Best Famous Trumpeting Poems

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

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• All Famous Trumpeting Poems

Written by Vachel Lindsay | The Tale of the Tiger-Tree A Fantasy, dedicated to the little poet Alice Oliver Henderson, ten years old. The Fantasy shows how tiger-hearts are the cause of war in all ages. It shows how the mammoth forces may be either friends or enemies of the struggle for peace. It shows how the dream of peace is unconquerable and eternal. I Peace-of-the-Heart, my own for long, Whose shining hair the May-winds fan, Making it tangled as they can, A mystery still, star-shining yet, Through ancient ages known to me And now once more reborn with me: — This is the tale of the Tiger Tree A hundred times the height of a man, Lord of the race since the world began. This is my city Springfield, My home on the breast of the plain. The state house towers to heaven, By an arsenal gray as the rain... And suddenly all is mist, And I walk in a world apart, In the forest-age when I first knelt down At your feet, O Peace-of-the-Heart. This is the wonder of twilight: Three times as high as the dome Tiger-striped trees encircle the town, Golden geysers of foam. While giant white parrots sail past in their pride. The roofs now are clouds and storms that they ride. And there with the huntsmen of mound-builder days Through jungle and meadow I stride. And the Tiger Tree leaf is falling around As it fell when the world began: Like a monstrous tiger-skin, stretched on the ground, Or the cloak of a medicine man. A deep-crumpled gossamer web, Fringed with the fangs of a snake. The wind swirls it down from the leperous boughs. It shimmers on clay-hill and lake, With the gleam of great bubbles of blood, Or coiled like a rainbow shell.... I feast on the stem of the Leaf as I march. I am burning with Heaven and Hell. II The gray king died in his hour. Then we crowned you, the prophetess wise: Peace-of-the-Heart we deeply adored For the witchcraft hid in your eyes. Gift from the sky, overmastering all, You sent forth your magical parrots to call The plot-hatching prince of the tigers, To your throne by the red-clay wall. Thus came that genius insane: Spitting and slinking, Sneering and vain, He sprawled to your grassy throne, drunk on The Leaf, The drug that was cunning and splendor and grief. He had fled from the mammoth by day, He had blasted the mammoth by night, War was his drunkenness, War was his dreaming, War was his love and his play. And he hissed at your heavenly glory While his councillors snarled in delight, Asking in irony: "What shall we learn From this whisperer, fragile and white?" And had you not been an enchantress They would not have loitered to mock Nor spared your white parrots who walked by their paws With bantering venturesome talk. You made a white fire of The Leaf. You sang while the tiger-chiefs hissed. You chanted of "Peace to the wonderful world." And they saw you in dazzling mist. And their steps were no longer insane, Kindness came down like the rain, They dreamed that like fleet young ponies they feasted On succulent grasses and grain. Then came the black-mammoth chief: Long-haired and shaggy and great, Proud and sagacious he marshalled his court: (You had sent him your parrots of state.) His trunk in rebellion upcurled, A curse at the tiger he hurled. Huge elephants trumpeted there by his side, And mastodon-chiefs of the world. But higher magic began. For the turbulent vassals of man. You harnessed their fever, you conquered their ire, Their hearts turned to flowers through holy desire, For their darling and star you were crowned, And their raging demons were bound. You rode on the back of the yellow-streaked king, His loose neck was wreathed with a mistletoe ring. Primordial elephants loomed by your side, And our clay-painted children danced by your path, Chanting the death of the kingdoms of wrath. You wrought until night with us all. The fierce brutes fawned at your call, Then slipped to their lairs, song-chained. And thus you sang sweetly, and reigned: "Immortal is the inner peace, free to beasts and men. Beginning in the darkness, the mystery will conquer, And now it comforts every heart that seeks for love again. And now the mammoth bows the knee, We hew down every Tiger Tree, We send each tiger bound in love and glory to his den, Bound in love...and wisdom...and glory,...to his den." III "Beware of the trumpeting swine," Came the howl from the northward that night. Twice-rebel tigers warning was still If we held not beside them it boded us ill. From the parrots translating the cry, And the apes in the trees came the whine: "Beware of the trumpeting swine. Beware of the faith of a mammoth." "Beware of the faith of a tiger," Came the roar from the southward that night. Trumpeting mammoths warning us still If we held not beside them it boded us ill. The frail apes wailed to us all, The parrots reëchoed the call: "Beware of the faith of a tiger." From the heights of the forest the watchers could see The tiger-cats crunching the Leaf of the Tree Lashing themselves, and scattering foam, Killing our huntsmen, hurrying home. The chiefs of the mammoths our mastery spurned, And eastward restlessly fumed and burned. The peacocks squalled out the news of their drilling And told how they trampled, maneuvered, and turned. Ten thousand man-hating tigers Whirling down from the north, like a flood! Ten thousand mammoths oncoming From the south as avengers of blood! Our child-queen was mourning, her magic was dead, The roots of the Tiger Tree reeking with red. IV This is the tale of the Tiger Tree A hundred times the height of a man, Lord of the race since the world began. We marched to the mammoths, We pledged them our steel, And scorning you, sang: — "We are men, We are men." We mounted their necks, And they stamped a wide reel. We sang: "We are fighting the hell-cats again, We are mound-builder men, We are elephant men." We left you there, lonely, Beauty your power, Wisdom your watchman, To hold the clay tower. While the black-mammoths boomed — "You are elephant men, Men, Men, Elephant men." The dawn-winds prophesied battles untold. While the Tiger Trees roared of the glories of old, Of the masterful spirits and hard. The drunken cats came in their joy In the sunrise, a glittering wave. "We are tigers, are tigers," they yowled. "Down, Down, Go the swine to the grave." But we tramp Tramp Trampled them there, Then charged with our sabres and spears. The swish of the sabre, The swish of the sabre, Was a marvellous tune in our ears. We yelled "We are men, We are men." As we bled to death in the sun.... Then staunched our horrible wounds With the cry that the battle was won.... And at last, When the black-mammoth legion Split the night with their song: — "Right is braver than wrong, Right is stronger than wrong," The buzzards came taunting: "Down from the north Tiger-nations are sweeping along." Then we ate of the ravening Leaf As our savage fathers of old. No longer our wounds made us weak, No longer our pulses were cold. Though half of my troops were afoot, (For the great who had borne them were slain) We dreamed we were tigers, and leaped And foamed with that vision insane. We cried "We are soldiers of doom, Doom, Sabres of glory and doom." We wreathed the king of the mammoths In the tiger-leaves' terrible bloom. We flattered the king of the mammoths, Loud-rattling sabres and spears. The swish of the sabre, The swish of the sabre, Was a marvellous tune in his ears. V This was the end of the battle. The tigers poured by in a tide Over us all with their caterwaul call, "We are the tigers," They cried. "We are the sabres," They cried. But we laughed while our blades swept wide, While the dawn-rays stabbed through the gloom. "We are suns on fire" was our yell — "Suns on fire."... But man-child and mastodon fell, Mammoth and elephant fell. The fangs of the devil-cats closed on the world, Plunged it to blackness and doom. The desolate red-clay wall Echoed the parrots' call: — "Immortal is the inner peace, free to beasts and men. Beginning in the darkness, the mystery will conquer, And now it comforts every heart that seeks for love again. And now the mammoth bows the knee, We hew down every Tiger Tree, We send each tiger bound in love and glory to his den, Bound in love... and wisdom... and glory,... to his den." A peacock screamed of his beauty On that broken wall by the trees, Chiding his little mate, Spreading his fans in the breeze... And you, with eyes of a bride, Knelt on the wall at my side, The deathless song in your mouth... A million new tigers swept south... As we laughed at the peacock, and died. This is my vision in Springfield: Three times as high as the dome, Tiger-striped trees encircle the town, Golden geysers of foam; — Though giant white parrots sail past, giving voice, Though I walk with Peace-of-the-Heart and rejoice.

