place is not known.
Below, vast caves Shine in the rushing torrents' restless gleam, Which from those secret chasms in tumult welling Meet in the vale, and one majestic River, The breath and blood of distant lands , for ever Rolls its loud waters to the ocean-waves, Breathes its swift vapors to the circling air.
5 Mont Blanc yet gleams on high:-the power is there, The still and solemn power of many sights, And many sounds, and much of life and death.
In the calm darkness of the moonless nights, In the lone glare of day, the snows descend Upon that mountain; none beholds them there, Nor when the flakes burn in the sinking sun, Or the star-beams dart through them:-Winds contend Silently there, and heap the snow with breath Rapid and strong, but silently! Its home The voiceless lightning in these solitudes Keeps innocently, and like vapor broods Over the snow.
The secret Strength of things Which governs thought, and to the infinite dome Of Heaven is as a law, inhabits thee! And what were thou, and earth, and stars, and sea, If to the human mind's imaginings Silence and solitude were vacancy?
Written by Sarojini Naidu | Create an image from this poem

To The God of Pain

 UNWILLING priestess in thy cruel fane, 
Long hast thou held me, pitiless god of Pain, 
Bound to thy worship by reluctant vows, 
My tired breast girt with suffering, and my brows 
Anointed with perpetual weariness.
Long have I borne thy service, through the stress Of rigorous years, sad days and slumberless nights, Performing thine inexorable rites.
For thy dark altars, balm nor milk nor rice, But mine own soul thou'st ta'en for sacrifice: All the rich honey of my youth's desire, And all the sweet oils from my crushed life drawn, And all my flower-like dreams and gem-like fire Of hopes up-leaping like the light of dawn.
I have no more to give, all that was mine Is laid, a wrested tribute, at thy shrine; Let me depart, for my whole soul is wrung, And all my cheerless orisons are sung; Let me depart, with faint limbs let me creep To some dim shade and sink me down to sleep.
Written by Emanuel Xavier | Create an image from this poem

WARS and RUMORS OF WARS

 “Ye shall hear of wars and rumors of wars;
see that ye not be troubles;
all these things must come to pass, but the end is not yet”
-Matthew 24:6

1.
I escape the horrors of war with a towel and a room Offering myself to Palestinian and Jewish boys as a ‘piece’ to the Middle East when I should be concerned with the untimely deaths of dark-skinned babies and the brutal murders of light-skinned fathers 2.
I’ve been more consumed with how to make the cover of local *** rags than how to open the minds of angry little boys trotting loaded guns Helpless in finding words that will stop the blood from spilling like secrets into soil where great prophets are buried 3.
I return to the same spaces where I once dealt drugs a celebrated author gliding past velvet ropes while my club kid friends are mostly dead from an overdose or HIV-related symptoms Marilyn wears the crown of thorns while 4 out of the 5 weapons used to kill Columbine students had been sold by the same police force that came to their rescue Not all terrorists have features too foreign to be recognized in the mirror Our mistakes are our responsibility 4.
The skyline outside my window is the only thing that has changed Men still rape women and blame them for their weaknesses Children are still molested by the perversion of Catholic guilt My ex-boyfriend still takes comfort in the other white powder- the one used solely to destroy himself and those around him Not the one used to ignite and create carnage or mailbox fear 5.
It is said when skin is cut, and then pressed together, it seals but what about acid-burned skulls engraved with the word ‘******’, a foot bone with flesh and other crushed body parts 6.
It was a gay priest that read last rites to firefighters as towers collapsed It was a gay pilot that crashed a plane into Pennsylvania fields It was a gay couple that was responsible for the tribute of light in memory of the fallen Taliban leaders would bury them to their necks and tumble walls to crush their heads Catholic leaders simply condemn them as perverts having offered nothing but sin ***** blood is just rosaries scattered on tile 7.
Heroes do not always get heaven 8.
We all have wings .
.
.
some of us just don’t know why
Written by Oliver Wendell Holmes | Create an image from this poem

The Iron Gate

 WHERE is this patriarch you are kindly greeting?
Not unfamiliar to my ear his name,
Nor yet unknown to many a joyous meeting
In days long vanished,-- is he still the same,

Or changed by years, forgotten and forgetting,
Dull-eared, dim-sighted, slow of speech and thought,
Still o'er the sad, degenerate present fretting,
Where all goes wrong, and nothing as it ought?

