Best Famous Tuft Poems

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

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• All Famous Tuft Poems

Written by Shel Silverstein | Picture Puzzle Piece One picture puzzle piece Lyin' on the sidewalk, One picture puzzle piece Soakin' in the rain. It might be a button of blue On the coat of the woman Who lived in a shoe. It might be a magical bean, Or a fold in the red Velvet robe of a queen. It might be the one little bite Of the apple her stepmother Gave to Snow White. It might be the veil of a bride Or a bottle with some evil genie inside. It might be a small tuft of hair On the big bouncy belly Of Bobo the Bear. It might be a bit of the cloak Of the Witch of the West As she melted to smoke. It might be a shadowy trace Of a tear that runs down an angel's face. Nothing has more possibilities Than one old wet picture puzzle piece.

Written by Allen Ginsberg | In Back Of The Real railroad yard in San Jose I wandered desolate in front of a tank factory and sat on a bench near the switchman's shack. A flower lay on the hay on the asphalt highway --the dread hay flower I thought--It had a brittle black stem and corolla of yellowish dirty spikes like Jesus' inchlong crown, and a soiled dry center cotton tuft like a used shaving brush that's been lying under the garage for a year. Yellow, yellow flower, and flower of industry, tough spiky ugly flower, flower nonetheless, with the form of the great yellow Rose in your brain! This is the flower of the World. San Jose, 1954

Written by Henry David Thoreau | The Summer Rain My books I'd fain cast off, I cannot read, 'Twixt every page my thoughts go stray at large Down in the meadow, where is richer feed, And will not mind to hit their proper targe. Plutarch was good, and so was Homer too, Our Shakespeare's life were rich to live again, What Plutarch read, that was not good nor true, Nor Shakespeare's books, unless his books were men. Here while I lie beneath this walnut bough, What care I for the Greeks or for Troy town, If juster battles are enacted now Between the ants upon this hummock's crown? Bid Homer wait till I the issue learn, If red or black the gods will favor most, Or yonder Ajax will the phalanx turn, Struggling to heave some rock against the host. Tell Shakespeare to attend some leisure hour, For now I've business with this drop of dew, And see you not, the clouds prepare a shower-- I'll meet him shortly when the sky is blue. This bed of herd's grass and wild oats was spread Last year with nicer skill than monarchs use. A clover tuft is pillow for my head, And violets quite overtop my shoes. And now the cordial clouds have shut all in, And gently swells the wind to say all's well; The scattered drops are falling fast and thin, Some in the pool, some in the flower-bell. I am well drenched upon my bed of oats; But see that globe come rolling down its stem, Now like a lonely planet there it floats, And now it sinks into my garment's hem. Drip drip the trees for all the country round, And richness rare distills from every bough; The wind alone it is makes every sound, Shaking down crystals on the leaves below. For shame the sun will never show himself, Who could not with his beams e'er melt me so; My dripping locks--they would become an elf, Who in a beaded coat does gayly go.

Written by Dylan Thomas | Foster The Light Foster the light nor veil the manshaped moon, Nor weather winds that blow not down the bone, But strip the twelve-winded marrow from his circle; Master the night nor serve the snowman's brain That shapes each bushy item of the air Into a polestar pointed on an icicle. Murmur of spring nor crush the cockerel's eggs, Nor hammer back a season in the figs, But graft these four-fruited ridings on your country; Farmer in time of frost the burning leagues, By red-eyed orchards sow the seeds of snow, In your young years the vegetable century. And father all nor fail the fly-lord's acre, Nor sprout on owl-seed like a goblin-sucker, But rail with your wizard's ribs the heart-shaped planet; Of mortal voices to the ninnies' choir, High lord esquire, speak up the singing cloud, And pluck a mandrake music from the marrowroot. Roll unmanly over this turning tuft, O ring of seas, nor sorrow as I shift From all my mortal lovers with a starboard smile; Nor when my love lies in the cross-boned drift Naked among the bow-and-arrow birds Shall you turn cockwise on a tufted axle. Who gave these seas their colour in a shape, Shaped my clayfellow, and the heaven's ark In time at flood filled with his coloured doubles; O who is glory in the shapeless maps, Now make the world of me as I have made A merry manshape of your walking circle.

