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Best Famous Well Off Poems

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

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Written by Robert Browning | Create an image from this poem

Up At A Villa— Down In The City

 (As Distinguished by an Italian Person of Quality)


Had I but plenty of money, money enough and to spare,
The house for me, no doubt, were a house in the city-square;
Ah, such a life, such a life, as one leads at the window there!


Something to see, by Bacchus, something to hear, at least!
There, the whole day long, one's life is a perfect feast;
While up at a villa one lives, I maintain it, no more than a beast.
III Well now, look at our villa! stuck like the horn of a bull Just on a mountain's edge as bare as the creature's skull, Save a mere shag of a bush with hardly a leaf to pull! - I scratch my own, sometimes, to see if the hair's turned wool.
IV But the city, oh the city—the square with the houses! Why? They are stone-faced, white as a curd, there's something to take the eye! Houses in four straight lines, not a single front awry! You watch who crosses and gossips, who saunters, who hurries by: Green blinds, as a matter of course, to draw when the sun gets high; And the shops with fanciful signs which are painted properly.
V What of a villa? Though winter be over in March by rights, 'Tis May perhaps ere the snow shall have withered well off the heights: You've the brown ploughed land before, where the oxen steam and wheeze, And the hills over-smoked behind by the faint grey olive trees.
VI Is it better in May, I ask you? You've summer all at once; In a day he leaps complete with a few strong April suns.
'Mid the sharp short emerald wheat, scarce risen three fingers well, The wild tulip, at end of its tube, blows out its great red bell Like a thin clear bubble of blood, for the children to pick and sell.
VII Is it ever hot in the square? There's a fountain to spout and splash! In the shade it sings and springs; in the shine such foam-bows flash On the horses with curling fish-tails, that prance and paddle and pash Round the lady atop in her conch—fifty gazers do not abash, Though all that she wears is some weeds round her waist in a sort of sash! VIII All the year long at the villa, nothing to see though you linger, Except yon cypress that points like Death's lean lifted forefinger.
Some think fireflies pretty, when they mix in the corn and mingle, Or thrid the stinking hemp till the stalks of it seem a-tingle.
Late August or early September, the stunning cicala is shrill, And the bees keep their tiresome whine round the resinous firs on the hill.
Enough of the seasons,—I spare you the months of the fever and chill.
IX Ere opening your eyes in the city, the blessed church-bells begin: No sooner the bells leave off than the diligence rattles in: You get the pick of the news, and it costs you never a pin.
By and by there's the travelling doctor gives pills, lets blood, draws teeth; Or the Pulcinello-trumpet breaks up the market beneath.
At the post-office such a scene-picture—the new play, piping hot! And a notice how, only this morning, three liberal thieves were shot.
Above it, behold the Archbishop's most fatherly of rebukes, And beneath, with his crown and his lion, some little new law of the Duke's! Or a sonnet with flowery marge, to the Reverend Don So-and-so Who is Dante, Boccaccio, Petrarca, Saint Jerome, and Cicero, "And moreover," (the sonnet goes rhyming,) "the skirts of Saint Paul has reached, Having preached us those six Lent-lectures more unctuous than ever he preached.
" Noon strikes,—here sweeps the procession! our Lady borne smiling and smart With a pink gauze gown all spangles, and seven swords stuck in her heart! Bang, whang, whang goes the drum, tootle-te-tootle the fife; No keeping one's haunches still: it's the greatest pleasure in life.
X But bless you, it's dear—it's dear! fowls, wine, at double the rate.
They have clapped a new tax upon salt, and what oil pays passing the gate It's a horror to think of.
And so, the villa for me, not the city! Beggars can scarcely be choosers: but still—ah, the pity, the pity! Look, two and two go the priests, then the monks with cowls and sandals, And the penitents dressed in white shirts, a-holding the yellow candles; One, he carries a flag up straight, and another a cross with handles, And the Duke's guard brings up the rear, for the better prevention of scandals.
Bang, whang, whang goes the drum, tootle-te-tootle the fife.
Oh, a day in the city-square, there is no such pleasure in life!

Written by David Herbert Lawrence | Create an image from this poem

How Beastly The Bourgeois Is

 How beastly the bourgeois is
especially the male of the species--

Presentable, eminently presentable--
shall I make you a present of him?

