Best Famous Underlie Poems

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

Search and read the best famous Underlie poems, articles about Underlie poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Underlie poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

• All Famous Underlie Poems

Written by Emily Dickinson | A Counterfeit -- a Plated Person -- A Counterfeit -- a Plated Person -- I would not be -- Whatever strata of Iniquity My Nature underlie -- Truth is good Health -- and Safety, and the Sky. How meagre, what an Exile -- is a Lie, And Vocal -- when we die --

Written by Elizabeth Bishop | The Man-Moth Man-Moth: Newspaper misprint for "mammoth." Here, above, cracks in the buldings are filled with battered moonlight. The whole shadow of Man is only as big as his hat. It lies at his feet like a circle for a doll to stand on, and he makes an inverted pin, the point magnetized to the moon. He does not see the moon; he observes only her vast properties, feeling the ***** light on his hands, neither warm nor cold, of a temperature impossible to records in thermometers. But when the Man-Moth pays his rare, although occasional, visits to the surface, the moon looks rather different to him. He emerges from an opening under the edge of one of the sidewalks and nervously begins to scale the faces of the buildings. He thinks the moon is a small hole at the top of the sky, proving the sky quite useless for protection. He trembles, but must investigate as high as he can climb. Up the façades, his shadow dragging like a photographer's cloth behind him he climbs fearfully, thinking that this time he will manage to push his small head through that round clean opening and be forced through, as from a tube, in black scrolls on the light. (Man, standing below him, has no such illusions.) But what the Man-Moth fears most he must do, although he fails, of course, and falls back scared but quite unhurt. Then he returns to the pale subways of cement he calls his home. He flits, he flutters, and cannot get aboard the silent trains fast enough to suit him. The doors close swiftly. The Man-Moth always seats himself facing the wrong way and the train starts at once at its full, terrible speed, without a shift in gears or a gradation of any sort. He cannot tell the rate at which he travels backwards. Each night he must be carried through artificial tunnels and dream recurrent dreams. Just as the ties recur beneath his train, these underlie his rushing brain. He does not dare look out the window, for the third rail, the unbroken draught of poison, runs there beside him. He regards it as a disease he has inherited the susceptibility to. He has to keep his hands in his pockets, as others must wear mufflers. If you catch him, hold up a flashlight to his eye. It's all dark pupil, an entire night itself, whose haired horizon tightens as he stares back, and closes up the eye. Then from the lids one tear, his only possession, like the bee's sting, slips. Slyly he palms it, and if you're not paying attention he'll swallow it. However, if you watch, he'll hand it over, cool as from underground springs and pure enough to drink.

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 T Wignesan | Words uttered in a subdued voice in order to constitute a dedication, Translation of Carlos Bousono's Sonnet Words uttered in a subdued voice in order to constitute a dedication, Translation of Carlos Bousono’s poem :Palabras dichas en voz baja para formar una dedicatoria (To Ruth, so young, from another age) (It’s quite probable that this poem commemorates and addresses Bousono’s wife, Ruth, and as such the interest in the poem must underlie the intimate and/or private candidness of tone, rather than the less than pretentious art form. T. Wignesan) I This isn’t exactly wine that you and I drain to the last drop with such slowness at this hour, the neat truth. It’s not wine, it’s love. In any case, it’s not a question of an awaited celebration, a noisy fiesta, raised on gold. It’s not a canticle of the mountains. It’s only a whistling sound : flower, less than this : whisper, lacking in weight. II And all this began some time back. We joined hands very hurriedly to be able to remain by ourselves, alone, both jointly and separately in order to walk on the neverending pathway interminably. And in this manner, we move forward together on the pathway tenaciously. The same direction, the self-same golden instant and despite it all, you walked without being in doubt, always very far away, far behind, lost in the distance, in the brightness, diminshed, yet wanting me, in another station where flowers burgeoned, in another time and in another pure space. And from the secluded spot in the woods, from the sandy indignity of mature lateness, from where I contemplated your eagerness to be ahead of time, I saw you slow down, once and all over again, without raising your head in your remote garden, though being held back, obstinate- ly, and so unjustly ! pluck in joy roses for me. © T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013