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Best Famous Variegated Poems

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Written by Phillis Wheatley | Create an image from this poem

An Hymn to the Morning

Attend my lays, ye ever honour'd nine,
Assist my labours, and my strains refine;
In smoothest numbers pour the notes along,
For bright Aurora now demands my song.

Aurora hail, and all the thousand dies,
Which deck thy progress through the vaulted skies:
The morn awakes, and wide extends her rays,
On ev'ry leaf the gentle zephyr plays;
Harmonious lays the feather'd race resume,
Dart the bright eye, and shake the painted plume.

Ye shady groves, your verdant gloom display
To shield your poet from the burning day:
Calliope awake the sacred lyre,
While thy fair sisters fan the pleasing fire:
The bow'rs, the gales, the variegated skies
In all their pleasures in my bosom rise.

See in the east th' illustrious king of day!
His rising radiance drives the shades away--
But Oh! I feel his fervid beams too strong,
And scarce begun, concludes th' abortive song.


Written by Jorie Graham | Create an image from this poem

Underneath (9)

  Spring
Up, up you go, you must be introduced.

You must learn belonging to (no-one)

Drenched in the white veil (day)

The circle of minutes pushed gleaming onto your finger.

Gaps pocking the brightness where you try to see
in.

Missing: corners, fields,

completeness: holes growing in it where the eye looks hardest.

Below, his chest, a sacred weightless place

and the small weight of your open hand on it.

And these legs, look, still yours, after all you've done with them.

Explain the six missing seeds.

Explain muzzled.

Explain tongue breaks thin fire in eyes.


Learn what the great garden-(up, up you go)-exteriority,
exhales:

the green never-the-less the green who-did-you-say-you-are

and how it seems to stare all the time, that green,


until night blinds it temporarily.

What is it searching for all the leaves turning towards you. 

Breath the emptiest of the freedoms.

When will they notice the hole in your head (they won't).

When will they feel for the hole in your chest 
 (never). 

Up, go. Let being-seen drift over you again, sticky kindness. 

Those wet strangely unstill eyes filling their heads-


thinking or sight?-

all waiting for the true story-

your heart, beating its little song: explain. . .

Explain requited

Explain indeed the blood of your lives I will require

explain the strange weight of meanwhile

and there exists another death in regards to which

we are not immortal

variegated dappled spangled intricately wrought

complicated obstruse subtle devious 

scintillating with change and ambiguity



 Summer

Explain two are

Explain not one

(in theory) (and in practice)

blurry, my love, like a right quotation,

wanting so to sink back down,

you washing me in soil now, my shoulders dust, my rippling dust,

Look I'll scrub the dirt listen.

Up here how will I

(not) hold you.

Where is the dirt packed in again around us between us obliterating difference

Must one leave off Explain edges

(tongue breaks) (thin fire)
 (in eyes)

And bless. And blame.

(Moonless night.

Vase in the kitchen)



 Fall

Explain duty to remain to the end. 

Duty not to run away from the good. 

The good.

(Beauty is not an issue.) 

A wise man wants? 

A master.



 Winter

Oh my beloved I speak of the absolute jewels.

Dwelling in place for example.

In fluted listenings.

In panting waters human-skinned to the horizon.

Muzzled the deep.

Fermenting the surface.

Wrecks left at the bottom, yes.

Space birdless. 

Light on it a woman on her knees-her having kneeled everywhere 
already.

God's laughter unquenchable.

Back there its river ripped into pieces, length gone, buried in parts, in 
sand.

Believe me I speak now for the sand.

Here at the front end, the narrator.

At the front end, the meanwhile: God's laughter.

Are you still waiting for the true story? (God's laughter)

The difference between what is and could be? (God's laughter) 

In this dance the people do not move.

Deferred defied obstructed hungry, 

organized around a radiant absence. 