Isn't he handsome? Isn't he healthy? Isn't he a fine specimen?
Doesn't he look the fresh clean Englishman, outside?
Isn't it God's own image? tramping his thirty miles a day
after partridges, or a little rubber ball?
wouldn't you like to be like that, well off, and quite the

Oh, but wait!
Let him meet a new emotion, let him be faced with another
 man's need,
let him come home to a bit of moral difficulty, let life
 face him with a new demand on his understanding
and then watch him go soggy, like a wet meringue.
Watch him turn into a mess, either a fool or a bully.
Just watch the display of him, confronted with a new demand on his intelligence, a new life-demand.
How beastly the bourgeois is especially the male of the species-- Nicely groomed, like a mushroom standing there so sleek and erect and eyeable-- and like a fungus, living on the remains of a bygone life sucking his life out of the dead leaves of greater life than his own.
And even so, he's stale, he's been there too long.
Touch him, and you'll find he's all gone inside just like an old mushroom, all wormy inside, and hollow under a smooth skin and an upright appearance.
Full of seething, wormy, hollow feelings rather nasty-- How beastly the bourgeois is! Standing in their thousands, these appearances, in damp England what a pity they can't all be kicked over like sickening toadstools, and left to melt back, swiftly into the soil of England.
Written by Robert Pinsky | Create an image from this poem

At Pleasure Bay

 In the willows along the river at Pleasure Bay
A catbird singing, never the same phrase twice.
Here under the pines a little off the road In 1927 the Chief of Police And Mrs.
killed themselves together, Sitting in a roadster.
Ancient unshaken pilings And underwater chunks of still-mortared brick In shapes like bits of puzzle strew the bottom Where the landing was for Price's Hotel and Theater.
And here's where boats blew two blasts for the keeper To shunt the iron swing-bridge.
He leaned on the gears Like a skipper in the hut that housed the works And the bridge moaned and turned on its middle pier To let them through.
In the middle of the summer Two or three cars might wait for the iron trusswork Winching aside, with maybe a child to notice A name on the stern in black-and-gold on white, Sandpiper, Patsy Ann, Do Not Disturb, The Idler.
If a boat was running whiskey, The bridge clanged shut behind it as it passed And opened up again for the Coast Guard cutter Slowly as a sundial, and always jammed halfway.
The roadbed whole, but opened like a switch, The river pulling and coursing between the piers.
Never the same phrase twice, the catbird filling The humid August evening near the inlet With borrowed music that he melds and changes.
Dragonflies and sandflies, frogs in the rushes, two bodies Not moving in the open car among the pines, A sliver of story.
The tenor at Price's Hotel, In clown costume, unfurls the sorrow gathered In ruffles at his throat and cuffs, high quavers That hold like splashes of light on the dark water, The aria's closing phrases, changed and fading.
And after a gap of quiet, cheers and applause Audible in the houses across the river, Some in the audience weeping as if they had melted Inside the music.
Never the same.
In Berlin The daughter of an English lord, in love With Adolf Hitler, whom she has met.
She is taking Possession of the apartment of a couple, Elderly well-off Jews.
They survive the war To settle here in the Bay, the old lady Teaches piano, but the whole world swivels And gapes at their feet as the girl and a high-up Nazi Examine the furniture, the glass, the pictures, The elegant story that was theirs and now Is part of hers.
A few months later the English Enter the war and she shoots herself in a park, An addled, upper-class girl, her life that passes Into the lives of others or into a place.
The taking of lives--the Chief and Mrs.
Took theirs to stay together, as local ghosts.
Last flurries of kisses, the revolver's barrel, Shivers of a story that a child might hear And half remember, voices in the rushes, A singing in the willows.
From across the river, Faint quavers of music, the same phrase twice and again, Ranging and building.
Over the high new bridge The flashing of traffic homeward from the racetrack, With one boat chugging under the arches, outward Unnoticed through Pleasure Bay to the open sea.
Here's where the people stood to watch the theater Burn on the water.
All that night the fireboats Kept playing their spouts of water into the blaze.
In the morning, smoking pilasters and beams.
Black smell of char for weeks, the ruin already Soaking back into the river.
After you die You hover near the ceiling above your body And watch the mourners awhile.
A few days more You float above the heads of the ones you knew And watch them through a twilight.
As it grows darker You wander off and find your way to the river And wade across.
On the other side, night air, Willows, the smell of the river, and a mass Of sleeping bodies all along the bank, A kind of singing from among the rushes Calling you further forward in the dark.
You lie down and embrace one body, the limbs Heavy with sleep reach eagerly up around you And you make love until your soul brims up And burns free out of you and shifts and spills Down over into that other body, and you Forget the life you had and begin again On the same crossing--maybe as a child who passes Through the same place.
But never the same way twice.
Here in the daylight, the catbird in the willows, The new café, with a terrace and a landing, Frogs in the cattails where the swing-bridge was-- Here's where you might have slipped across the water When you were only a presence, at Pleasure Bay.
Written by Stevie Smith | Create an image from this poem


