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Best Famous Unstained Poems

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

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Written by Lucy Maud Montgomery | Create an image from this poem

My Legacy

 My friend has gone away from me 
From shadow into perfect light, 
But leaving a sweet legacy.
My heart shall hold it long in fee­ A grand ideal, calm and bright, A song of hope for ministry, A faith of unstained purity, A thought of beauty for delight­ These did my friend bequeath to me; And, more than even these can be, The worthy pattern of a white, Unmarred life lived most graciously.
Dear comrade, loyal thanks to thee Who now hath fared beyond my sight, My friend has gone away from me, But leaving a sweet legacy.


Written by Vachel Lindsay | Create an image from this poem

The Light o the Moon

 [How different people and different animals look upon the moon: showing that each creature finds in it his own mood and disposition]


The Old Horse in the City

The moon's a peck of corn.
It lies Heaped up for me to eat.
I wish that I might climb the path And taste that supper sweet.
Men feed me straw and scanty grain And beat me till I'm sore.
Some day I'll break the halter-rope And smash the stable-door, Run down the street and mount the hill Just as the corn appears.
I've seen it rise at certain times For years and years and years.
What the Hyena Said The moon is but a golden skull, She mounts the heavens now, And Moon-Worms, mighty Moon-Worms Are wreathed around her brow.
The Moon-Worms are a doughty race: They eat her gray and golden face.
Her eye-sockets dead, and molding head: These caverns are their dwelling-place.
The Moon-Worms, serpents of the skies, From the great hollows of her eyes Behold all souls, and they are wise: With tiny, keen and icy eyes, Behold how each man sins and dies.
When Earth in gold-corruption lies Long dead, the moon-worm butterflies On cyclone wings will reach this place — Yea, rear their brood on earth's dead face.
What the Snow Man Said The Moon's a snowball.
See the drifts Of white that cross the sphere.
The Moon's a snowball, melted down A dozen times a year.
Yet rolled again in hot July When all my days are done And cool to greet the weary eye After the scorching sun.
The moon's a piece of winter fair Renewed the year around, Behold it, deathless and unstained, Above the grimy ground! It rolls on high so brave and white Where the clear air-rivers flow, Proclaiming Christmas all the time And the glory of the snow! What the Scare-crow Said The dim-winged spirits of the night Do fear and serve me well.
They creep from out the hedges of The garden where I dwell.
I wave my arms across the walk.
The troops obey the sign, And bring me shimmering shadow-robes And cups of cowslip-wine.
Then dig a treasure called the moon, A very precious thing, And keep it in the air for me Because I am a King.
What Grandpa Mouse Said The moon's a holy owl-queen.
She keeps them in a jar Under her arm till evening, Then sallies forth to war.
She pours the owls upon us.
They hoot with horrid noise And eat the naughty mousie-girls And wicked mousie-boys.
So climb the moonvine every night And to the owl-queen pray: Leave good green cheese by moonlit trees For her to take away.
And never squeak, my children, Nor gnaw the smoke-house door: The owl-queen then will love us And send her birds no more.
The Beggar Speaks "What Mister Moon Said to Me.
" Come, eat the bread of idleness, Come, sit beside the spring: Some of the flowers will keep awake, Some of the birds will sing.
Come, eat the bread no man has sought For half a hundred years: Men hurry so they have no griefs, Nor even idle tears: They hurry so they have no loves: They cannot curse nor laugh — Their hearts die in their youth with neither Grave nor epitaph.
My bread would make them careless, And never quite on time — Their eyelids would be heavy, Their fancies full of rhyme: Each soul a mystic rose-tree, Or a curious incense tree: Come, eat the bread of idleness, Said Mister Moon to me.
What the Forester Said The moon is but a candle-glow That flickers thro' the gloom: The starry space, a castle hall: And Earth, the children's room, Where all night long the old trees stand To watch the streams asleep: Grandmothers guarding trundle-beds: Good shepherds guarding sheep.
Written by Rainer Maria Rilke | Create an image from this poem

