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Best Famous Vacation Poems

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

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Written by Wendell Berry | Create an image from this poem

Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front

 Love the quick profit, the annual raise,
vacation with pay.
Want more of everything ready-made.
Be afraid to know your neighbors and to die.
And you will have a window in your head.
Not even your future will be a mystery any more.
Your mind will be punched in a card and shut away in a little drawer.
When they want you to buy something they will call you.
When they want you to die for profit they will let you know.
So, friends, every day do something that won't compute.
Love the Lord.
Love the world.
Work for nothing.
Take all that you have and be poor.
Love someone who does not deserve it.
Denounce the government and embrace the flag.
Hope to live in that free republic for which it stands.
Give your approval to all you cannot understand.
Praise ignorance, for what man has not encountered he has not destroyed.
Ask the questions that have no answers.
Invest in the millenium.
Plant sequoias.
Say that your main crop is the forest that you did not plant, that you will not live to harvest.
Say that the leaves are harvested when they have rotted into the mold.
Call that profit.
Prophesy such returns.
Put your faith in the two inches of humus that will build under the trees every thousand years.
Listen to carrion -- put your ear close, and hear the faint chattering of the songs that are to come.
Expect the end of the world.
Laugh.
Laughter is immeasurable.
Be joyful though you have considered all the facts.
So long as women do not go cheap for power, please women more than men.
Ask yourself: Will this satisfy a woman satisfied to bear a child? Will this disturb the sleep of a woman near to giving birth? Go with your love to the fields.
Lie down in the shade.
Rest your head in her lap.
Swear allegiance to what is nighest your thoughts.
As soon as the generals and the politicos can predict the motions of your mind, lose it.
Leave it as a sign to mark the false trail, the way you didn't go.
Be like the fox who makes more tracks than necessary, some in the wrong direction.
Practice resurrection.


Written by Emily Dickinson | Create an image from this poem

Always Mine!

 Always Mine!
No more Vacation!
Term of Light this Day begun!
Failless as the fair rotation
Of the Seasons and the Sun.
Old the Grace, but new the Subjects -- Old, indeed, the East, Yet upon His Purple Programme Every Dawn, is first.
Written by John Milton | Create an image from this poem

Another On The Same

 Here lieth one who did most truly prove,
That he could never die while he could move,
So hung his destiny never to rot
While he might still jogg on, and keep his trot,
Made of sphear-metal, never to decay
Untill his revolution was at stay.
Time numbers motion, yet (without a crime 'Gainst old truth) motion number'd out his time: And like an Engin mov'd with wheel and waight, His principles being ceast, he ended strait.
Rest that gives all men life, gave him his death, And too much breathing put him out of breath; Nor were it contradiction to affirm Too long vacation hastned on his term.
Meerly to drive the time away he sickn'd, Fainted, and died, nor would with Ale be quickn'd; Nay, quoth he, on his swooning bed out-stretch'd, If I may not carry, sure Ile ne're be fetch'd, But vow though the cross Doctors all stood hearers, For one Carrier put down to make six bearers.
Ease was his chief disease, and to judge right, He di'd for heavines that his Cart went light, His leasure told him that his time was com, And lack of load, made his life burdensom That even to his last breath (ther be that say't) As he were prest to death, he cry'd more waight; But had his doings lasted as they were, He had bin an immortall Carrier.
Obedient to the Moon he spent his date In cours reciprocal, and had his fate Linkt to the mutual flowing of the Seas, Yet (strange to think) his wain was his increase: His Letters are deliver'd all and gon, Onely remains this superscription.
Written by John Ashbery | Create an image from this poem