Written by Marianne Moore | Peter Strong and slippery, built for the midnight grass-party confronted by four cats, he sleeps his time away-- the detached first claw on the foreleg corresponding to the thumb, retracted to its tip; the small tuft of fronds or katydid-legs above each eye numbering all units in each group; the shadbones regularly set about the mouth to droop or rise in unison like porcupine-quills. He lets himself be flattened out by gravity, as seaweed is tamed and weakened by the sun, compelled when extended, to lie stationary. Sleep is the result of his delusion that one must do as well as one can for oneself, sleep--epitome of what is to him the end of life. Demonstrate on him how the lady placed a forked stick on the innocuous neck-sides of the dangerous southern snake. One need not try to stir him up; his prune-shaped head and alligator-eyes are not party to the joke. Lifted and handled, he may be dangled like an eel or set up on the forearm like a mouse; his eyes bisected by pupils of a pin's width, are flickeringly exhibited, then covered up. May be? I should have said might have been; when he has been got the better of in a dream-- as in a fight with nature or with cats, we all know it. Profound sleep is not with him a fixed illusion. Springing about with froglike accuracy, with jerky cries when taken in hand, he is himself again; to sit caged by the rungs of a domestic chair would be unprofitable--human. What is the good of hypocrisy? it is permissible to choose one's employment, to abandon the nail, or roly-poly, when it shows signs of being no longer a pleasure, to score the nearby magazine with a double line of strokes. He can talk but insolently says nothing. What of it? When one is frank, one's very presence is a compliment. It is clear that he can see the virtue of naturalness, that he does not regard the published fact as a surrender. As for the disposition invariably to affront, an animal with claws should have an opportunity to use them. The eel-like extension of trunk into tail is not an accident. To leap, to lengthen out, divide the air, to purloin, to pursue. To tell the hen: fly over the fence, go in the wrong way in your perturbation--this is life; to do less would be nothing but dishonesty.

Written by John Clare | The Landrail How sweet and pleasant grows the way Through summer time again While Landrails call from day to day Amid the grass and grain We hear it in the weeding time When knee deep waves the corn We hear it in the summers prime Through meadows night and morn And now I hear it in the grass That grows as sweet again And let a minutes notice pass And now tis in the grain Tis like a fancy everywhere A sort of living doubt We know tis something but it neer Will blab the secret out If heard in close or meadow plots It flies if we pursue But follows if we notice not The close and meadow through Boys know the note of many a bird In their birdnesting bounds But when the landrails noise is heard They wonder at the sounds They look in every tuft of grass Thats in their rambles met They peep in every bush they pass And none the wiser get And still they hear the craiking sound And still they wonder why It surely cant be under ground Nor is it in the sky And yet tis heard in every vale An undiscovered song And makes a pleasant wonder tale For all the summer long The shepherd whistles through his hands And starts with many a whoop His busy dog across the lands In hopes to fright it up Tis still a minutes length or more Till dogs are off and gone Then sings and louder than before But keeps the secret on Yet accident will often meet The nest within its way And weeders when they weed the wheat Discover where they lay And mowers on the meadow lea Chance on their noisy guest And wonder what the bird can be That lays without a nest In simple holes that birds will rake When dusting on the ground They drop their eggs of curious make Deep blotched and nearly round A mystery still to men and boys Who know not where they lay And guess it but a summer noise Among the meadow hay

