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Best Famous Vos Poems

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Written by T S (Thomas Stearns) Eliot | Create an image from this poem

Ash Wednesday

 I

Because I do not hope to turn again
Because I do not hope
Because I do not hope to turn
Desiring this man's gift and that man's scope
I no longer strive to strive towards such things
(Why should the agèd eagle stretch its wings?)
Why should I mourn
The vanished power of the usual reign?

Because I do not hope to know
The infirm glory of the positive hour
Because I do not think
Because I know I shall not know
The one veritable transitory power
Because I cannot drink
There, where trees flower, and springs flow, for there is
nothing again

Because I know that time is always time
And place is always and only place
And what is actual is actual only for one time
And only for one place
I rejoice that things are as they are and
I renounce the blessèd face
And renounce the voice
Because I cannot hope to turn again
Consequently I rejoice, having to construct something
Upon which to rejoice

And pray to God to have mercy upon us
And pray that I may forget
These matters that with myself I too much discuss
Too much explain
Because I do not hope to turn again
Let these words answer
For what is done, not to be done again
May the judgement not be too heavy upon us

Because these wings are no longer wings to fly
But merely vans to beat the air
The air which is now thoroughly small and dry
Smaller and dryer than the will
Teach us to care and not to care Teach us to sit still.
Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death Pray for us now and at the hour of our death.
II Lady, three white leopards sat under a juniper-tree In the cool of the day, having fed to sateity On my legs my heart my liver and that which had been contained In the hollow round of my skull.
And God said Shall these bones live? shall these Bones live? And that which had been contained In the bones (which were already dry) said chirping: Because of the goodness of this Lady And because of her loveliness, and because She honours the Virgin in meditation, We shine with brightness.
And I who am here dissembled Proffer my deeds to oblivion, and my love To the posterity of the desert and the fruit of the gourd.
It is this which recovers My guts the strings of my eyes and the indigestible portions Which the leopards reject.
The Lady is withdrawn In a white gown, to contemplation, in a white gown.
Let the whiteness of bones atone to forgetfulness.
There is no life in them.
As I am forgotten And would be forgotten, so I would forget Thus devoted, concentrated in purpose.
And God said Prophesy to the wind, to the wind only for only The wind will listen.
And the bones sang chirping With the burden of the grasshopper, saying Lady of silences Calm and distressed Torn and most whole Rose of memory Rose of forgetfulness Exhausted and life-giving Worried reposeful The single Rose Is now the Garden Where all loves end Terminate torment Of love unsatisfied The greater torment Of love satisfied End of the endless Journey to no end Conclusion of all that Is inconclusible Speech without word and Word of no speech Grace to the Mother For the Garden Where all love ends.
Under a juniper-tree the bones sang, scattered and shining We are glad to be scattered, we did little good to each other, Under a tree in the cool of day, with the blessing of sand, Forgetting themselves and each other, united In the quiet of the desert.
This is the land which ye Shall divide by lot.
And neither division nor unity Matters.
This is the land.
We have our inheritance.
III At the first turning of the second stair I turned and saw below The same shape twisted on the banister Under the vapour in the fetid air Struggling with the devil of the stairs who wears The deceitul face of hope and of despair.
At the second turning of the second stair I left them twisting, turning below; There were no more faces and the stair was dark, Damp, jaggèd, like an old man's mouth drivelling, beyond repair, Or the toothed gullet of an agèd shark.
At the first turning of the third stair Was a slotted window bellied like the figs's fruit And beyond the hawthorn blossom and a pasture scene The broadbacked figure drest in blue and green Enchanted the maytime with an antique flute.
Blown hair is sweet, brown hair over the mouth blown, Lilac and brown hair; Distraction, music of the flute, stops and steps of the mind over the third stair, Fading, fading; strength beyond hope and despair Climbing the third stair.
Lord, I am not worthy Lord, I am not worthy but speak the word only.
IV Who walked between the violet and the violet Whe walked between The various ranks of varied green Going in white and blue, in Mary's colour, Talking of trivial things In ignorance and knowledge of eternal dolour Who moved among the others as they walked, Who then made strong the fountains and made fresh the springs Made cool the dry rock and made firm the sand In blue of larkspur, blue of Mary's colour, Sovegna vos Here are the years that walk between, bearing Away the fiddles and the flutes, restoring One who moves in the time between sleep and waking, wearing White light folded, sheathing about her, folded.
The new years walk, restoring Through a bright cloud of tears, the years, restoring With a new verse the ancient rhyme.
Redeem The time.
Redeem The unread vision in the higher dream While jewelled unicorns draw by the gilded hearse.
The silent sister veiled in white and blue Between the yews, behind the garden god, Whose flute is breathless, bent her head and signed but spoke no word But the fountain sprang up and the bird sang down Redeem the time, redeem the dream The token of the word unheard, unspoken Till the wind shake a thousand whispers from the yew And after this our exile V If the lost word is lost, if the spent word is spent If the unheard, unspoken Word is unspoken, unheard; Still is the unspoken word, the Word unheard, The Word without a word, the Word within The world and for the world; And the light shone in darkness and Against the Word the unstilled world still whirled About the centre of the silent Word.
O my people, what have I done unto thee.
Where shall the word be found, where will the word Resound? Not here, there is not enough silence Not on the sea or on the islands, not On the mainland, in the desert or the rain land, For those who walk in darkness Both in the day time and in the night time The right time and the right place are not here No place of grace for those who avoid the face No time to rejoice for those who walk among noise and deny the voice Will the veiled sister pray for Those who walk in darkness, who chose thee and oppose thee, Those who are torn on the horn between season and season, time and time, between Hour and hour, word and word, power and power, those who wait In darkness? Will the veiled sister pray For children at the gate Who will not go away and cannot pray: Pray for those who chose and oppose O my people, what have I done unto thee.
Will the veiled sister between the slender Yew trees pray for those who offend her And are terrified and cannot surrender And affirm before the world and deny between the rocks In the last desert before the last blue rocks The desert in the garden the garden in the desert Of drouth, spitting from the mouth the withered apple-seed.
O my people.
VI Although I do not hope to turn again Although I do not hope Although I do not hope to turn Wavering between the profit and the loss In this brief transit where the dreams cross The dreamcrossed twilight between birth and dying (Bless me father) though I do not wish to wish these things From the wide window towards the granite shore The white sails still fly seaward, seaward flying Unbroken wings And the lost heart stiffens and rejoices In the lost lilac and the lost sea voices And the weak spirit quickens to rebel For the bent golden-rod and the lost sea smell Quickens to recover The cry of quail and the whirling plover And the blind eye creates The empty forms between the ivory gates And smell renews the salt savour of the sandy earth This is the time of tension between dying and birth The place of solitude where three dreams cross Between blue rocks But when the voices shaken from the yew-tree drift away Let the other yew be shaken and reply.
Blessèd sister, holy mother, spirit of the fountain, spirit of the garden, Suffer us not to mock ourselves with falsehood Teach us to care and not to care Teach us to sit still Even among these rocks, Our peace in His will And even among these rocks Sister, mother And spirit of the river, spirit of the sea, Suffer me not to be separated And let my cry come unto Thee.