Written by Barry Tebb | Hughes' Voice In My Head As soon as we crossed into Yorkshire Hughes’ voice assailed me, unmistakable Gravel and honey, a raw celebration of rain Like a tattered lacework window; Black glisten on roof slates, Tarmac turned to shining ice, Blusters of naked wind whipping The wavelets of shifting water To imaginary floating islets On the turbulent river Glumly he asked, "Where are the mills?" Knowing their goneness in his lonely heart. "Where are the mines with their turning spokes, Lurking slag heaps, bolts of coal split with Shimmering fools’ gold tumbling into waiting wagons? Mostly what I came for was a last glimpse Of the rock hanging over my cot, that towering Sheerness fifty fathoms high screed with ferns And failing tree roots, crumbling footholds And dour smile. A monument needs to be known For what it is, not a tourist slot or geological stratum But the dark mentor loosing wolf’s bane At my sleeping head." When the coach lurches over the county boundary, If not Hughes’ voice then Heaney’s or Hill’s Ringing like miners’ boots flinging sparks From the flagstones, piercing the lens of winter, Jutting like tongues of crooked rock Lapping a mossed slab, an altar outgrown, Dumped when the trumpeting hosannas Had finally riven the air of the valley. And I, myself, what did I make of it? The voices coming into my head Welcoming kin, alive or dead, my eyes Jerking to the roadside magpie, Its white tail-bar doing a hop, skip and jump.