Written by Walt Whitman | Indications The THE indications, and tally of time; Perfect sanity shows the master among philosophs; Time, always without flaw, indicates itself in parts; What always indicates the poet, is the crowd of the pleasant company of singers, and their words; The words of the singers are the hours or minutes of the light or dark—but the words of the maker of poems are the general light and dark; The maker of poems settles justice, reality, immortality, His insight and power encircle things and the human race, He is the glory and extract thus far, of things, and of the human race. The singers do not beget—only the POET begets; The singers are welcom’d, understood, appear often enough—but rare has the day been, likewise the spot, of the birth of the maker of poems, the Answerer, (Not every century, or every five centuries, has contain’d such a day, for all its names.) The singers of successive hours of centuries may have ostensible names, but the name of each of them is one of the singers, The name of each is, eye-singer, ear-singer, head-singer, sweet-singer, echo-singer, parlor-singer, love-singer, or something else. All this time, and at all times, wait the words of true poems; The words of true poems do not merely please, The true poets are not followers of beauty, but the august masters of beauty; The greatness of sons is the exuding of the greatness of mothers and fathers, The words of poems are the tuft and final applause of science. Divine instinct, breadth of vision, the law of reason, health, rudeness of body, withdrawnness, Gayety, sun-tan, air-sweetness—such are some of the words of poems. The sailor and traveler underlie the maker of poems, the answerer; The builder, geometer, chemist, anatomist, phrenologist, artist—all these underlie the maker of poems, the answerer. The words of the true poems give you more than poems, They give you to form for yourself, poems, religions, politics, war, peace, behavior, histories, essays, romances, and everything else, They balance ranks, colors, races, creeds, and the sexes, They do not seek beauty—they are sought, Forever touching them, or close upon them, follows beauty, longing, fain, love-sick. They prepare for death—yet are they not the finish, but rather the outset, They bring none to his or her terminus, or to be content and full; Whom they take, they take into space, to behold the birth of stars, to learn one of the meanings, To launch off with absolute faith—to sweep through the ceaseless rings, and never be quiet again.THE indications, and tally of time; Perfect sanity shows the master among philosophs; Time, always without flaw, indicates itself in parts; What always indicates the poet, is the crowd of the pleasant company of singers, and their words; The words of the singers are the hours or minutes of the light or dark—but the words of the maker of poems are the general light and dark; The maker of poems settles justice, reality, immortality, His insight and power encircle things and the human race, He is the glory and extract thus far, of things, and of the human race. The singers do not beget—only the POET begets; The singers are welcom’d, understood, appear often enough—but rare has the day been, likewise the spot, of the birth of the maker of poems, the Answerer, (Not every century, or every five centuries, has contain’d such a day, for all its names.) The singers of successive hours of centuries may have ostensible names, but the name of each of them is one of the singers, The name of each is, eye-singer, ear-singer, head-singer, sweet-singer, echo-singer, parlor-singer, love-singer, or something else. All this time, and at all times, wait the words of true poems; The words of true poems do not merely please, The true poets are not followers of beauty, but the august masters of beauty; The greatness of sons is the exuding of the greatness of mothers and fathers, The words of poems are the tuft and final applause of science. Divine instinct, breadth of vision, the law of reason, health, rudeness of body, withdrawnness, Gayety, sun-tan, air-sweetness—such are some of the words of poems. The sailor and traveler underlie the maker of poems, the answerer; The builder, geometer, chemist, anatomist, phrenologist, artist—all these underlie the maker of poems, the answerer. The words of the true poems give you more than poems, They give you to form for yourself, poems, religions, politics, war, peace, behavior, histories, essays, romances, and everything else, They balance ranks, colors, races, creeds, and the sexes, They do not seek beauty—they are sought, Forever touching them, or close upon them, follows beauty, longing, fain, love-sick. They prepare for death—yet are they not the finish, but rather the outset, They bring none to his or her terminus, or to be content and full; Whom they take, they take into space, to behold the birth of stars, to learn one of the meanings, To launch off with absolute faith—to sweep through the ceaseless rings, and never be quiet again.THE indications, and tally of time; Perfect sanity shows the master among philosophs; Time, always without flaw, indicates itself in parts; What always indicates the poet, is the crowd of the pleasant company of singers, and their words; The words of the singers are the hours or minutes of the light or dark—but the words of the maker of poems are the general light and dark; The maker of poems settles justice, reality, immortality, His insight and power encircle things and the human race, He is the glory and extract thus far, of things, and of the human race. The singers do not beget—only the POET begets; The singers are welcom’d, understood, appear often enough—but rare has the day been, likewise the spot, of the birth of the maker of poems, the Answerer, (Not every century, or every five centuries, has contain’d such a day, for all its names.) The singers of successive hours of centuries may have ostensible names, but the name of each of them is one of the singers, The name of each is, eye-singer, ear-singer, head-singer, sweet-singer, echo-singer, parlor-singer, love-singer, or something else. All this time, and at all times, wait the words of true poems; The words of true poems do not merely please, The true poets are not followers of beauty, but the august masters of beauty; The greatness of sons is the exuding of the greatness of mothers and fathers, The words of poems are the tuft and final applause of science. Divine instinct, breadth of vision, the law of reason, health, rudeness of body, withdrawnness, Gayety, sun-tan, air-sweetness—such are some of the words of poems. The sailor and traveler underlie the maker of poems, the answerer; The builder, geometer, chemist, anatomist, phrenologist, artist—all these underlie the maker of poems, the answerer. The words of the true poems give you more than poems, They give you to form for yourself, poems, religions, politics, war, peace, behavior, histories, essays, romances, and everything else, They balance ranks, colors, races, creeds, and the sexes, They do not seek beauty—they are sought, Forever touching them, or close upon them, follows beauty, longing, fain, love-sick. They prepare for death—yet are they not the finish, but rather the outset, They bring none to his or her terminus, or to be content and full; Whom they take, they take into space, to behold the birth of stars, to learn one of the meanings, To launch off with absolute faith—to sweep through the ceaseless rings, and never be quiet again.