Farm Implements and Rutabagas in a Landscape

 The first of the undecoded messages read: "Popeye sits 
in thunder,
Unthought of.
From that shoebox of an apartment, From livid curtain's hue, a tangram emerges: a country.
" Meanwhile the Sea Hag was relaxing on a green couch: "How pleasant To spend one's vacation en la casa de Popeye," she scratched Her cleft chin's solitary hair.
She remembered spinach And was going to ask Wimpy if he had bought any spinach.
"M'love," he intercepted, "the plains are decked out in thunder Today, and it shall be as you wish.
" He scratched The part of his head under his hat.
The apartment Seemed to grow smaller.
"But what if no pleasant Inspiration plunge us now to the stars? For this is my country.
" Suddenly they remembered how it was cheaper in the country.
Wimpy was thoughtfully cutting open a number 2 can of spinach When the door opened and Swee'pea crept in.
"How pleasant!" But Swee'pea looked morose.
A note was pinned to his bib.
"Thunder And tears are unavailing," it read.
"Henceforth shall Popeye's apartment Be but remembered space, toxic or salubrious, whole or scratched.
" Olive came hurtling through the window; its geraniums scratched Her long thigh.
"I have news!" she gasped.
"Popeye, forced as you know to flee the country One musty gusty evening, by the schemes of his wizened, duplicate father, jealous of the apartment And all that it contains, myself and spinach In particular, heaves bolts of loving thunder At his own astonished becoming, rupturing the pleasant Arpeggio of our years.
No more shall pleasant Rays of the sun refresh your sense of growing old, nor the scratched Tree-trunks and mossy foliage, only immaculate darkness and thunder.
" She grabbed Swee'pea.
"I'm taking the brat to the country.
" "But you can't do that--he hasn't even finished his spinach," Urged the Sea Hag, looking fearfully around at the apartment.
But Olive was already out of earshot.
Now the apartment Succumbed to a strange new hush.
"Actually it's quite pleasant Here," thought the Sea Hag.
"If this is all we need fear from spinach Then I don't mind so much.
Perhaps we could invite Alice the Goon over"--she scratched One dug pensively--"but Wimpy is such a country Bumpkin, always burping like that.
" Minute at first, the thunder Soon filled the apartment.
It was domestic thunder, The color of spinach.
Popeye chuckled and scratched His balls: it sure was pleasant to spend a day in the country.
Written by Sylvia Plath | Create an image from this poem

Two Campers In Cloud Country

 (Rock Lake, Canada)

In this country there is neither measure nor balance
To redress the dominance of rocks and woods,
The passage, say, of these man-shaming clouds.
No gesture of yours or mine could catch their attention, No word make them carry water or fire the kindling Like local trolls in the spell of a superior being.
Well, one wearies of the Public Gardens: one wants a vacation Where trees and clouds and animals pay no notice; Away from the labeled elms, the tame tea-roses.
It took three days driving north to find a cloud The polite skies over Boston couldn't possibly accommodate.
Here on the last frontier of the big, brash spirit The horizons are too far off to be chummy as uncles; The colors assert themselves with a sort of vengeance.
Each day concludes in a huge splurge of vermilions And night arrives in one gigantic step.
It is comfortable, for a change, to mean so little.
These rocks offer no purchase to herbage or people: They are conceiving a dynasty of perfect cold.
In a month we'll wonder what plates and forks are for.
I lean to you, numb as a fossil.
Tell me I'm here.
The Pilgrims and Indians might never have happened.
Planets pulse in the lake like bright amoebas; The pines blot our voices up in their lightest sighs.
Around our tent the old simplicities sough Sleepily as Lethe, trying to get in.
We'll wake blank-brained as water in the dawn.
Written by Anne Kingsmill Finch | Create an image from this poem