Written by T S (Thomas Stearns) Eliot | Create an image from this poem

The Hippopotamus

  Similiter et omnes revereantur Diaconos, ut mandatum Jesu Christi; et Episcopum, ut
Jesum Christum, existentem filium Patris; Presbyteros autem, ut concilium Dei et
conjunctionem Apostolorum.
Sine his Ecclesia non vocatur; de quibus suadeo vos sic habeo.
S.
Ignatii Ad Trallianos.
And when this epistle is read among you, cause that it be read also in the church of the Laodiceans.
THE BROAD-BACKED hippopotamus Rests on his belly in the mud; Although he seems so firm to us He is merely flesh and blood.
Flesh and blood is weak and frail, Susceptible to nervous shock; While the True Church can never fail For it is based upon a rock.
The hippo’s feeble steps may err In compassing material ends, While the True Church need never stir To gather in its dividends.
The ’potamus can never reach The mango on the mango-tree; But fruits of pomegranate and peach Refresh the Church from over sea.
At mating time the hippo’s voice Betrays inflexions hoarse and odd, But every week we hear rejoice The Church, at being one with God.
The hippopotamus’s day Is passed in sleep; at night he hunts; God works in a mysterious way— The Church can sleep and feed at once.
I saw the ’potamus take wing Ascending from the damp savannas, And quiring angels round him sing The praise of God, in loud hosannas.
Blood of the Lamb shall wash him clean And him shall heavenly arms enfold, Among the saints he shall be seen Performing on a harp of gold.
He shall be washed as white as snow, By all the martyr’d virgins kist, While the True Church remains below Wrapt in the old miasmal mist.
Written by Victor Hugo | Create an image from this poem

THE THREE GLORIOUS DAYS

 ("Frères, vous avez vos journées.") 
 
