Best Famous True Or False Poems

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

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• All Famous True Or False Poems

Written by John Wilmot | Upon Nothing Nothing, thou elder brother even to shade, That hadst a being ere the world was made, And (well fixed) art alone of ending not afraid. Ere time and place were, time and place were not, When primitive Nothing Something straight begot, Then all proceeded from the great united--What? Something, the general attribute of all, Severed from thee, its sole original, Into thy boundless self must undistinguished fall. Yet Something did thy mighty power command, And from thy fruitful emptiness's hand, Snatched men, beasts, birds, fire, air, and land. Matter, the wickedest offspring of thy race, By Form assisted, flew from thy embrace, And rebel Light obscured thy reverend dusky face. With Form and Matter, Time and Place did join, Body, thy foe, with these did leagues combine To spoil thy peaceful realm, and ruin all thy line. But turncoat Time assists the foe in vain, And, bribed by thee, assists thy short-lived reign, And to thy hungry womb drives back thy slaves again. Though mysteries are barred from laic eyes, And the Divine alone with warrant pries Into thy bosom, where thy truth in private lies, Yet this of thee the wise may freely say, Thou from the virtuous nothing takest away, And to be part of thee the wicked wisely pray. Great Negative, how vainly would the wise Inquire, define, distinguish, teach, devise? Didst thou not stand to point their dull philosophies. Is, or is not, the two great ends of Fate, And true or false, the subject of debate, That perfects, or destroys, the vast designs of Fate, When they have racked the politician's breast, Within thy bosom most securely rest, And, when reduced to thee, are least unsafe and best. But Nothing, why does Something still permit That sacred monarchs should at council sit With persons highly thought at best for nothing fit? Whist weighty Something modestly abstains From princes' coffers, and from statesmen's brains, And Nothing there like stately Nothing reigns, Nothing, who dwellest with fools in grave disguise, For whom they reverend shapes and forms devise, Lawn sleeves, and furs, and gowns, when they like thee look wise. French truth, Dutch prowess, British policy, Hibernian learning, Scotch civility, Spaniard's dispatch, Dane's wit are mainly seen in thee. The great man's gratitude to his best friend, King's promises, whore's vows, towards thee they bend, Flow swiftly to thee, and in thee never end.

Written by Delmore Schwartz | Love And Marilyn Monroe (after Spillane) Let us be aware of the true dark gods Acknowledgeing the cache of the crotch The primitive pure and pwerful pink and grey private sensitivites Wincing, marvelous in their sweetness, whence rises the future. Therefore let us praise Miss Marilyn Monroe. She has a noble attitude marked by pride and candor She takes a noble pride in the female nature and torso She articualtes her pride with directness and exuberance She is honest in her delight in womanhood and manhood. She is not a great lady, she is more than a lady, She continues the tradition of Dolly Madison and Clara Bow When she says, "any woman who claims she does not like to be grabbed is a liar!" Whether true or false, this colossal remark states a dazzling intention... It might be the birth of a new Venus among us It atones at the very least for such as Carrie Nation For Miss Monroe will never be a blue nose, and perhaps we may hope That there will be fewer blue noses because she has flourished -- Long may she flourish in self-delight and the joy of womanhood. A nation haunted by Puritanism owes her homage and gratitude. Let us praise, to say it again, her spiritual pride And admire one who delights in what she has and is (Who says also: "A woman is like a motor car: She needs a good body." And: "I sun bathe in the nude, because I want to be blonde all over.") This is spiritual piety and physical ebullience This is vivd glory, spiritual and physical, Of Miss Marilyn Monroe.

Written by Edgar Lee Masters | Richard Bone When I first came to Spoon River I did not know whether what they told me Was true or false. They would bring me an epitaph And stand around the shop while I worked And say "He was so kind," "He was wonderful," "She was the sweetest woman," "He was a consistent Christian." And I chiseled for them whatever they wished, All in ignorance of its truth. But later, as I lived among the people here, I knew how near to the life Were the epitaphs that were ordered for them when they died. But still I chiseled whatever they paid me to chisel And made myself party to the false chronicles Of the stones, Even as the historian does who writes Without knowing the truth, Or because he is influenced to hide it.

Written by Francesco Petrarch | Sonnet LXIX SONNET LXIX. Erano i capei d' oro all' aura sparsi. HE PAINTS THE BEAUTIES OF LAURA, PROTESTING HIS UNALTERABLE LOVE. Loose to the breeze her golden tresses flow'dWildly in thousand mazy ringlets blown,And from her eyes unconquer'd glances shone,Those glances now so sparingly bestow'd.And true or false, meseem'd some signs she show'dAs o'er her cheek soft pity's hue was thrown;I, whose whole breast with love's soft food was sown,What wonder if at once my bosom glow'd?Graceful she moved, with more than mortal mien,In form an angel: and her accents wonUpon the ear with more than human sound.A spirit heavenly pure, a living sun,[Pg 89]Was what I saw; and if no more 'twere seen,T' unbend the bow will never heal the wound. Anon., Ox., 1795. Her golden tresses on the wind she threw,Which twisted them in many a beauteous braid;In her fine eyes the burning glances play'd,With lovely light, which now they seldom show:Ah! then it seem'd her face wore pity's hue,Yet haply fancy my fond sense betray'd;Nor strange that I, in whose warm heart was laidLove's fuel, suddenly enkindled grew!Not like a mortal's did her step appear,Angelic was her form; her voice, methought,Pour'd more than human accents on the ear.A living sun was what my vision caught,A spirit pure; and though not such still found,Unbending of the bow ne'er heals the wound. Nott. Her golden tresses to the gale were streaming,That in a thousand knots did them entwine,And the sweet rays which now so rarely shineFrom her enchanting eyes, were brightly beaming,And—was it fancy?—o'er that dear face gleamingMethought I saw Compassion's tint divine;What marvel that this ardent heart of mineBlazed swiftly forth, impatient of Love's dreaming?There was nought mortal in her stately treadBut grace angelic, and her speech awokeThan human voices a far loftier sound,A spirit of heaven,—a living sun she brokeUpon my sight;—what if these charms be fled?—The slackening of the bow heals not the wound. Wrottesley.

Written by Fernando Pessoa | The world is woven all of dream and error The world is woven all of dream and error And but one sureness in our truth may lie-- That when we hold to aught our thinking's mirror We know it not by knowing it thereby. For but one side of things the mirror knows, And knows it colded from its solidness. A double lie its truth is; what it shows By true show's false and nowhere by true place. Thought clouds our life's day-sense with strangeness, yet Never from strangeness more than that it's strange Doth buy our perplexed thinking, for we get But the words' sense from words--knowledge, truth, change. We know the world is false, not what is true. Yet we think on, knowing we ne'er shall know.

Written by William Cowper | True and False Comforts O God, whose favorable eye, The sin-sick soul revives, Holy and heavenly is the joy Thy shining presence gives. Not such as hypocrites suppose, Who with a graceless heart Taste not of Thee, but drink a dose, Prepared by Satan's art. Intoxicating joys are theirs, Who while they boast their light, And seem to soar above the stars, Are plunging into night. Lull'd in a soft and fatal sleep, They sin and yet rejoice; Were they indeed the Saviour's sheep, Would they not hear His voice? Be mine the comforts that reclaim The soul from Satan's power; That make me blush for what I am, And hate my sin the more. 'Tis joy enough, my All in All, At Thy dear feet to lie; Thou wilt not let me lower fall, And none can higher fly.