10 Best Famous Wetter Poems

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

• All Famous Wetter Poems

 So how is life with your new bloke?
Simpler, I bet. Just one stroke
of his quivering oar and the skin
of the Thames goes into a spin,

eh? How is life with an oarsman? Better?
More in--out? Athletic? Wetter?
When you hear the moan of the rowlocks,
do you urge him on like a cox?

Tell me, is he bright enough to find
that memo-pad you call a mind?
Or has he contrived to bring you out--
given you an in-tray and an out?

How did I ever fall for a paper-clip?
How could I ever listen to office gossip
even in bed and find it so intelligent?
Was is straight biological bent?

I suppose you go jogging together?
Tackle the Ridgeway in nasty weather?
Face force 55 gales and chat about prep
or how you bested that Birmingham rep?

He must be mad with excitement.
So must you. What an incitement
to lust all those press-ups must be.
Or is it just the same? PE?

Tell me, I'm curious. Is it fun
being in love with just anyone?
How do you remember his face
if you meet in a public place?

Perhaps you know him by his shoes?
Or do you sometimes choose
another pinstriped clone
by accident and drag that home

instead? From what you say,
he's perfect. For a Chekhov play.
Tall and dark and brightly dim,
Kulygin's part was made for him.

Imagine your life with a 'beak'.
Week after week after week
like homework or detention;
all that standing to attention

whenever his colleagues drop in
for a spot of what's-your-toxin.
Speech Day, matron, tuck-shop, Christ,
you'll find school fees are over-priced

and leave, but not come back to me.
You've done your bit for poetry.
Words, or deeds? You'll stick to youth.
I'm a stickler for the truth--

which makes me wonder what it was
I loved you for. Tell me, because
now I feel nothing--except regret.
What is it, love, I need to forget?

 “Gabble-gabble,… brethren,… gabble-gabble!” 
My window frames forest and heather. 
I hardly hear the tuneful babble, 
Not knowing nor much caring whether 
The text is praise or exhortation,
Prayer or thanksgiving, or damnation. 

Outside it blows wetter and wetter, 
The tossing trees never stay still. 
I shift my elbows to catch better 
The full round sweep of heathered hill.
The tortured copse bends to and fro 
In silence like a shadow-show. 

The parson’s voice runs like a river 
Over smooth rocks. I like this church: 
The pews are staid, they never shiver,
They never bend or sway or lurch. 
“Prayer,” says the kind voice, “is a chain 
That draws down Grace from Heaven again.” 

I add the hymns up, over and over, 
Until there’s not the least mistake.
Seven-seventy-one. (Look! there’s a plover! 
It’s gone!) Who’s that Saint by the lake? 
The red light from his mantle passes 
Across the broad memorial brasses. 

It’s pleasant here for dreams and thinking,
Lolling and letting reason nod, 
With ugly serious people linking 
Sad prayers to a forgiving God…. 
But a dumb blast sets the trees swaying 
With furious zeal like madmen praying.

 Fish (fly-replete, in depth of June,
Dawdling away their wat'ry noon)
Ponder deep wisdom, dark or clear,
Each secret fishy hope or fear.
Fish say, they have their Stream and Pond;
But is there anything Beyond?
This life cannot be All, they swear,
For how unpleasant, if it were!
One may not doubt that, somehow, Good
Shall come of Water and of Mud;
And, sure, the reverent eye must see
A Purpose in Liquidity.
We darkly know, by Faith we cry,
The future is not Wholly Dry.
Mud unto mud!—Death eddies near— 
Not here the appointed End, not here!
But somewhere, beyond Space and Time,
Is wetter water, slimier slime!
And there (they trust) there swimmeth One
Who swam ere rivers were begun,
Immense, of fishy form and mind,
Squamous, omnipotent, and kind;
And under that Almighty Fin,
The littlest fish may enter in.
Oh! never fly conceals a hook,
Fish say, in the Eternal Brook,
But more than mundane weeds are there,
And mud, celestially fair;
Fat caterpillars drift around,
And Paradisal grubs are found;
Unfading moths, immortal flies,
And the worm that never dies.
And in that heaven of all their wish,
There shall be no more land, say fish.