Written by Allen Ginsberg | In The Back of the Real railroad yard in San Jose I wandered desolate in front of a tank factory and sat on a bench near the switchman's shack. A flower lay on the hay on the asphalt highway --the dread hay flower I thought--It had a brittle black stem and corolla of yellowish dirty spikes like Jesus' inchlong crown, and a soiled dry center cotton tuft like a used shaving brush that's been lying under the garage for a year. Yellow, yellow flower, and flower of industry, tough spiky ugly flower, flower nonetheless, with the form of the great yellow Rose in your brain! This is the flower of the World.

Written by Robert Frost | The Tuft of Flowers I went to turn the grass once after one Who mowed it in the dew before the sun. The dew was gone that made his blade so keen Before I came to view the leveled scene. I looked for him behind an isle of trees; I listened for his whetstone on the breeze. But he had gone his way, the grass all mown, And I must be, as he had been -- alone, 'As all must be,' I said within my heart, 'Whether they work together or apart.' But as I said it, swift there passed me by On noiseless wing a bewildered butterfly, Seeking with memories grown dim o'er night Some resting flower of yesterday's delight. And once I marked his flight go round and round, As where some flower lay withering on the ground. And then he flew as far as eye could see, And then on tremulous wing came back to me. I thought of questions that have no reply, And would have turned to toss the grass to dry; But he turned first, and led my eye to look At a tall tuft of flowers beside a brook, A leaping tongue of bloom the scythe had spared Beside a reedy brook the scythe had bared. The mower in the dew had loved them thus, By leaving them to flourish, not for us, Nor yet to draw one thought of ours to him. But from sheer morning gladness at the brim. The butterfly and I had lit upon, Nevertheless, a message from the dawn, That made me hear the wakening birds around, And hear his long scythe whispering to the ground, And feel a spirit kindred to my own; So that henceforth I worked no more alone; But glad with him, I worked as with his aid, And weary, sought at noon with him the shade; And dreaming, as it were, held brotherly speech With one whose thought I had not hoped to reach. 'Men work together,' I told him from the heart, 'Whether they work together or apart.'

Written by Gerard Manley Hopkins | Penmaen Pool For the Visitors' Book at the Inn Who long for rest, who look for pleasure Away from counter, court, or school O where live well your lease of leisure But here at, here at Penmaen Pool? You'll dare the Alp? you'll dart the skiff?— Each sport has here its tackle and tool: Come, plant the staff by Cadair cliff; Come, swing the sculls on Penmaen Pool. What's yonder?— Grizzled Dyphwys dim: The triple-hummocked Giant's stool, Hoar messmate, hobs and nobs with him To halve the bowl of Penmaen Pool. And all the landscape under survey, At tranquil turns, by nature's rule, Rides repeated topsyturvy In frank, in fairy Penmaen Pool. And Charles's Wain, the wondrous seven, And sheep-flock clouds like worlds of wool, For all they shine so, high in heaven, Shew brighter shaken in Penmaen Pool. The Mawddach, how she trips! though throttled If floodtide teeming thrills her full, And mazy sands all water-wattled Waylay her at ebb, past Penmaen Pool. But what's to see in stormy weather, When grey showers gather and gusts are cool?— Why, raindrop-roundels looped together That lace the face of Penmaen Pool. Then even in weariest wintry hour Of New Year's month or surly Yule Furred snows, charged tuft above tuft, tower From darksome darksome Penmaen Pool. And ever, if bound here hardest home, You've parlour-pastime left and (who'll Not honour it?) ale like goldy foam That frocks an oar in Penmaen Pool. Then come who pine for peace or pleasure Away from counter, court, or school, Spend here your measure of time and treasure And taste the treats of Penmaen Pool.