10 Best Famous Wearers Poems

Here is a collection of the top 10 all-time best famous Wearers poems. This is a select list of the best famous Wearers poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Wearers poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of wearers poems.

• All Famous Wearers Poems

 In these days of peace and money, free to all the Commonweal, 
There are ancient dames in Buckland wearing wedding rings of steel; 
Wedding rings of steel and iron, worn on wrinkled hands and old, 
And the wearers would not give them, not for youth nor wealth untold. 

In the days of black oppression, when the best abandoned hope, 
And all Buckland crouched in terror of the prison and the rope, 
Many fair young wives in Buckland prayed beside their lonely beds 
For the absent ones who knew not where to lay their outlawed heads. 

But a whisper went through Buckland, to the rebels only known, 
That the man across the border had a chance to hold his own. 
There were men that came in darkness, quiet, grim and travel-worn, 
And, by twos, and threes, the young men stole away to join Kinghorn. 

Slipping powder-horns and muskets from beneath the floors and thatch, 
There were boys who kissed their mothers ere they softly dropped the latch; 
There were hunters' wives in backwoods who sat strangely still and white 
Till the dawn, because their men-folk went a-hunting in the night. 

But the rebels needed money, and so, through the Buckland hills, 
Came again, by night, the gloomy men of monosyllables; 
And the ladies gave their jewels to be smuggled out and sold, 
And the homely wives of Buckland gave their wedding rings of gold. 

And a Buckland smith in secret, and in danger, in his shed 
Made them rings of baser metals (from the best he had, to lead), 
To be gilt and worn to market, or to meetings where they.prayed, 
Lest the spies should get an inkling, and the husbands be betrayed. 

Then a silence fell on Buckland; there was peace throughout the land, 
And a loyalty that puzzled all the captains in command; 
There was too much Law and Order for the men who weren't blind, 
And the greatest of the king's men wasn't easy in his mind. 

They were hunting rebels, certes, and the troops were understood 
To be searching for a stronghold like a needle in a wood; 
But whene'er the king was prayed for in the meeting-houses, then 
It was strange with how much unction ancient sinners cried "Ah-men!" 

Till at last, when all was quiet, through the gloomy Buckland hills 
Once again there came those furtive men of monosyllables; 
And their message was – "Take warning what the morrow may reveal, 
Death and Freedom may be married with a wedding ring of steel." 

In the morning, from the marshes, rose the night-mist, cold and damp, 
From the shipping in the harbour and the sleeping royal camp; 
From the lanes and from the by-streets and the high streets of the town, 
And above the hills of Buckland, where the rebel guns looked down. 

And the first one sent a message to the camp to fight or yield, 
And the wintry sun looked redly on a bloody battlefield; 
Till the man from 'cross the border marched through Buckland once again, 
With a charter for the people and ten thousand fighting men. 

There are ancient dames in Buckland with old secrets to reveal, 
Wearing wedding rings of iron, wearing wedding rings of steel; 
And their tears drop on the metal when their thoughts are far away 
In the past where their young husbands died on Buckland field that day.

 Once played to attentive faces 
music has broken its frame 
its bodice of always-weak laces 
the entirely promiscuous art 
pours out in public spaces 
accompanying everything, the selections 
of sex and war, the rejections. 
To jeans-wearers in zipped sporrans 
it transmits an ideal body 
continuously as theirs age. Warrens 
of plastic tiles and mesh throats 
dispense this aural money 
this sleek accountancy of notes 
deep feeling adrift from its feelers 
thought that means everything at once 
like a shrugging of cream shoulders 
like paintings hung on park mesh 
sonore doom soneer illy chesh 
they lost the off switch in my lifetime 
the world reverberates with Muzak 
and Prozac. As it doesn't with poe-zac 
(I did meet a Miss Universe named Verstak). 
Music to me is like days 
I rarely catch who composed them 
if one's sublime I think God 
my life-signs suspend. I nod 
it's like both Stilton and cure 
from one harpsichord-hum: 
penicillium - 
then I miss the Köchel number. 
I scarcely know whose performance 
of a limpid autumn noon is superior 
I gather timbre outranks rhumba. 
I often can't tell days apart 
they are the consumers, not me 
in my head collectables decay 
I've half-heard every piece of music 
the glorious big one with voice 
the gleaming instrumental one, so choice 
the hypnotic one like weed-smoke at a party 
and the muscular one out of farty 
cars that goes Whudda Whudda 
Whudda like the compound oil heart 
of a warrior not of this planet.

 Live, live with me, and thou shalt see
The pleasures I'll prepare for thee:
What sweets the country can afford
Shall bless thy bed, and bless thy board.
The soft sweet moss shall be thy bed,
With crawling woodbine over-spread:
By which the silver-shedding streams
Shall gently melt thee into dreams.
Thy clothing next, shall be a gown
Made of the fleeces' purest down.
The tongues of kids shall be thy meat;
Their milk thy drink; and thou shalt eat
The paste of filberts for thy bread
With cream of cowslips buttered:
Thy feasting-table shall be hills
With daisies spread, and daffadils;
Where thou shalt sit, and Red-breast by,
For meat, shall give thee melody.
I'll give thee chains and carcanets
Of primroses and violets.
A bag and bottle thou shalt have,
That richly wrought, and this as brave;
So that as either shall express
The wearer's no mean shepherdess.
At shearing-times, and yearly wakes,
When Themilis his pastime makes,
There thou shalt be; and be the wit,
Nay more, the feast, and grace of it.
On holydays, when virgins meet
To dance the heys with nimble feet,
Thou shalt come forth, and then appear
The Queen of Roses for that year.
And having danced ('bove all the best)
Carry the garland from the rest,
In wicker-baskets maids shall bring
To thee, my dearest shepherdling,
The blushing apple, bashful pear,
And shame-faced plum, all simp'ring there.
Walk in the groves, and thou shalt find
The name of Phillis in the rind
Of every straight and smooth-skin tree;
Where kissing that, I'll twice kiss thee.
To thee a sheep-hook I will send,
Be-prank'd with ribbands, to this end,
This, this alluring hook might be
Less for to catch a sheep, than me.
Thou shalt have possets, wassails fine,
Not made of ale, but spiced wine;
To make thy maids and self free mirth,
All sitting near the glitt'ring hearth.
Thou shalt have ribbands, roses, rings,
Gloves, garters, stockings, shoes, and strings
Of winning colours, that shall move
Others to lust, but me to love.
--These, nay, and more, thine own shall be,
If thou wilt love, and live with me.