A Tale of the Miser and the Poet

 A WIT, transported with Inditing, 
Unpay'd, unprais'd, yet ever Writing; 
Who, for all Fights and Fav'rite Friends, 
Had Poems at his Fingers Ends; 
For new Events was still providing; 
Yet now desirous to be riding, 
He pack'd-up ev'ry Ode and Ditty 
And in Vacation left the City; 
So rapt with Figures, and Allusions, 
With secret Passions, sweet Confusions; 
With Sentences from Plays well-known, 
And thousand Couplets of his own; 
That ev'n the chalky Road look'd gay, 
And seem'd to him the Milky Way.
But Fortune, who the Ball is tossing, And Poets ever will be crossing, Misled the Steed, which ill he guided, Where several gloomy Paths divided.
The steepest in Descent he follow'd, Enclos'd by Rocks, which Time had hollow'd; Till, he believ'd, alive and booted, He'd reach'd the Shades by Homer quoted.
But all, that he cou'd there discover, Was, in a Pit with Thorns grown over, Old Mammon digging, straining, sweating, As Bags of Gold he thence was getting; Who, when reprov'd for such Dejections By him, who liv'd on high Reflections, Reply'd; Brave Sir, your Time is ended, And Poetry no more befriended.
I hid this Coin, when Charles was swaying; When all was Riot, Masking, Playing; When witty Beggars were in fashion, And Learning had o'er-run the Nation, But, since Mankind is so much wiser, That none is valued like the Miser, I draw it hence, and now these Sums In proper Soil grow up to {1} Plumbs; Which gather'd once, from that rich Minute We rule the World, and all that's in it.
But, quoth the Poet,can you raise, As well as Plumb-trees, Groves of Bays? Where you, which I wou'd chuse much rather, May Fruits of Reputation gather? Will Men of Quality, and Spirit, Regard you for intrinsick Merit? And seek you out, before your Betters, For Conversation, Wit, and Letters? Fool, quoth the Churl, who knew no Breeding; Have these been Times for such Proceeding? Instead of Honour'd, and Rewarded, Are you not Slighted, or Discarded? What have you met with, but Disgraces? Your PRIOR cou'd not keep in Places; And your VAN-BRUG had found no Quarter, But for his dabbling in the Morter.
ROWE no Advantages cou'd hit on, Till Verse he left, to write North-Briton.
PHILIPS, who's by the Shilling known, Ne'er saw a Shilling of his own.
Meets {2} PHILOMELA, in the Town Her due Proportion of Renown? What Pref'rence has ARDELIA seen, T'expel, tho' she cou'd write the Spleen? Of Coach, or Tables, can you brag, Or better Cloaths than Poet RAG? Do wealthy Kindred, when they meet you, With Kindness, or Distinction, greet you? Or have your lately flatter'd Heroes Enrich'd you like the Roman Maroes? No–quoth the Man of broken Slumbers: Yet we have Patrons for our Numbers; There are Mecænas's among 'em.
Quoth Mammon,pray Sir, do not wrong 'em; But in your Censures use a Conscience, Nor charge Great Men with thriftless Nonsense: Since they, as your own Poets sing, Now grant no Worth in any thing But so much Money as 'twill bring.
Then, never more from your Endeavours Expect Preferment, or less Favours.
But if you'll 'scape Contempt, or worse, Be sure, put Money in your Purse; Money! which only can relieve you When Fame and Friendship will deceive you.
Sir, (quoth the Poet humbly bowing, And all that he had said allowing) Behold me and my airy Fancies Subdu'd, like Giants in Romances.
I here submit to your Discourses; Which since Experience too enforces, I, in that solitary Pit, Your Gold withdrawn, will hide my Wit: Till Time, which hastily advances, And gives to all new Turns and Chances, Again may bring it into use; Roscommons may again produce; New Augustean Days revive, When Wit shall please, and Poets thrive.
Till when, let those converse in private, Who taste what others don't arrive at; Yielding that Mammonists surpass us; And let the Bank out-swell Parnassus.
Written by James Dickey | Create an image from this poem