In His dance the people do not move.
Written by Mary Darby Robinson | Create an image from this poem

The Hermit of Mont-Blanc

 High, on the Solitude of Alpine Hills,
O'er-topping the grand imag'ry of Nature,
Where one eternal winter seem'd to reign;
An HERMIT'S threshold, carpetted with moss,
Diversified the Scene. Above the flakes
Of silv'ry snow, full many a modest flow'r
Peep'd through its icy veil, and blushing ope'd
Its variegated hues; The ORCHIS sweet,
The bloomy CISTUS, and the fragrant branch
Of glossy MYRTLE. In his rushy cell,
The lonely ANCHORET consum'd his days,
Unnotic'd, and unblest. In early youth,
Cross'd in the fond affections of his soul
By false Ambition, from his parent home
He, solitary, wander'd; while the Maid
Whose peerless beauty won his yielding heart
Pined in monastic horrors ! Near his sill
A little cross he rear'd, where, prostrate low
At day's pale glimpse, or when the setting Sun
Tissued the western sky with streamy gold,
His Orisons he pour'd, for her, whose hours
Were wasted in oblivion. Winters pass'd,
And Summers faded, slow, unchearly all
To the lone HERMIT'S sorrows: For, still, Love
A dark, though unpolluted altar, rear'd
On the white waste of wonders!
From the peak
Which mark'd his neighb'ring Hut, his humid Eye
Oft wander'd o'er the rich expanse below;
Oft trac'd the glow of vegetating Spring,
The full-blown Summer splendours, and the hue
Of tawny scenes Autumnal: Vineyards vast,
Clothing the upland scene, and spreading wide
The promised tide nectareous; while for him
The liquid lapse of the slow brook was seen
Flashing amid the trees, its silv'ry wave!
Far distant, the blue mist of waters rose
Veiling the ridgy outline, faintly grey,
Blended with clouds, and shutting out the Sun.
The Seasons still revolv'd, and still was he
By all forgotten, save by her, whose breast
Sigh'd in responsive sadness to the gale
That swept her prison turrets. Five long years,
Had seen his graces wither ere his Spring
Of life was wasted. From the social scenes
Of human energy an alien driv'n,
He almost had forgot the face of Man.--
No voice had met his ear, save, when perchance
The Pilgrim wand'rer, or the Goatherd Swain,
Bewilder'd in the starless midnight hour
Implored the HERMIT'S aid, the HERMIT'S pray'rs;
And nothing loath by pity or by pray'r
Was he, to save the wretched. On the top
Of his low rushy Dome, a tinkling bell
Oft told the weary Trav'ller to approach
Fearless of danger. The small silver sound
In quick vibrations echo'd down the dell
To the dim valley's quiet, while the breeze
Slept on the glassy LEMAN. Thus he past
His melancholy days, an alien Man
From all the joys of social intercourse,
Alone, unpitied, by the world forgot!

His Scrip each morning bore the day's repast
Gather'd on summits, mingling with the clouds,
From whose bleak altitude the Eye look'd down
While fast the giddy brain was rock'd by fear.
Oft would he start from visionary rest
When roaming wolves their midnight chorus howl'd,
Or blasts infuriate shatter'd the white cliffs,
While the huge fragments, rifted by the storm,
Plung'd to the dell below. Oft would he sit
In silent sadness on the jutting block
Of snow-encrusted ice, and, shudd'ring mark
(Amid the wonders of the frozen world)
Dissolving pyramids, and threatening peaks,
Hang o'er his hovel, terribly Sublime.

And oft, when Summer breath'd ambrosial gales,
Soft sailing o'er the waste of printless dew
Or twilight gossamer, his pensive gaze
Trac'd the swift storm advancing, whose broad wing
Blacken'd the rushy dome of his low Hut;
While the pale lightning smote the pathless top
Of tow'ring CENIS, scatt'ring high and wide
A mist of fleecy Snow. Then would he hear,
(While MEM'RY brought to view his happier days)
The tumbling torrent, bursting wildly forth
From its thaw'd prison, sweep the shaggy cliff
Vast and Stupendous ! strength'ning as it fell,
And delving, 'mid the snow, a cavern rude!

So liv'd the HERMIT, like an hardy Tree
Plac'd on a mountain's solitary brow,
And destin'd, thro' the Seasons, to endure
Their wond'rous changes. To behold the face
Of ever-varying Nature, and to mark
In each grand lineament, the work of GOD!
And happier he, in total Solitude
Than the poor toil-worn wretch, whose ardent Soul
That GOD has nobly organiz'd, but taught,
For purposes unknown, to bear the scourge
Of sharp adversity, and vulgar pride.
Happier, O ! happier far, than those who feel,
Yet live amongst the unfeeling ! feeding still
The throbbing heart, with anguish, or with Scorn.

