Get Your Premium Membership

Best Famous Word For Word Poems

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

Search and read the best famous Word For Word poems, articles about Word For Word poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Word For Word poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

See Also:
Written by Rudyard Kipling | Create an image from this poem

The Old Issue

 Here is nothing new nor aught unproven," say the Trumpets,
 "Many feet have worn it and the road is old indeed.
"It is the King--the King we schooled aforetime! " (Trumpets in the marshes-in the eyot at Runnymede!) "Here is neither haste, nor hate, nor anger," peal the Trumpets, "Pardon for his penitence or pity for his fall.
"It is the King!"--inexorable Trumpets-- (Trumpets round the scaffold af the dawning by Whitehall!) .
.
.
.
.
.
.
"He hath veiled the Crown And hid the Scepter," warn (he Trum pets, "He hath changed the fashion of the lies that cloak his will.
"Hard die the Kings--ah hard--dooms hard!" declare the Trumpets, Trumpets at the gang-plank where the brawling troop-decks fill! Ancient and Unteachable, abide--abide the Trumpets! Once again the Trumpets, for the shuddering ground-swell brings Clamour over ocean of the harsh, pursuing Trumpets-- Trumpets of the Vanguard that have sworn no truce with Kings! All we have of freedom, all we use or know-- This our fathers bought for us long and long ago.
Ancient Right unnoticed as the breath we draw-- Leave to live by no man's leave, underneath the Law.
Lance and torch and tumult, steel and grey-goose wing Wrenched it, inch and ell and all, slowly from the king.
Till our fathers 'stablished,, after bloody years, How our King is one with us, first among his peers.
So they bought us freedom-not at little cost-- Wherefore must we watch the King, lest our gain be lost.
Over all things certain, this is sure indeed, Suffer not the old King: for we know the breed.
Give no ear to bondsmen bidding us endure.
Whining "He is weak and far"; crying "Time will cure.
" (Time himself is witness, till the battle joins, Deeper strikes the rottenness in the people's loins.
) Give no heed to bondsmen masking war with peace.
Suffer not the old King here or overseas.
They that beg us barter--wait his yielding mood-- Pledge the years we hold in trust-pawn our brother's blood-- Howso' great their clamour, whatsoe'er their claim, Suffer not the old King under any name! Here is naught unproven--here is naught to learn.
It is written what shall fall if the King return.
He shall mark our goings, question whence we came, Set his guards about us, as in Freedom's name.
He shall take a tribute, toll of all our ware; He shall change our gold for arms--arms we may not bear.
He shall break his Judges if they cross his word; He shall rule above the Law calling on the Lord.
He shall peep and mutter; and the night shall bring Watchers 'neath our window, lest we mock the King -- Hate and all division; hosts of hurrying spies; Money poured in secret, carrion breeding flies.
Strangers of his counsel, hirelings of his pay, These shall deal our Justice: sell-deny-delay.
We shall drink dishonour, we shall eat abuse For the Land we look to--for the Tongue we use.
We shall take our station, dirt beneath his feet, While his hired captains jeer us in the street.
Cruel in the shadow, crafty in the sun, Far beyond his borders shall his teachings run.
Sloven, sullen, savage, secret, uncontrolled, Laying on a new land evil of the old-- Long-forgotten bondage, dwarfing heart and brain-- All our fathers died to loose he shall bind again.
Here is nought at venture, random nor untrue Swings the wheel full-circle, brims the cup anew.
Here is naught unproven, here is nothing hid: Step for step and word for word--so the old Kings did! Step by step, and word by word: who is ruled may read.
Suffer not the old Kings: for we know the breed-- All the right they promise--all the wrong they bring.
Stewards of the Judgment, suffer not this King !