The Sharks Parlor

 Memory: I can take my head and strike it on a wall on Cumberland Island 
Where the night tide came crawling under the stairs came up the first 
Two or three steps and the cottage stood on poles all night 
With the sea sprawled under it as we dreamed of the great fin circling 
Under the bedroom floor.
In daylight there was my first brassy taste of beer And Payton Ford and I came back from the Glynn County slaughterhouse With a bucket of entrails and blood.
We tied one end of a hawser To a spindling porch-pillar and rowed straight out of the house Three hundred yards into the vast front yard of windless blue water The rope out slithering its coil the two-gallon jug stoppered and sealed With wax and a ten-foot chain leader a drop-forged shark-hook nestling.
We cast our blood on the waters the land blood easily passing For sea blood and we sat in it for a moment with the stain spreading Out from the boat sat in a new radiance in the pond of blood in the sea Waiting for fins waiting to spill our guts also in the glowing water.
We dumped the bucket, and baited the hook with a run-over collie pup.
The jug Bobbed, trying to shake off the sun as a dog would shake off the sea.
We rowed to the house feeling the same water lift the boat a new way, All the time seeing where we lived rise and dip with the oars.
We tied up and sat down in rocking chairs, one eye on the other responding To the blue-eye wink of the jug.
Payton got us a beer and we sat All morning sat there with blood on our minds the red mark out In the harbor slowly failing us then the house groaned the rope Sprang out of the water splinters flew we leapt from our chairs And grabbed the rope hauled did nothing the house coming subtly Apart all around us underfoot boards beginning to sparkle like sand Pulling out the tarred poles we slept propped-up on leaning to sea As in land-wind crabs scuttling from under the floor as we took runs about Two more porch-pillars and looked out and saw something a fish-flash An almighty fin in trouble a moiling of secret forces a false start Of water a round wave growing in the whole of Cumberland Sound the one ripple.
Payton took off without a word I could not hold him either But clung to the rope anyway it was the whole house bending Its nails that held whatever it was coming in a little and like a fool I took up the slack on my wrist.
The rope drew gently jerked I lifted Clean off the porch and hit the water the same water it was in I felt in blue blazing terror at the bottom of the stairs and scrambled Back up looking desperately into the human house as deeply as I could Stopping my gaze before it went out the wire screen of the back door Stopped it on the thistled rattan the rugs I lay on and read On my mother's sewing basket with next winter's socks spilling from it The flimsy vacation furniture a bucktoothed picture of myself.
Payton came back with three men from a filling station and glanced at me Dripping water inexplicable then we all grabbed hold like a tug-of-war.
We were gaining a little from us a cry went up from everywhere People came running.
Behind us the house filled with men and boys.
On the third step from the sea I took my place looking down the rope Going into the ocean, humming and shaking off drops.
A houseful Of people put their backs into it going up the steps from me Into the living room through the kitchen down the back stairs Up and over a hill of sand across a dust road and onto a raised field Of dunes we were gaining the rope in my hands began to be wet With deeper water all other haulers retreated through the house But Payton and I on the stairs drawing hand over hand on our blood Drawing into existence by the nose a huge body becoming A hammerhead rolling in beery shallows and I began to let up But the rope strained behind me the town had gone Pulling-mad in our house far away in a field of sand they struggled They had turned their backs on the sea bent double some on their knees The rope over their shoulders like a bag of gold they strove for the ideal Esso station across the scorched meadow with the distant fish coming up The front stairs the sagging boards still coming in up taking Another step toward the empty house where the rope stood straining By itself through the rooms in the middle of the air.
"Pass the word," Payton said, and I screamed it "Let up, good God, let up!" to no one there.
The shark flopped on the porch, grating with salt-sand driving back in The nails he had pulled out coughing chunks of his formless blood.
The screen door banged and tore off he scrambled on his tail slid Curved did a thing from another world and was out of his element and in Our vacation paradise cutting all four legs from under the dinner table With one deep-water move he unwove the rugs in a moment throwing pints Of blood over everything we owned knocked the buckteeth out of my picture His odd head full of crashed jelly-glass splinters and radio tubes thrashing Among the pages of fan magazines all the movie stars drenched in sea-blood Each time we thought he was dead he struggled back and smashed One more thing in all coming back to die three or four more times after death.
At last we got him out logrolling him greasing his sandpaper skin With lard to slide him pulling on his chained lips as the tide came, Tumbled him down the steps as the first night wave went under the floor.
He drifted off head back belly white as the moon.
What could I do but buy That house for the one black mark still there against death a forehead- toucher in the room he circles beneath and has been invited to wreck? Blood hard as iron on the wall black with time still bloodlike Can be touched whenever the brow is drunk enough.
All changes.
Memory: Something like three-dimensional dancing in the limbs with age Feeling more in two worlds than one in all worlds the growing encounters.
Copyright © James Dickey 1965 Online Source - http://www.
oceanstar.
com/shark/dickey.
htm


Written by Charles Webb | Create an image from this poem

Reservations Confirmed

 The ticket settles on my desk: a paper tongue
pronouncing "Go away;" a flattened seed
from which a thousand-mile leap through the air can grow.
It's pure potential: a vacation-to-be the way an apple is a pie-to-be, a bullet is a death-to-be.
Or is the future pressed into it inalterably—woven between the slick fibers like secret threads from the U.
S.
Treasury? Is my flight number already flashing as cameras grind and the newly- bereaved moan? Or does it gleam under Arrivals, digits turned innocuous as those that didn't win the raffle for a new Ford truck? If, somewhere, I'm en route now, am I praying the winged ballpoint I'm strapped into will write on Denver's runway, "Safe and Sound"? Was my pocket picked in Burbank, and I've just noticed at thirty thousand feet? Am I smiling, watching the clouds' icefields melt to smoky wisps, revealing lakes like Chinese dragons embroidered in blue below? Lifting my ticket, do I hold a bon voyage, or boiling jet streams, roaring thunderstorms, the plane bounced like a boat on cast iron seas, then the lightning flash, the dizzy plunge, perfectly aware (amid the shrieks and prayers) that, live or die, I won't survive the fall?
Written by John Milton | Create an image from this poem

At A Vacation Exercise In The Colledge Part Latin Part English. The Latin Speeches Ended The English Thus Began