One dreary night when Winter's icy breath
Half petrified the scene, when not a star
Gleam'd o'er the black infinity of space,
Sudden, the HERMIT started from his couch
Fear-struck and trembling! Ev'ry limb was shook
With painful agitation. On his cheek
The blanch'd interpreter of horror mute
Sat terribly impressive! In his breast
The ruddy fount of life convulsive flow'd
And his broad eyes, fix'd motionless as death,
Gaz'd vacantly aghast ! His feeble lamp
Was wasting rapidly; the biting gale
Pierc'd the thin texture of his narrow cell;
And Silence, like a fearful centinel
Marking the peril which awaited near,
Conspir'd with sullen Night, to wrap the scene
In tenfold horrors. Thrice he rose; and thrice
His feet recoil'd; and still the livid flame
Lengthen'd and quiver'd as the moaning wind
Pass'd thro' the rushy crevice, while his heart
Beat, like the death-watch, in his shudd'ring breast.

Like the pale Image of Despair he sat,
The cold drops pacing down his hollow cheek,
When a deep groan assail'd his startled ear,
And rous'd him into action. To the sill
Of his low hovel he rush'd forth, (for fear
Will sometimes take the shape of fortitude,
And force men into bravery) and soon
The wicker bolt unfasten'd. The swift blast,
Now unrestrain'd, flew by; and in its course
The quiv'ring lamp extinguish'd, and again
His soul was thrill'd with terror. On he went,
E'en to the snow-fring'd margin of the cragg,
Which to his citadel a platform made
Slipp'ry and perilous! 'Twas darkness, all!
All, solitary gloom!--The concave vast
Of Heav'n frown'd chaos; for all varied things
Of air, and earth, and waters, blended, lost
Their forms, in blank oblivion ! Yet not long
Did Nature wear her sable panoply,
For, while the HERMIT listen'd, from below
A stream of light ascended, spreading round
A partial view of trackless solitudes;
And mingling voices seem'd, with busy hum,
To break the spell of horrors. Down the steep
The HERMIT hasten'd, when a shriek of death
Re-echoed to the valley. As he flew,
(The treach'rous pathway yielding to his speed,)
Half hoping, half despairing, to the scene
Of wonder-waking anguish, suddenly
The torches were extinct; and second night
Came doubly hideous, while the hollow tongues
Of cavern'd winds, with melancholy sound
Increas'd the HERMIT'S fears. Four freezing hours
He watch'd and pray'd: and now the glimm'ring dawn
Peer'd on the Eastern Summits; (the blue light
Shedding cold lustre on the colder brows
Of Alpine desarts;) while the filmy wing
Of weeping Twilight, swept the naked plains
Of the Lombardian landscape.
On his knees
The ANCHORET blest Heav'n, that he had 'scap'd
The many perilous and fearful falls
Of waters wild and foamy, tumbling fast
From the shagg'd altitude. But, ere his pray'rs
Rose to their destin'd Heav'n, another sight,
Than all preceding far more terrible,
Palsied devotion's ardour. On the Snow,
Dappled with ruby drops, a track was made
By steps precipitate; a rugged path
Down the steep frozen chasm had mark'd the fate
Of some night traveller, whose bleeding form
Had toppled from the Summit. Lower still
The ANCHORET descended, 'till arrived
At the first ridge of silv'ry battlements,
Where, lifeless, ghastly, paler than the snow
On which her cheek repos'd, his darling Maid
Slept in the dream of Death ! Frantic and wild
He clasp'd her stiff'ning form, and bath'd with tears
The lilies of her bosom,--icy cold--
Yet beautiful and spotless.
Now, afar
The wond'ring HERMIT heard the clang of arms
Re-echoing from the valley: the white cliffs
Trembled as though an Earthquake shook their base
With terrible concussion ! Thund'ring peals
From warfare's brazen throat, proclaim'd th' approach
Of conquering legions: onward they extend
Their dauntless columns ! In the foremost group
A Ruffian met the HERMIT'S startled Eyes
Like Hell's worst Demon ! For his murd'rous hands
Were smear'd with gore; and on his daring breast
A golden cross, suspended, bore the name
Of his ill-fated Victim!--ANCHORET!
Thy VESTAL Saint, by his unhallow'd hands
Torn from RELIGION'S Altar, had been made
The sport of a dark Fiend, whose recreant Soul
Had sham'd the cause of Valour ! To his cell
The Soul-struck Exile turn'd his trembling feet,
And after three lone weeks, of pain and pray'r,
Shrunk from the scene of Solitude--and DIED!
Written by Thomas Hardy | Create an image from this poem

Domicilium

 It faces west, and round the back and sides 
High beeches, bending, hang a veil of boughs, 
And sweep against the roof. Wild honeysucks 
Climb on the walls, and seem to sprout a wish 
(If we may fancy wish of trees and plants) 
To overtop the apple trees hard-by.