Old age, the graybeard! Well, indeed, I know him,--
Shrunk, tottering, bent, of aches and ills the prey;
In sermon, story, fable, picture, poem,
Oft have I met him from my earliest day:

In my old Aesop, toiling with his bundle,--
His load of sticks,-- politely asking Death,
Who comes when called for,-- would he lug or trundle
His fagot for him?-- he was scant of breath.
And sad "Ecclesiastes, or the Preacher,"-- Has he not stamped tbe image on my soul, In that last chapter, where the worn-out Teacher Sighs o'er the loosened cord, the broken bowl? Yes, long, indeed, I 've known him at a distance, And now my lifted door-latch shows him here; I take his shrivelled hand without resistance, And find him smiling as his step draws near.
What though of gilded baubles he bereaves us, Dear to the heart of youth, to manhood's prime; Think of the calm he brings, the wealth he leaves us, The hoarded spoils, the legacies of time! Altars once flaming, still with incense fragrant, Passion's uneasy nurslings rocked asleep, Hope's anchor faster, wild desire less vagrant, Life's flow less noisy, but the stream how deep! Still as the silver cord gets worn and slender, Its lightened task-work tugs with lessening strain, Hands get more helpful, voices, grown more tender, Soothe with their softened tones the slumberous brain.
Youth longs and manhood strives, but age remembers, Sits by the raked-up ashes of the past, Spreads its thin hands above the whitening embers That warm its creeping life-blood till the last.
Dear to its heart is every loving token That comes unbidden era its pulse grows cold, Ere the last lingering ties of life are broken, Its labors ended and its story told.
Ah, while around us rosy youth rejoices, For us the sorrow-laden breezes sigh, And through the chorus of its jocund voices Throbs the sharp note of misery's hopeless cry.
As on the gauzy wings of fancy flying From some far orb I track our watery sphere, Home of the struggling, suffering, doubting, dying, The silvered globule seems a glistening tear.
But Nature lends her mirror of illusion To win from saddening scenes our age-dimmed eyes, And misty day-dreams blend in sweet confusion The wintry landscape and the summer skies.
So when the iron portal shuts behind us, And life forgets us in its noise and whirl, Visions that shunned the glaring noonday find us, And glimmering starlight shows the gates of pearl.
I come not here your morning hour to sadden, A limping pilgrim, leaning on his staff,-- I, who have never deemed it sin to gladden This vale of sorrows with a wholesome laugh.
If word of mine another's gloom has brightened, Through my dumb lips the heaven-sent message came; If hand of mine another's task has lightened, It felt the guidance that it dares not claim.
But, O my gentle sisters, O my brothers, These thick-sown snow-flakes hint of toil's release; These feebler pulses bid me leave to others The tasks once welcome; evening asks for peace.
Time claims his tribute; silence now golden; Let me not vex the too long suffering lyre; Though to your love untiring still beholden, The curfew tells me-- cover up the fire.
And now with grateful smile and accents cheerful, And warmer heart than look or word can tell, In simplest phrase-- these traitorous eyes are tearful-- Thanks, Brothers, Sisters,-- Children,-- and farewell!
Written by John Donne | Create an image from this poem