 {I., July, 1830.} 


 Youth of France, sons of the bold, 
 Your oak-leaf victor-wreaths behold! 
 Our civic-laurels—honored dead! 
 So bright your triumphs in life's morn, 
 Your maiden-standards hacked and torn, 
 On Austerlitz might lustre shed. 
 
 All that your fathers did re-done— 
 A people's rights all nobly won— 
 Ye tore them living from the shroud! 
 Three glorious days bright July's gift, 
 The Bastiles off our hearts ye lift! 
 Oh! of such deeds be ever proud! 
 
 Of patriot sires ye lineage claim, 
 Their souls shone in your eye of flame; 
 Commencing the great work was theirs; 
 On you the task to finish laid 
 Your fruitful mother, France, who bade 
 Flow in one day a hundred years. 
 
 E'en chilly Albion admires, 
 The grand example Europe fires; 
 America shall clap her hands, 
 When swiftly o'er the Atlantic wave, 
 Fame sounds the news of how the brave, 
 In three bright days, have burst their bands! 
 
 With tyrant dead your fathers traced 
 A circle wide, with battles graced; 
 Victorious garland, red and vast! 
 Which blooming out from home did go 
 To Cadiz, Cairo, Rome, Moscow, 
 From Jemappes to Montmirail passed! 
 
 Of warlike Lyceums{1} ye are 
 The favored sons; there, deeds of war 
 Formed e'en your plays, while o'er you shook 
 The battle-flags in air aloft! 
 Passing your lines, Napoleon oft 
 Electrified you with a look! 
 
 Eagle of France! whose vivid wing 
 Did in a hundred places fling 
 A bloody feather, till one night 
 The arrow whelmed thee 'neath the wave! 
 Look up—rejoice—for now thy brave 
 And worthy eaglets dare the light. 
 
 ELIZABETH COLLINS. 
 
 {Footnote 1: The pupils of the Polytechnic Military School distinguished 
 themselves by their patriotic zeal and military skill, through all the 
 troubles.} 


 




Written by Paul Valery | Create an image from this poem

Les pas

 Tes pas, enfants de mon silence,
Saintement, lentement placés,
Vers le lit de ma vigilance
Procèdent muets et glacés.
Personne pure, ombre divine, Qu'ils sont doux, tes pas retenus ! Dieux !.
.
.
tous les dons que je devine Viennent à moi sur ces pieds nus ! Si, de tes lèvres avancées, Tu prépares pour l'apaiser, A l'habitant de mes pensées La nourriture d'un baiser, Ne hâte pas cet acte tendre, Douceur d'être et de n'être pas, Car j'ai vécu de vous attendre, Et mon coeur n'était que vos pas.
Written by Andrew Marvell | Create an image from this poem