Red roses, lilacs, variegated box 
Are there in plenty, and such hardy flowers 
As flourish best untrained. Adjoining these 
Are herbs and esculents; and farther still 
A field; then cottages with trees, and last 
The distant hills and sky.

Behind, the scene is wilder. Heath and furze 
Are everything that seems to grow and thrive 
Upon the uneven ground. A stunted thorn 
Stands here and there, indeed; and from a pit 
An oak uprises, Springing from a seed 
Dropped by some bird a hundred years ago.

In days bygone-- 
Long gone--my father's mother, who is now 
Blest with the blest, would take me out to walk. 
At such a time I once inquired of her 
How looked the spot when first she settled here. 
The answer I remember. 'Fifty years 
Have passed since then, my child, and change has marked 
The face of all things. Yonder garden-plots 
And orchards were uncultivated slopes 
O'ergrown with bramble bushes, furze and thorn: 
That road a narrow path shut in by ferns, 
Which, almost trees, obscured the passers-by.

Our house stood quite alone, and those tall firs 
And beeches were not planted. Snakes and efts 
Swarmed in the summer days, and nightly bats 
Would fly about our bedrooms. Heathcroppers 
Lived on the hills, and were our only friends; 
So wild it was when we first settled here.'
Written by Mary Darby Robinson | Create an image from this poem

Lines inscribed to P. de Loutherbourg Esq. R. A

 WHERE on the bosom of the foamy RHINE,
In curling waves the rapid waters shine;
Where tow'ring cliffs in awful grandeur rise,
And midst the blue expanse embrace the skies;
The wond'ring eye beholds yon craggy height,
Ting'd with the glow of Evening's fading light:
Where the fierce cataract swelling o'er its bound,
Bursts from its source, and dares the depth profound.
On ev'ry side the headlong currents flow,
Scatt'ring their foam like silv'ry sands below:
From hill to hill responsive echoes sound,
Loud torrents roar, and dashing waves rebound:
Th' opposing rock, the azure stream divides
The white froth tumbling down its sparry sides;
From fall to fall the glitt'ring channels flow,
'Till lost, they mingle in the Lake below.
Tremendous spot ! amid thy views sublime,
The mental sight ethereal realms may climb,
With wonder rapt the mighty work explore,
Confess TH' ETERNAL'S pow'r ! and pensively adore! 

ALL VARYING NATURE! oft the outstretch'd eye 
Marks o'er the WELKIN's brow the meteor fly: 
Marks, where the COMET with impetuous force, 
O'er Heaven's wide concave, skims its fiery course: 
While on the ALPINE steep thin vapours rise, 
Float on the blast­or freeze amidst the skies: 
Or half congeal'd in flaky fragments glide 
Along the gelid mountain's breezy side; 
Or mingling with the waste of yielding snow, 
From the vast height in various currents flow. 

Now pale-ey'd MORNING, at thy soft command, 
O'er the rich landscape spreads her dewy hand: 
Swift o'er the plain the lucid rivers fly, 
Imperfect mirrors of the dappled sky: 
On the fring'd margin of the dimpling tide, 
Each od'rous bud, by FLORA'S pencil dy'd, 
Expands its velvet leaves of lust'rous hue, 
Bath'd in the essence of celestial dew: 
While from the METEOR to the simplest FLOW R, 
Prolific Nature ! we behold thy pow'r ! 
Yet has mysterious Heaven with care consign'd 
Thy noblest triumphs to the human mind; 
MAN feels the proud preeminence impart 
Intrepid firmness to his swelling heart; 
Creation's lord ! where'er HE bends his way, 
The torch of REASON spreads its godlike ray. 