Dedication

 Dedication 
These to His Memory--since he held them dear, 
Perchance as finding there unconsciously 
Some image of himself--I dedicate, 
I dedicate, I consecrate with tears-- 
These Idylls.
And indeed He seems to me Scarce other than my king's ideal knight, `Who reverenced his conscience as his king; Whose glory was, redressing human wrong; Who spake no slander, no, nor listened to it; Who loved one only and who clave to her--' Her--over all whose realms to their last isle, Commingled with the gloom of imminent war, The shadow of His loss drew like eclipse, Darkening the world.
We have lost him: he is gone: We know him now: all narrow jealousies Are silent; and we see him as he moved, How modest, kindly, all-accomplished, wise, With what sublime repression of himself, And in what limits, and how tenderly; Not swaying to this faction or to that; Not making his high place the lawless perch Of winged ambitions, nor a vantage-ground For pleasure; but through all this tract of years Wearing the white flower of a blameless life, Before a thousand peering littlenesses, In that fierce light which beats upon a throne, And blackens every blot: for where is he, Who dares foreshadow for an only son A lovelier life, a more unstained, than his? Or how should England dreaming of HIS sons Hope more for these than some inheritance Of such a life, a heart, a mind as thine, Thou noble Father of her Kings to be, Laborious for her people and her poor-- Voice in the rich dawn of an ampler day-- Far-sighted summoner of War and Waste To fruitful strifes and rivalries of peace-- Sweet nature gilded by the gracious gleam Of letters, dear to Science, dear to Art, Dear to thy land and ours, a Prince indeed, Beyond all titles, and a household name, Hereafter, through all times, Albert the Good.
Break not, O woman's-heart, but still endure; Break not, for thou art Royal, but endure, Remembering all the beauty of that star Which shone so close beside Thee that ye made One light together, but has past and leaves The Crown a lonely splendour.
May all love, His love, unseen but felt, o'ershadow Thee, The love of all Thy sons encompass Thee, The love of all Thy daughters cherish Thee, The love of all Thy people comfort Thee, Till God's love set Thee at his side again!
Written by Victor Hugo | Create an image from this poem

BOAZ ASLEEP

 ("Booz s'était couché.") 
 
 {Bk. II. vi.} 


 At work within his barn since very early, 
 Fairly tired out with toiling all the day, 
 Upon the small bed where he always lay 
 Boaz was sleeping by his sacks of barley. 
 
 Barley and wheat-fields he possessed, and well, 
 Though rich, loved justice; wherefore all the flood 
 That turned his mill-wheels was unstained with mud 
 And in his smithy blazed no fire of hell. 
 
 His beard was silver, as in April all 
 A stream may be; he did not grudge a stook. 
 When the poor gleaner passed, with kindly look, 
 Quoth he, "Of purpose let some handfuls fall." 
 
 He walked his way of life straight on and plain, 
 With justice clothed, like linen white and clean, 
 And ever rustling towards the poor, I ween, 
 Like public fountains ran his sacks of grain. 
 
 Good master, faithful friend, in his estate 
 Frugal yet generous, beyond the youth 
 He won regard of woman, for in sooth 
 The young man may be fair—the old man's great. 
 
 Life's primal source, unchangeable and bright, 
 The old man entereth, the day eterne; 
 And in the young man's eye a flame may burn, 
 But in the old man's eye one seeth light. 
 
 As Jacob slept, or Judith, so full deep 
 Slept Boaz 'neath the leaves. Now it betided, 
 Heaven's gate being partly open, that there glided 
 A fair dream forth, and hovered o'er his sleep. 
 
 And in his dream to heaven, the blue and broad, 
 Right from his loins an oak tree grew amain. 
 His race ran up it far, like a long chain; 
 Below it sung a king, above it died a God. 
 
 Whereupon Boaz murmured in his heart, 
 "The number of my years is past fourscore: 
 How may this be? I have not any more, 
 Or son, or wife; yea, she who had her part. 
 
 "In this my couch, O Lord! is now in Thine; 
 And she, half living, I half dead within, 
 Our beings still commingle and are twin, 
 It cannot be that I should found a line! 
 
 "Youth hath triumphal mornings; its days bound 
 From night, as from a victory. But such 
 A trembling as the birch-tree's to the touch 
 Of winter is an eld, and evening closes round. 
 