A Letter To Doctor Ingelo then With My Lord Whitlock Amba

 Quid facis Arctoi charissime transfuga coeli,
Ingele, proh sero cognite, rapte cito?
Num satis Hybernum defendis pellibus Astrum,
Qui modo tam mollis nec bene firmus eras?
Quae Gentes Hominum, quae sit Natura Locorum,
Sint Homines, potius dic ibi sintre Loca?
Num gravis horrisono Polus obruit omnia lapsu,
Jungitur & praeceps Mundas utraque nive?
An melius canis horrescit Campus Aristis,
Amuius Agricolis & redit Orbe labor?
Incolit, ut fertur, saevam Gens mitior Oram,
Pace vigil, Bello strenua, justa Foro.
Quin ibi sunt Urbes, atque alta Palatia Regum, Musarumque domus, & sua Templa Deo.
Nam regit Imperio populum Christina ferocem, Et dare jura potest regia Virgo viris.
Utque trahit rigidum Magnes Aquilone Metallum, Gandet eam Soboles ferrea sponte sequii.
Dic quantum liceat fallaci credere Famae, Invida num taceat plura, sonet ve loquax.
At, si vera fides, Mundi melioris ab ortu, Saecula Christinae nulla tulere parem.
Ipsa licet redeat (nostri decus orbis) Eliza, Qualis nostra tamen quantaque Eliza fuit.
Vidimus Effigiem, mistasque Coloribus Umbras: Sic quoque Sceptripotens, sic quoque visa Dea.
Augustam decorant (raro concordia) frontem Majestas & Amor, Forma Pudorque simul.
Ingens Virgineo spirat Gustavus in ore: Agnoscas animos, fulmineumque Patrem.
Nulla suo nituit tam lucida Stella sub Axe; Non Ea quae meruit Crimine Nympha Polum.
Ah quoties pavidum demisit conscia Lumen, Utque suae timuit Parrhasis Ora Deae! Et, simulet falsa ni Pictor imagine Vultus, Delia tam similis nec fuit ipsa sibi.
Ni quod inornati Triviae sint forte Capilli, Sollicita sed buic distribuantur Acu.
Scilicet ut nemo est illa reverentior aequi; Haud ipsas igitur fert sine Lege Comas.
Gloria sylvarum pariter communis utrique Est, & perpetuae Virginitatis Honos.
Sic quoque Nympharum supereminet Agmina collo, Fertque Choros Cynthi per Juga, per Nives.
Haud aliter pariles Ciliorum contrahit Arcus Acribus ast Oculis tela subesse putes.
Luminibus dubites an straverit illa Sagittis Quae foret exuviis ardua colla Feram.
Alcides humeros coopertus pelle Nemaea Haud ita labentis sustulit Orbis Onus.
Heu quae Cervices subnectunt Pectora tales.
Frigidiora Gelu, candidiora Nive.
Caetera non licuit, sed vix ea tota, videre; Nam chau fi rigido stant Adamante Sinus.
Seu chlamys Artifici nimium succurrerit auso, Sicque imperfectum fugerit impar Opus: Sive tribus spernat Victrix certare Deabus, Et pretium formae nec spoliata ferat.
Junonis properans & clara Trophaea Minervae; Mollia nam Veneris praemia nosse piget.
Hinc neque consuluit fugitivae prodiga Formae, Nectimuit seris invigilasse Libris.
Insommem quoties Nymphae monuere sequaces Decedet roseis heu color ille Genis.
Jamque vigil leni cessit Philomela sopori, Omnibus & Sylvis conticuere Ferae.
Acrior illa tamen pergit, Curasque fatigat: Tanti est doctorum volvere scripta Virum.
Et liciti quae sint moderamina discere Regni, Quid fuerit, quid sit, noscere quicquid erit.
Sic quod in ingenuas Gothus peccaverit Artes Vindicat, & studiis expiat Una suis.
Exemplum dociles imitantur nobile Gentes, Et geminis Infans imbuit Ora sonis.
Transpositos Suecis credas migrasse Latinos, Carmine Romuleo sic strepit omne Nemus.
Upsala nec priscis impar memoratur Athenis, Aegidaque & Currus hic sua Pallas habet.
Illinc O quales liceat sperasse Liquores, Quum Dea praesideat fontibus ipsa sacris! Illic Lacte ruant illic & flumina Melle, Fulvaque inauratam tingat Arena Salam.
Upsalides Musae nunc & majora conemus, Quaeque mihi Famae non levis Aura tulit.
Creditur haud ulli Christus signasse suorum Occultam gemina de meliore Notam.
Quemque tenet charo descriptum Nomine semper, Non minus exculptum Pectore fida refert.
Sola haec virgineas depascit Flamma Medullas, Et licito pergit solvere corda foco.
Tu quoque Sanctorum fastos Christina sacrabis, Unica nec Virgo Volsiniensis erit.
Discite nunc Reges (Majestas proxima coelo) Discite proh magnos hinc coluisse Deos.
Ah pudeat Tanitos puerilia fingere coepta, Nugas nescio quas, & male quaerere Opes.
Acer Equo cunctos dum praeterit illa Britanno, Et pecoris spolium nescit inerme sequi.
Ast Aquilam poscit Germano pellere Nido, Deque Palatino Monte fugare Lupam.
Vos etiam latos in praedam jungite Campos, Impiaque arctatis cingite Lustra Plagis.
Victor Oliverus nudum Caput exerit Armis, Ducere sive sequi nobile laetus Iter.
Qualis jam Senior Solymae Godfredus ad Arces, Spina cui canis floruit alba comis.
Et lappos Christina potest & solvere Finnos, Ultima quos Boreae carcere Claustra premunt.
Aeoliis quales Venti fremuere sub antris, Et tentant Montis corripuisse moras.
Hanc Dea si summa demiserit Arce procellam Quam gravis Austriacis Hesperiisque cadat! Omnia sed rediens olim narraveris Ipse; Nec reditus spero tempora longa petit.
Non ibi lenta pigro stringuntur frigore Verba, Solibus, & tandem Vere liquanda novo.
Sed radiis hyemem Regina potentior urit; Haecque magis solvit, quam ligat illa Polum.
Dicitur & nostros moerens andisse Labores, Fortis & ingenuam Gentis amasse Fidem.
Oblatae Batavam nec paci commodat Aurem; Nec versat Danos insidiosa dolos.
Sed pia festinat mutatis Foedera rebus, Et Libertatem quae dominatur amat.
Digna cui Salomon meritos retulisset honores, Et Saba concretum Thure cremasset Iter.
Hanc tua, sed melius, celebraverit, Ingele, Musa; Et labor est vestrae debitus ille Lyrae.
Nos sine te frustra Thamisis saliceta subimus, Sparsaque per steriles Turba vagamur Agros.
Et male tentanti querulum respondet Avena: Quin & Rogerio dissiluere fides.
Haec tamen absenti memores dictamus Amico, Grataque speramus qualiacumque fore.