Written by William Butler Yeats | Nineteen Hundred And Nineteen I Many ingenious lovely things are gone That seemed sheer miracle to the multitude, protected from the circle of the moon That pitches common things about. There stood Amid the ornamental bronze and stone An ancient image made of olive wood - And gone are phidias' famous ivories And all the golden grasshoppers and bees. We too had many pretty toys when young: A law indifferent to blame or praise, To bribe or threat; habits that made old wrong Melt down, as it were wax in the sun's rays; Public opinion ripening for so long We thought it would outlive all future days. O what fine thought we had because we thought That the worst rogues and rascals had died out. All teeth were drawn, all ancient tricks unlearned, And a great army but a showy thing; What matter that no cannon had been turned Into a ploughshare? Parliament and king Thought that unless a little powder burned The trumpeters might burst with trumpeting And yet it lack all glory; and perchance The guardsmen's drowsy chargers would not prance. Now days are dragon-ridden, the nightmare Rides upon sleep: a drunken soldiery Can leave the mother, murdered at her door, To crawl in her own blood, and go scot-free; The night can sweat with terror as before We pieced our thoughts into philosophy, And planned to bring the world under a rule, Who are but weasels fighting in a hole. He who can read the signs nor sink unmanned Into the half-deceit of some intoxicant From shallow wits; who knows no work can stand, Whether health, wealth or peace of mind were spent On master-work of intellect or hand, No honour leave its mighty monument, Has but one comfort left: all triumph would But break upon his ghostly solitude. But is there any comfort to be found? Man is in love and loves what vanishes, What more is there to say? That country round None dared admit, if Such a thought were his, Incendiary or bigot could be found To burn that stump on the Acropolis, Or break in bits the famous ivories Or traffic in the grasshoppers or bees.

Written by Rg Gregory | the man the gun and the dog yesterday the man was pleased the sun sat in the tree and all upon the land held to the harmony his coming then expected his gun in his arm his dog at his heels a blackbird sang on a high branch a white horse ambled by the hedge a brindled cow munched grass - the man shared his heartbeat with them his gun in his arm his dog at his heels today he was disturbed - a mist obscured what grew inside and out a tree loomed upon him like a threat his walk had nothing safe about it a gun in his arm a dog at his heels a huge crow shrieked from the tree its wings churning the mist its beak sharpening for attack its claws reaching for the man's eyes shoot said the gun the dog stayed at his heels the man shot - once - and the crow reared backwards from the blast a thunder cloud dripping red rain and fell to earth a muted blackbird good said the gun the dog stayed at his heels an elephant (but white as leprosy) with trunk and tusks upraised crashed through the hedge trumpeting and causing earth and man to shudder violently shoot shoot said the gun the dog stayed at his heels the man shot - twice - and the beast bellowing with a disbelieving pain exploded (staining the mist deep red) and fell to earth an old white horse good good said the gun the dog stayed at his heels a mammoth buffalo brindled and bristling a taste for death snorting from its snout hurtled towards the man - with flecks of flesh still hanging from its jaws shoot shoot shoot said the gun the dog stayed at his heels the man shot - thrice - and the monster spun round with the savagest of roars drenching the landscape in a hot red spray then fell to earth a gentle brindled cow good good good said the gun the dog barked once the man stood stunned in the thick mist alien to the fields he had known from his first breath - he comprehended nothing but the gun in his hand shoot shoot shoot shoot said the gun the dog barked twice the man shot - four times - and the dog with not a sound fell to earth and rolled on its back - its four legs sticking stiffly in the air good good good good said the gun as the dog lay still the man looked hard at the dog and saw an upside down reflection of himself he hurled the gun (bereft of bullets) into a pond - it stuck stock-upwards the gun reverted to the tree its wood had come from the dog was lifted skywards by invisible cords the man went on walking - for days the man stood stunned in the thick mist alien to the fields he had known from his first breath - he comprehended nothing but the gun in his hand shoot shoot shoot shoot said the gun the dog barked twice the man shot - four times - and the dog with not a sound fell to earth and rolled on its back - its four legs sticking stiffly in the air good good good good said the gun as the dog lay still the man looked hard at the dog and saw an upside down reflection of himself he hurled the gun (bereft of bullets) into a pond - it stuck stock-upwards the gun reverted to the tree its wood had come from the dog was lifted skywards by invisible cords the man went on walking - for days weeks months even till the sun returned - loving the mist (its near wisdom its light uncompromising touch) now he is free of the gun he understands the dog a blackbird sings in a high branch a white horse ambles by the hedge a brindled cow munches grass - the man shares his heartbeat with them