 Hail native Language, that by sinews weak
Didst move my first endeavouring tongue to speak,
And mad'st imperfect words with childish tripps,
Half unpronounc't, slide through my infant-lipps,
Driving dum silence from the portal dore,
Where he had mutely sate two years before:
Here I salute thee and thy pardon ask,
That now I use thee in my latter task:
Small loss it is that thence can come unto thee,
I know my tongue but little Grace can do thee: 
Thou needst not be ambitious to be first,
Believe me I have thither packt the worst:
And, if it happen as I did forecast,
The daintest dishes shall be serv'd up last.
I pray thee then deny me not thy aide For this same small neglect that I have made: But haste thee strait to do me once a Pleasure, And from thy wardrope bring thy chiefest treasure; Not those new fangled toys, and triming slight Which takes our late fantasticks with delight, But cull those richest Robes, and gay'st attire Which deepest Spirits, and choicest Wits desire: I have some naked thoughts that rove about And loudly knock to have their passage out; And wearie of their place do only stay Till thou hast deck't them in thy best aray; That so they may without suspect or fears Fly swiftly to this fair Assembly's ears; Yet I had rather if I were to chuse, Thy service in some graver subject use, Such as may make thee search thy coffers round Before thou cloath my fancy in fit sound: Such where the deep transported mind may scare Above the wheeling poles, and at Heav'ns dore Look in, and see each blissful Deitie How he before the thunderous throne doth lie, Listening to what unshorn Apollo sings To th'touch of golden wires, while Hebe brings Immortal Nectar to her Kingly Sire: Then passing through the Spherse of watchful fire, And mistie Regions of wide air next under, And hills of Snow and lofts of piled Thunder, May tell at length how green-ey'd Neptune raves, In Heav'ns defiance mustering all his waves; Then sing of secret things that came to pass When Beldam Nature in her cradle was; And last of Kings and Queens and Hero's old, Such as the wise Demodocus once told In solemn Songs at King Alcinous feast, While sad Ulisses soul and all the rest Are held with his melodious harmonie In willing chains and sweet captivitie.
But fie my wandring Muse how thou dost stray! Expectance calls thee now another way, Thou know'st it must he now thy only bent To keep in compass of thy Predicament: Then quick about thy purpos'd business come, That to the next I may resign my Roome Then Ens is represented as Father of the Predicaments his ten Sons, whereof the Eldest stood for Substance with his Canons, which Ens thus speaking, explains.
Good luck befriend thee Son; for at thy birth The Faiery Ladies daunc't upon the hearth; Thy drowsie Nurse hath sworn she did them spie Come tripping to the Room where thou didst lie; And sweetly singing round about thy Bed Strew all their blessings on thy sleeping Head.
She heard them give thee this, that thou should'st still From eyes of mortals walk invisible, Yet there is something that doth force my fear, For once it was my dismal hap to hear A Sybil old, bow-bent with crooked age, That far events full wisely could presage, And in Times long and dark Prospective Glass Fore-saw what future dayes should bring to pass, Your Son, said she, (nor can you it prevent) Shall subject be to many an Accident.
O're all his Brethren he shall Reign as King, Yet every one shall make him underling, And those that cannot live from him asunder Ungratefully shall strive to keep him under, In worth and excellence he shall out-go them, Yet being above them, he shall be below them; From others he shall stand in need of nothing, Yet on his Brothers shall depend for Cloathing.
To find a Foe it shall not be his hap, And peace shall lull him in her flowry lap; Yet shall he live in strife, and at his dore Devouring war shall never cease to roare; Yea it shall be his natural property To harbour those that are at enmity.
What power, what force, what mighty spell, if not Your learned hands, can loose this Gordian knot? The next Quantity and Quality, spake in Prose, then Relation was call'd by his Name.
Rivers arise; whether thou be the Son, Of utmost Tweed, or Oose, or gulphie Dun, Or Trent, who like some earth-born Giant spreads His thirty Armes along the indented Meads, Or sullen Mole that runneth underneath, Or Severn swift, guilty of Maidens death, Or Rockie Avon, or of Sedgie Lee, Or Coaly Tine, or antient hallowed Dee, Or Humber loud that keeps the Scythians Name, Or Medway smooth, or Royal Towred Thame.
Written by Emily Dickinson | Create an image from this poem

The Lassitudes of Contemplation

 The Lassitudes of Contemplation
Beget a force
They are the spirit's still vacation
That him refresh --
The Dreams consolidate in action --
What mettle fair
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