 Nobody knows what I feel about Freddy
I cannot make anyone understand
I love him sub specie aet ernitaties
I love him out of hand.
I don't love him so much in the restaurants that's a fact To get him hobnob with my old pub chums needs too much tact He don't love them and they don't love him In the pub lub lights they say Freddy very dim.
But get him alone on the open saltings Where the sea licks up to the fen He is his and my own heart's best World without end ahem.
People who say we ought to get married ought to get smacked: Why should we do it when we can't afford it and have ourselves whacked? Thank you kind friends and relations thank you, We do very well as we do.
Oh what do I care for the pub lub lights And the friends I love so well- There's more in the way I feel about Freddy Than a friend cal tell.
But all the same I don't care much for his meelyoo I mean I don't anheimate mich in the ha-ha well-off suburban scene Where men are few and hearts go tumptytum In the tennis club lub lights poet very dumb.
But there never was a boy like Freddy For a haystack's ivory tower of bliss Where speaking sub specie humanitatis Freddy and me can kiss.
Exhiled from his meelyoo Exhiled from mine There's all Tom Tiddler's time pocket For his love and mine.
Written by Andrew Barton Paterson | Create an image from this poem

A Disqualified Jockeys Story

 You see, the thing was this way -- there was me, 
That rode Panopply, the Splendor mare, 
And Ikey Chambers on the Iron Dook, 
And Smith, the half-caste rider on Regret, 
And that long bloke from Wagga -- him that rode 
Veronikew, the Snowy River horse.
Well, none of them had chances -- not a chance Among the lot, unless the rest fell dead Or wasn't trying -- for a blind man's dog Could see Enchantress was a certain cop, And all the books was layin' six to four.
They brought her out to show our lot the road, Or so they said: but, then Gord's truth! you know, You can believe 'em, though they took an oath On forty Bibles that they's tell the truth.
But anyhow, an amateur was up On this Enchantress; and so Ike and me, We thought that we might frighten him a bit By asking if he minded riding rough -- "Oh, not at all," says he, "oh, not at all! I heard at Robbo Park, and if it comes To bumping I'm your Moses! Strike me blue!" Says he, "I'll bump you over either rail, The inside rail or outside -- which you choose Is good enough for me" -- which settled Ike.
For he was shaky since he near got killed From being sent a buster on the rail, When some chap bumped his horse and fetched him down At Stony Bridge; so Ikey thought it best To leave this bloke alone, and I agreed.
So all the books was layin' six to four Against the favourite, and the amateur Was walking this Enchantress up and down, And me and Smithy backed him; for we thought We might as well get something for ourselves, Because we knew our horses couldn't win.
But Ikey wouldn't back him for a bob; Because he said he reckoned he was stiff, And all the books was layin' six to four.
Well, anyhow, before the start the news Got around that this here amateur was stiff, And our good stuff was blued, and all the books Was in it, and the prices lengthened out, And every book was bustin' of his throat, And layin' five to one the favourite.
So there was we that couldn't win ourselves, And this here amateur that wouldn't try, And all the books was layin' five to one.
So Smithy says to me, "You take a hold Of that there moke of yours, and round the turn Come up behind Enchantress with the whip And let her have it; that long bloke and me Will wait ahead, and when she comes to us We'll pass her on and belt her down the straight, And Ikey'll flog her home -- because his boss Is judge and steward and the Lord knows what, And so he won't be touched; and, as for us, We'll swear we only hit her by mistake!" And all the books was layin' five to one.
Well, off we went, and comin' to the turn I saw the amateur was holdinig back And poking into every hole he could To get her blocked; and so I pulled behind And drew the whip and dropped it on the mare.
I let her have it twice, and then she shot Ahead of me, and Smithy opened out And let her up beside him on the rails, And kept her there a-beltin' her like smoke Until she struggled past him, pullin' hard, And came to Ike; but Ikey drew his whip And hit her on the nose, and sent her back And won the race himself -- for, after all, It seems he had a fiver on The Dook And never told us -- so our stuff was lost.
And then they had us up for ridin' foul, And warned us off the tracks for twelve months each To get our livin' any way we could; But Ikey wasn't touched, because his boss Was judge and steward and the Lord knows what.
But Mister -- if you'll lend us half-a-crown, I know three certain winners at the Park -- Three certain cops as no one knows but me; And -- thank you, Mister, come an' have a beer (I always like a beer about this time) .
Well, so long, Mister, till we meet again.