As o'er SIClLlAN sands the Trav'ler roves, 
Feeds on its fruits, and shelters in its groves, 
Sudden amidst the calm retreat he hears 
The pealing thunders in the distant spheres; 
He sees the curling fumes from ETNA rise, 
Shade the green vale, and blacken all the skies. 
Around his head the forked lightnings glare,
The vivid streams illume the stagnant air: 
The nodding hills hang low'ring o'er the deep, 
The howling winds the clust'ring vineyards sweep; 
The cavern'd rocks terrific tremours rend; 
Low to the earth the tawny forests bend: 
While He an ATOM in the direful scene, 
Views the wild CHAOS, wond'ring, and serene; 
Tho' at his feet sulphureous rivers roll, 
No touch of terror shakes his conscious soul: 
His MIND ! enlighten'd by PROMETHEAN rays 
Expanding, glows with intellectual blaze! 

Such scenes, long since, th' immortal POET charm'd,
His MUSE enraptur'd, and his FANCY warm'd:
From them he learnt with magic eye t' explore,
The dire ARCANUM of the STYGIAN shore !
Where the departed spirit trembling, hurl'd
"With restless violence round the pendent world,"
On the swift wings of whistling whirlwinds flung, 
Plung'd in the wave, or on the mountain hung. 

While o'er yon cliff the ling'ring fires of day,
In ruby shadows faintly glide away; 
The glassy source that feeds the CATARACT's stream, 
Bears the last image of the solar beam: 
Wide o'er the Landscape Nature's tints disclose, 
The softest picture of sublime repose; 
The sober beauties of EVE'S hour serene, 
The scatter'd village, now but dimly seen, 
The neighb'ring rock, whose flinty brow inclin'd, 
Shields the clay cottage from the northern wind: 
The variegated woodlands scarce we view, 
The distant mountains ting'd with purple hue: 
Pale twilight flings her mantle o'er the skies, 
From the still lake, the misty vapours rise; 
Cold show'rs descending on the western breeze, 
Sprinkle with lucid drops the bending trees, 
Whose spreading branches o'er the glade reclin'd, 
Wave their dank leaves, and murmur to the wind. 

Such scenes, O LOUTHERBOURG! thy pencil fir'd, 
Warm'd thy great mind, and every touch inspir'd: 
Beneath thy hand the varying colours glow, 
Vast mountains rise, and crystal rivers flow: 
Thy wond'rous Genius owns no pedant rule, 
Nature's thy guide, and Nature's works thy school: 
Pursue her steps, each rival's art defy, 
For while she charms, THY NAME shall never die.


Written by D. H. Lawrence | Create an image from this poem

Trees In The Garden

 Ah in the thunder air
how still the trees are!

And the lime-tree, lovely and tall, every leaf silent
hardly looses even a last breath of perfume.

And the ghostly, creamy coloured little tree of leaves
white, ivory white among the rambling greens
how evanescent, variegated elder, she hesitates on the green grass
as if, in another moment, she would disappear
with all her grace of foam!

And the larch that is only a column, it goes up too tall to see:
and the balsam-pines that are blue with the grey-blue blueness of
 things from the sea,
and the young copper beech, its leaves red-rosy at the ends
how still they are together, they stand so still
in the thunder air, all strangers to one another
as the green grass glows upwards, strangers in the silent garden.

 Lichtental
Written by Francesco Petrarch | Create an image from this poem

Sonnet CXII

SONNET CXII.

Nè così bello il sol giammai levarsi.

THE CHARMS OF LAURA WHEN SHE FIRST MET HIS SIGHT.

Ne'er can the sun such radiance soft display,Piercing some cloud that would its light impair;Ne'er tinged some showery arch the humid air,With variegated lustre half so gay,As when, sweet-smiling my fond heart away,All-beauteous shone my captivating fair;For charms what mortal can with her compare!But truth, impartial truth! much more might say.[Pg 142]I saw young Cupid, saw his laughing eyesWith such bewitching, am'rous sweetness roll,That every human glance I since despise.Believe, dear friend! I saw the wanton boy;Bent was his bow to wound my tender soul;Yet, ah! once more I'd view the dang'rous joy.
Anon. 1777.
Sun never rose so beautiful and brightWhen skies above most clear and cloudless show'd,Nor, after rain, the bow of heaven e'er glow'dWith tints so varied, delicate, and light,As in rare beauty flash'd upon my sight,The day I first took up this am'rous load,That face whose fellow ne'er on earth abode—Even my praise to paint it seems a slight!Then saw I Love, who did her fine eyes bendSo sweetly, every other face obscureHas from that hour till now appear'd to me.The boy-god and his bow, I saw them, friend,From whom life since has never been secure,Whom still I madly yearn again to see.
Macgregor.

Book: Reflection on the Important Things