Written by Andrew Marvell | Create an image from this poem

Hortus

 Quisnam adeo, mortale genus, praecordia versat:
Heu Palmae, Laurique furor, vel simplicis Herbae!
Arbor ut indomitos ornet vix una labores;
Tempora nec foliis praecingat tota maglignis.
Dum simud implexi, tranquillae ad ferta Quiaetis, Omnigeni coeunt Flores, integraque Sylva.
Alma Quies, teneo te! & te Germana Quietis Simplicitas! Vos ergo diu per Templa, per urbes, Quaesivi, Regum perque alta Palatia frustra.
Sed vos Hotrorum per opaca siluentia longe Celarant Plantae virides, & concolor Umbra.
O! mibi si vestros liceat violasse recessus.
Erranti, lasso, & vitae melioris anhelo, Municipem servate novum, votoque potitum, Frondosae Cives optate in florea Regna.
Me quoque, vos Musae, &, te conscie testor Apollo, Non Armenta juvant hominum, Circique boatus, Mugitusve Fori; sed me Penetralia veris, Horroresque trahunt muti, & Consortia sola.
Virgineae quem non suspendit Gratia formae? Quam candore Nives vincentum, Ostrumque rubore, Vestra tamen viridis superet (me judice) Virtus.
Nec foliis certare Comae, nec Brachia ramis, Nec possint tremulos voces aequare susurros.
Ah quoties saevos vidi (quis credat?) Amantes Sculpentes Dominae potiori in cortice nomen? Nec puduit truncis inscribere vulnera sacris.
Ast Ego, si vestras unquam temeravero stirpes, Nulla Neaera, Chloe, Faustina, Corynna, legetur: In proprio sed quaeque libro signabitur Arbos.
O charae Platanus, Cyparissus, Populus, Ulnus! Hic Amor, exutis crepidatus inambulat alis, Enerves arcus & stridula tela reponens, Invertitque faces, nec se cupit usque timeri; Aut experrectus jacet, indormitque pharetrae; Non auditurus quanquam Cytherea vocarit; Nequitias referuut nec somnia vana priores.
Laetantur Superi, defervescente Tyranno, Et licet experti toties Nymphasque Deasque, Arbore nunc melius potiuntur quisque cupita.
Jupiter annosam, neglecta conjuge, Quercum Deperit; baud alia doluit sic pellice.
Juno.
Lemniacum temerant vestigia nulla Cubile, Nic Veneris Mavors meminit si Fraxinus adsit.
Formosae pressit Daphnes vestigia Phaebus Ut fieret Laurus; sed nil quaesiverat ultra.
Capripes & peteret quod Pan Syringa fugacem, Hoc erat ut Calamum posset reperire Sonorum.
Note: Desunt multa.
Nec tu, Opisex horti, grato sine carmine abibis: Qui brevibus plantis, & laeto flore, notasti Crescentes horas, atque intervalla diei.
Sol ibi candidior fragrantia Signa pererrat; Proque truci Tauro, stricto pro forcipe Cancri, Securis violaeque rosaeque allabitur umbris.
Sedula quin & Apis, mellito intenta labori, Horologo sua pensa thymo Signare videtur.
Temporis O suaves lapsus! O Otia sana! O Herbis dignae numerari & Floribus Horae!
Written by Judith Skillman | Create an image from this poem

Pardon

 Poem by Anne-Marie Derése.
Pardon si j'ai ri dans vos chapelles, pardon si j'ai claquè la porte de l'h?pital, pardon pour le bruit, pour la vie, pour l'amour auquel je n'avais pas droit.
Pardon de ne pas vous ressembler.