 "I bow myself to death, as lone to meet 
 The water bow their fronts athirst." He said. 
 The cedar feeleth not the rose's head, 
 Nor he the woman's presence at his feet! 
 
 For while he slept, the Moabitess Ruth 
 Lay at his feet, expectant of his waking. 
 He knowing not what sweet guile she was making; 
 She knowing not what God would have in sooth. 
 
 Asphodel scents did Gilgal's breezes bring— 
 Through nuptial shadows, questionless, full fast 
 The angels sped, for momently there passed 
 A something blue which seemed to be a wing. 
 
 Silent was all in Jezreel and Ur— 
 The stars were glittering in the heaven's dusk meadows. 
 Far west among those flowers of the shadows. 
 The thin clear crescent lustrous over her, 
 
 Made Ruth raise question, looking through the bars 
 Of heaven, with eyes half-oped, what God, what comer 
 Unto the harvest of the eternal summer, 
 Had flung his golden hook down on the field of stars. 
 
 BP. ALEXANDER. 


 




Written by Elizabeth Barrett Browning | Create an image from this poem

The Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers

 The breaking waves dashed high
On a stern and rock-bound coast,
And the woods, against a stormy sky,
Their giant branches tost;

And the heavy night hung dark
The hills and water o'er,
When a band of exiles moored their bark
On the wild New England shore.
Not as the conqueror comes, They, the true-hearted, came; Not with the roll of the stirring drums, And the trumpet that sings of fame; Not as the flying come, In silence and in fear, - They shook the depths of the desert's gloom With their hymns of lofty cheer.
Amidst the storm they sang, And the stars heard and the sea; And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang To the anthem of the free.
The ocean-eagle soared From his nest by the white wave's foam, And the rocking pines of the forest roared - This was their welcome home! There were men with hoary hair Amidst that pilgrim band: Why had they come to wither there, Away from their childhood's land? There was woman's fearless eye, Lit by her deep love's truth; There was manhood's brow serenely high, And the fiery heart of youth.
What sought they thus afar? Bright jewels of the mine? The wealth of the seas? the spoils of war? - They sought a faith's pure shrine! Ay, call it holy ground, The soil where first they trod! They have left unstained what there they found - Freedom to worship God!


Written by J R R Tolkien | Create an image from this poem

Gandalfs Song of Lorien

 In Dwimordene, in Lorien
Seldom have walked the feet of men,
Few mortal eyes have seen the light
That lies there ever, long and bright.
Galadriel! Galadriel! Clear is the water of your well; White is the stars in your white hand; Unmarred, unstained is leaf and land In Dwimordene, in Lorien More fair than thoughts of Mortal Men.
Written by Emily Brontë | Create an image from this poem

The Visionary

 Silent is the house: all are laid asleep: 
One alone looks out o’er the snow-wreaths deep, 
Watching every cloud, dreading every breeze 
That whirls the wildering drift, and bends the groaning trees.
Cheerful is the hearth, soft the matted floor; Not one shivering gust creeps through pane or door; The little lamp burns straight, its rays shoot strong and far: I trim it well, to be the wanderer’s guiding-star.
Frown, my haughty sire! chide, my angry dame! Set your slaves to spy; threaten me with shame: But neither sire nor dame nor prying serf shall know, What angel nightly tracks that waste of frozen snow.
What I love shall come like visitant of air, Safe in secret power from lurking human snare; What loves me, no word of mine shall e’er betray, Though for faith unstained my life must forfeit pay.
Burn, then, little lamp; glimmer straight and clear— Hush! a rustling wing stirs, methinks, the air: He for whom I wait, thus ever comes to me; Strange Power! I trust thy might; trust thou my constancy.
Written by Victor Hugo | Create an image from this poem

INFANTILE INFLUENCE

 ("Lorsque l'enfant parait.") 
 
 {XIX., May 11, 1830.} 


 The child comes toddling in, and young and old 
 With smiling eyes its smiling eyes behold, 
 And artless, babyish joy; 
 A playful welcome greets it through the room, 
 The saddest brow unfolds its wrinkled gloom, 
 To greet the happy boy. 
 