Elegy XVIII: Loves Progress

 Who ever loves, if he do not propose
The right true end of love, he's one that goes
To sea for nothing but to make him sick.
Love is a bear-whelp born: if we o'erlick Our love, and force it new strange shapes to take, We err, and of a lump a monster make.
Were not a calf a monster that were grown Faced like a man, though better than his own? Perfection is in unity: prefer One woman first, and then one thing in her.
I, when I value gold, may think upon The ductileness, the application, The wholsomeness, the ingenuity, From rust, from soil, from fire ever free; But if I love it, 'tis because 'tis made By our new nature (Use) the soul of trade.
All these in women we might think upon (If women had them) and yet love but one.
Can men more injure women than to say They love them for that by which they're not they? Makes virtue woman? Must I cool my blood Till I both be, and find one, wise and good? May barren angels love so! But if we Make love to woman, virtue is not she, As beauty's not, nor wealth.
He that strays thus From her to hers is more adulterous Than if he took her maid.
Search every sphere And firmament, our Cupid is not there; He's an infernal god, and under ground With Pluto dwells, where gold and fire abound: Men to such gods their sacrificing coals Did not in altars lay, but pits and holes.
Although we see celestial bodies move Above the earth, the earth we till and love: So we her airs contemplate, words and heart And virtues, but we love the centric part.
Nor is the soul more worthy, or more fit, For love than this, as infinite is it.
But in attaining this desired place How much they err that set out at the face.
The hair a forest is of ambushes, Of springs, snares, fetters and manacles; The brow becalms us when 'tis smooth and plain, And when 'tis wrinkled shipwrecks us again— Smooth, 'tis a paradise where we would have Immortal stay, and wrinkled 'tis our grave.
The nose (like to the first meridian) runs Not 'twixt an East and West, but 'twixt two suns; It leaves a cheek, a rosy hemisphere, On either side, and then directs us where Upon the Islands Fortunate we fall, (Not faint Canaries, but Ambrosial) Her swelling lips; to which when we are come, We anchor there, and think ourselves at home, For they seem all: there Sirens' songs, and there Wise Delphic oracles do fill the ear; There in a creek where chosen pearls do swell, The remora, her cleaving tongue doth dwell.
These, and the glorious promontory, her chin, O'erpassed, and the straight Hellespont between The Sestos and Abydos of her breasts, (Not of two lovers, but two loves the nests) Succeeds a boundless sea, but yet thine eye Some island moles may scattered there descry; And sailing towards her India, in that way Shall at her fair Atlantic navel stay; Though thence the current be thy pilot made, Yet ere thou be where thou wouldst be embayed Thou shalt upon another forest set, Where many shipwreck and no further get.
When thou art there, consider what this chase Misspent by thy beginning at the face.
Rather set out below; practise my art.
Some symetry the foot hath with that part Which thou dost seek, and is thy map for that, Lovely enough to stop, but not stay at; Least subject to disguise and change it is— Men say the devil never can change his.
It is the emblem that hath figured Firmness; 'tis the first part that comes to bed.
Civility we see refined; the kiss Which at the face began, transplanted is, Since to the hand, since to the imperial knee, Now at the papal foot delights to be: If kings think that the nearer way, and do Rise from the foot, lovers may do so too; For as free spheres move faster far than can Birds, whom the air resists, so may that man Which goes this empty and ethereal way, Than if at beauty's elements he stay.
Rich nature hath in women wisely made Two purses, and their mouths aversely laid: They then which to the lower tribute owe That way which that exchequer looks must go: He which doth not, his error is as great As who by clyster gave the stomach meat.
Written by Vladimir Mayakovsky | Create an image from this poem

Past One O'Clock ..

 Past one o’clock.
You must have gone to bed.
The Milky Way streams silver through the night.
I’m in no hurry; with lightning telegrams I have no cause to wake or trouble you.
And, as they say, the incident is closed.
Love’s boat has smashed against the daily grind.
Now you and I are quits.
Why bother then To balance mutual sorrows, pains, and hurts.
Behold what quiet settles on the world.
Night wraps the sky in tribute from the stars.
In hours like these, one rises to address The ages, history, and all creation.
Transcribed: by Mitch Abidor.
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