Best Famous Volcanic Poems

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

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• All Famous Volcanic Poems

Written by Carl Sandburg | Always the Mob JESUS emptied the devils of one man into forty hogs and the hogs took the edge of a high rock and dropped off and down into the sea: a mob. The sheep on the hills of Australia, blundering fourfooted in the sunset mist to the dark, they go one way, they hunt one sleep, they find one pocket of grass for all. Karnak? Pyramids? Sphinx paws tall as a coolie? Tombs kept for kings and sacred cows? A mob. Young roast pigs and naked dancing girls of Belshazzar, the room where a thousand sat guzzling when a hand wrote: Mene, mene, tekel, upharsin? A mob. The honeycomb of green that won the sun as the Hanging Gardens of Nineveh, flew to its shape at the hands of a mob that followed the fingers of Nebuchadnezzar: a mob of one hand and one plan. Stones of a circle of hills at Athens, staircases of a mountain in Peru, scattered clans of marble dragons in China: each a mob on the rim of a sunrise: hammers and wagons have them now. Locks and gates of Panama? The Union Pacific crossing deserts and tunneling mountains? The Woolworth on land and the Titanic at sea? Lighthouses blinking a coast line from Labrador to Key West? Pigiron bars piled on a barge whistling in a fog off Sheboygan? A mob: hammers and wagons have them to-morrow. The mob? A typhoon tearing loose an island from thousand-year moorings and bastions, shooting a volcanic ash with a fire tongue that licks up cities and peoples. Layers of worms eating rocks and forming loam and valley floors for potatoes, wheat, watermelons. The mob? A jag of lightning, a geyser, a gravel mass loosening… The mob … kills or builds … the mob is Attila or Ghengis Khan, the mob is Napoleon, Lincoln. I am born in the mob—I die in the mob—the same goes for you—I don’t care who you are. I cross the sheets of fire in No Man’s land for you, my brother—I slip a steel tooth into your throat, you my brother—I die for you and I kill you—It is a twisted and gnarled thing, a crimson wool: One more arch of stars, In the night of our mist, In the night of our tears.

Written by Aleister Crowley | Pan to Artemis Uncharmable charmer Of Bacchus and Mars In the sounding rebounding Abyss of the stars! O virgin in armour, Thine arrows unsling In the brilliant resilient First rays of the spring! By the force of the fashion Of love, when I broke Through the shroud, through the cloud, Through the storm, through the smoke, To the mountain of passion Volcanic that woke --- By the rage of the mage I invoke, I invoke! By the midnight of madness: - The lone-lying sea, The swoon of the moon, Your swoon into me, The sentinel sadness Of cliff-clinging pine, That night of delight You were mine, you were mine! You were mine, O my saint, My maiden, my mate, By the might of the right Of the night of our fate. Though I fall, though I faint, Though I char, though I choke, By the hour of our power I invoke, I invoke! By the mystical union Of fairy and faun, Unspoken, unbroken - The dust to the dawn! - A secret communion Unmeasured, unsung, The listless, resistless, Tumultuous tongue! - O virgin in armour, Thine arrows unsling, In the brilliant resilient First rays of the spring! No Godhead could charm her, But manhood awoke - O fiery Valkyrie, I invoke, I invoke!

Written by Emily Dickinson | I have never seen Volcanoes I have never seen "Volcanoes" -- But, when Travellers tell How those old -- phlegmatic mountains Usually so still -- Bear within -- appalling Ordnance, Fire, and smoke, and gun, Taking Villages for breakfast, And appalling Men -- If the stillness is Volcanic In the human face When upon a pain Titanic Features keep their place -- If at length the smouldering anguish Will not overcome -- And the palpitating Vineyard In the dust, be thrown? If some loving Antiquary, On Resumption Morn, Will not cry with joy "Pompeii"! To the Hills return!

Written by George (Lord) Byron | On This Day I Complete My Thirty-Sixth Year Missolonghi, Jan. 22, 1824 'Tis time this heart should be unmoved, Since others it hath ceased to move: Yet, though I cannot be beloved, Still let me love! My days are in the yellow leaf; The flowers and fruits of love are gone; The worm, the canker, and the grief, Are mine alone! The fire that on my bosom preys Is lone as some volcanic isle; No torch is kindled at its blaze— A funeral pile! The hope, the fear, the jealous care, The exalted portion of the pain And power of love, I cannot share, But wear the chain. But 'tis not thus—and 'tis not here— Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor now, Where glory decks the hero's bier, Or binds his brow. The sword, the banner, and the field, Glory and Greece, around me see! The Spartan, borne upon his shield, Was not more free. Awake! (not Greece—she is awake!) Awake, my spirit! Think through whom Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake, And then strike home! Tread those reviving passions down, Unworthy manhood!—unto thee Indifferent should the smile or frown Of beauty be. If thou regret'st thy youth, why live? The land of honourable death Is here:—up to the field, and give Away thy breath! Seek out—less often sought than found— A soldier's grave, for thee the best; Then look around, and choose thy ground, And take thy rest.

Written by Vachel Lindsay | An Apology for the Bottle Volcanic Sometimes I dip my pen and find the bottle full of fire, The salamanders flying forth I cannot but admire. It's Etna, or Vesuvius, if those big things were small, And then 'tis but itself again, and does not smoke at all. And so my blood grows cold. I say, "The bottle held but ink, And, if you thought it otherwise, the worser for your think." And then, just as I throw my scribbled paper on the floor, The bottle says, "Fe, fi, fo, fum," and steams and shouts some more. O sad deceiving ink, as bad as liquor in its way— All demons of a bottle size have pranced from you to-day, And seized my pen for hobby-horse as witches ride a broom, And left a trail of brimstone words and blots and gobs of gloom. And yet when I am extra good and say my prayers at night, And mind my ma, and do the chores, and speak to folks polite, My bottle spreads a rainbow-mist, and from the vapor fine Ten thousand troops from fairyland come riding in a line. I've seen them on their chargers race around my study chair, They opened wide the window and rode forth upon the air. The army widened as it went, and into myriads grew, O how the lances shimmered, how the silvery trumpets blew!

Written by Emily Dickinson | The wind drew off The wind drew off Like hungry dogs Defeated of a bone -- Through fissures in Volcanic cloud The yellow lightning shone -- The trees held up Their mangled limbs Like animals in pain -- When Nature falls upon herself Beware an Austrian.