 If June with flowers has spangled all the ground, 
 Or winter bleak the flickering hearth around 
 Draws close the circling seat; 
 The child still sheds a never-failing light; 
 We call; Mamma with mingled joy and fright 
 Watches its tottering feet. 
 
 Perhaps at eve as round the fire we draw, 
 We speak of heaven, or poetry, or law, 
 Or politics, or prayer; 
 The child comes in, 'tis now all smiles and play, 
 Farewell to grave discourse and poet's lay, 
 Philosophy and care. 
 
 When fancy wakes, but sense in heaviest sleep 
 Lies steeped, and like the sobs of them that weep 
 The dark stream sinks and swells, 
 The dawn, like Pharos gleaming o'er the sea, 
 Bursts forth, and sudden wakes the minstrelsy 
 Of birds and chiming bells; 
 
 Thou art my dawn; my soul is as the field, 
 Where sweetest flowers their balmy perfumes yield 
 When breathed upon by thee, 
 Of forest, where thy voice like zephyr plays, 
 And morn pours out its flood of golden rays, 
 When thy sweet smile I see. 
 
 Oh, sweetest eyes, like founts of liquid blue; 
 And little hands that evil never knew, 
 Pure as the new-formed snow; 
 Thy feet are still unstained by this world's mire, 
 Thy golden locks like aureole of fire 
 Circle thy cherub brow! 
 
 Dove of our ark, thine angel spirit flies 
 On azure wings forth from thy beaming eyes. 
 Though weak thine infant feet, 
 What strange amaze this new and strange world gives 
 To thy sweet virgin soul, that spotless lives 
 In virgin body sweet. 
 
 Oh, gentle face, radiant with happy smile, 
 And eager prattling tongue that knows no guile, 
 Quick changing tears and bliss; 
 Thy soul expands to catch this new world's light, 
 Thy mazed eyes to drink each wondrous sight, 
 Thy lips to taste the kiss. 
 
 Oh, God! bless me and mine, and these I love, 
 And e'en my foes that still triumphant prove 
 Victors by force or guile; 
 A flowerless summer may we never see, 
 Or nest of bird bereft, or hive of bee, 
 Or home of infant's smile. 
 
 HENRY HIGHTON, M.A. 


 




Written by John Milton | Create an image from this poem

To the Lady Margaret Ley

 Daughter to that good Earl, one President 
Of England’s Council and her Treasury, 
Who lived in both unstained with gold or fee, 
And left them both, more in himself content, 
Till the sad breaking of that Parliament 
Broke him, as that dishonest victory 
At Ch?ronea, fatal to liberty, 
Killed with report that old man eloquent, 
Though later born than to have known the days 
Wherein your father flourished, yet by you, 
Madam, methinks I see him living yet: 
So well your words his noble virtues praise 
That all both judge you to relate them true 
And to possess them, honoured Margaret.
Written by Philip Levine | Create an image from this poem

Night Words

 after Juan Ramon 


A child wakens in a cold apartment.
The windows are frosted.
Outside he hears words rising from the streets, words he cannot understand, and then the semis gear down for the traffic light on Houston.
He sleeps again and dreams of another city on a high hill above a wide river bathed in sunlight, and the dream is his life as he will live it twenty years from now.
No, no, you say, dreams do not work that way, they function otherwise.
Perhaps in the world you're right, but on Houston tonight two men are trying to change a tire as snow gathers on their shoulders and scalds their ungloved hands.
The older one, the father, is close to tears, for he's sure his son, who's drunk, is laughing secretly at him for all his failures as a man and a father, and he is laughing to himself but because he's happy to be alone with his father as he was years ago in another life where snow never fell.
At last he slips the tire iron gently from his father's grip and kneels down in the unstained snow and unbolts the wheel while he sings of drinking a glass of wine, the black common wine of Alicante, in raw sunlight.
Now the father joins in, and the words rise between the falling flakes only to be transformed into the music spreading slowly over the oiled surface of the river that runs through every child's dreams.

Book: Shattered Sighs