 When outside the icy rain 
Comes leaping helter-skelter, 
Shall I tie my restive brain 
Snugly under shelter? 

Shall I make a gentle song
Here in my firelit study, 
When outside the winds blow strong 
And the lanes are muddy? 

With old wine and drowsy meats 
Am I to fill my belly?
Shall I glutton here with Keats? 
Shall I drink with Shelley? 

Tobacco’s pleasant, firelight’s good: 
Poetry makes both better. 
Clay is wet and so is mud, 
Winter rains are wetter. 

Yet rest there, Shelley, on the sill, 
For though the winds come frorely, 
I’m away to the rain-blown hill 
And the ghost of Sorley.

 I AM now,--what joy to hear it!--

Of the old magician rid;
And henceforth shall ev'ry spirit

Do whate'er by me is bid;

I have watch'd with rigour

All he used to do,

And will now with vigour

Work my wonders too.


Wander, wander

Onward lightly,

So that rightly

Flow the torrent,

And with teeming waters yonder

In the bath discharge its current!

And now come, thou well-worn broom,

And thy wretched form bestir;
Thou hast ever served as groom,

So fulfil my pleasure, sir!

On two legs now stand,

With a head on top;

Waterpail in hand,

Haste, and do not stop!


Wander, wander

Onward lightly,

So that rightly

Flow the torrent,

And with teeming waters yonder

In the bath discharge its current!

See! he's running to the shore,

And has now attain'd the pool,
And with lightning speed once more

Comes here, with his bucket full!

Back he then repairs;

See how swells the tide!

How each pail he bears

Straightway is supplied!


Stop, for, lo!

All the measure

Of thy treasure

Now is right!--

Ah, I see it! woe, oh woe!

I forget the word of might.

Ah, the word whose sound can straight

Make him what he was before!
Ah, he runs with nimble gait!

Would thou wert a broom once more!

Streams renew'd for ever

Quickly bringeth he;

River after river

Rusheth on poor me!


Now no longer

Can I bear him;

I will snare him,

Knavish sprite!

Ah, my terror waxes stronger!

What a look! what fearful 
sight

Oh, thou villain child of hell!

Shall the house through thee be drown'd
Floods I see that wildly swell,

O'er the threshold gaining ground.

Wilt thou not obey,

Oh, thou broom accurs'd?

Be thou still I pray,

As thou wert at first!


Will enough

Never please thee?

I will seize thee,

Hold thee fast,

And thy nimble wood so tough,

With my sharp axe split at 
last.

See, once more he hastens back!

Now, oh Cobold, thou shalt catch it!
I will rush upon his track;

Crashing on him falls my hatchet.

Bravely done, indeed!

See, he's cleft in twain!

Now from care I'm freed,

And can breathe again.


Woe, oh woe!

Both the parts,

Quick as darts,

Stand on end,

Servants of my dreaded foe!

Oh, ye gods protection send!

And they run! and wetter still

Grow the steps and grows the hail.
Lord and master hear me call!

Ever seems the flood to fill,


Ah, he's coming! see,

Great is my dismay!

Spirits raised by me

Vainly would I lay!


"To the side

Of the room

Hasten, broom,

As of old!

Spirits I have ne'er untied

Save to act as they are told."

1797.

 The people along the sand
All turn and look one way.
They turn their back on the land.
They look at the sea all day.

As long as it takes to pass
A ship keeps raising its hull;
The wetter ground like glass
Reflects a standing gull

The land may vary more;
But wherever the truth may be--
The water comes ashore,
And the people look at the sea.

They cannot look out far.
They cannot look in deep.
But when was that ever a bar
To any watch they keep?