Written by Anne Sexton | Create an image from this poem

For The Year Of The Insane

 a prayer

O Mary, fragile mother, 
hear me, hear me now 
although I do not know your words.
The black rosary with its silver Christ lies unblessed in my hand for I am the unbeliever.
Each bead is round and hard between my fingers, a small black angel.
O Mary, permit me this grace, this crossing over, although I am ugly, submerged in my own past and my own madness.
Although there are chairs I lie on the floor.
Only my hands are alive, touching beads.
Word for word, I stumble.
A beginner, I feel your mouth touch mine.
I count beads as waves, hammering in upon me.
I am ill at their numbers, sick, sick in the summer heat and the window above me is my only listener, my awkward being.
She is a large taker, a soother.
The giver of breath she murmurs, exhaling her wide lung like an enormous fish.
Closer and closer comes the hour of my death as I rearrange my face, grow back, grow undeveloped and straight-haired.
All this is death.
In the mind there is a thin alley called death and I move through it as through water.
My body is useless.
It lies, curled like a dog on the carpet.
It has given up.
There are no words here except the half-learned, the Hail Mary and the full of grace.
Now I have entered the year without words.
I note the ***** entrance and the exact voltage.
Without words they exist.
Without words on my touch bread and be handed bread and make no sound.
O Mary, tender physician, come with powders and herbs for I am in the center.
It is very small and the air is gray as in a steam house.
I am handed wine as a child is handed milk.
It is presented in a delicate glass with a round bowl and a thin lip.
The wine itself is pitch-colored, musty and secret.
The glass rises in its own toward my mouth and I notice this and understand this only because it has happened.
I have this fear of coughing but I do not speak, a fear of rain, a fear of the horseman who comes riding into my mouth.
The glass tilts in on its own and I amon fire.
I see two thin streaks burn down my chin.
I see myself as one would see another.
I have been cut int two.
O Mary, open your eyelids.
I am in the domain of silence, the kingdom of the crazy and the sleeper.
There is blood here.
and I haven't eaten it.
O mother of the womb, did I come for blood alone? O little mother, I am in my own mind.
I am locked in the wrong house.
Written by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | Create an image from this poem

Original Preface

 I feel no small reluctance in venturing to give to the public a 
work of the character of that indicated by the title-page to the 
present volume; for, difficult as it must always be to render satisfactorily 
into one's own tongue the writings of the bards of other lands, 
the responsibility assumed by the translator is immeasurably increased 
when he attempts to transfer the thoughts of those great men, who 
have lived for all the world and for all ages, from the language 
in which they were originally clothed, to one to which they may 
as yet have been strangers.
Preeminently is this the case with Goethe, the most masterly of all the master minds of modern times, whose name is already inscribed on the tablets of immortality, and whose fame already extends over the earth, although as yet only in its infancy.
Scarcely have two decades passed away since he ceased to dwell among men, yet he now stands before us, not as a mere individual, like those whom the world is wont to call great, but as a type, as an emblem--the recognised emblem and representative of the human mind in its present stage of culture and advancement.
Among the infinitely varied effusions of Goethe's pen, perhaps there are none which are of as general interest as his Poems, which breathe the very spirit of Nature, and embody the real music of the feelings.
In Germany, they are universally known, and are considered as the most delightful of his works.
Yet in this country, this kindred country, sprung from the same stem, and so strongly resembling her sister in so many points, they are nearly unknown.
Almost the only poetical work of the greatest Poet that the world has seen for ages, that is really and generally read in England, is Faust, the translations of which are almost endless; while no single person has as yet appeared to attempt to give, in an English dress, in any collective or systematic manner, those smaller productions of the genius of Goethe which it is the object of the present volume to lay before the reader, whose indulgence is requested for its many imperfections.
In addition to the beauty of the language in which the Poet has given utterance to his thoughts, there is a depth of meaning in those thoughts which is not easily discoverable at first sight, and the translator incurs great risk of overlooking it, and of giving a prosaic effect to that which in the original contains the very essence of poetry.
It is probably this difficulty that has deterred others from undertaking the task I have set myself, and in which I do not pretend to do more than attempt to give an idea of the minstrelsy of one so unrivalled, by as truthful an interpretation of it as lies in my power.
The principles which have guided me on the present occasion are the same as those followed in the translation of Schiller's complete Poems that was published by me in 1851, namely, as literal a rendering of the original as is consistent with good English, and also a very strict adherence to the metre of the original.
Although translators usually allow themselves great license in both these points, it appears to me that by so doing they of necessity destroy the very soul of the work they profess to translate.
In fact, it is not a translation, but a paraphrase that they give.
It may perhaps be thought that the present translations go almost to the other extreme, and that a rendering of metre, line for line, and word for word, makes it impossible to preserve the poetry of the original both in substance and in sound.
But experience has convinced me that it is not so, and that great fidelity is even the most essential element of success, whether in translating poetry or prose.
It was therefore very satisfactory to me to find that the principle laid down by me to myself in translating Schiller met with the very general, if not universal, approval of the reader.
At the same time, I have endeavoured to profit in the case of this, the younger born of the two attempts made by me to transplant the muse of Germany to the shores of Britain, by the criticisms, whether friendly or hostile, that have been evoked or provoked by the appearance of its elder brother.
As already mentioned, the latter contained the whole of the Poems of Schiller.
It is impossible, in anything like the same compass, to give all the writings of Goethe comprised under the general title of Gedichte, or poems.
They contain between 30,000 and 40,000 verses, exclusive of his plays.
and similar works.
Very many of these would be absolutely without interest to the English reader,--such as those having only a local application, those addressed to individuals, and so on.
Others again, from their extreme length, could only be published in separate volumes.
But the impossibility of giving all need form no obstacle to giving as much as possible; and it so happens that the real interest of Goethe's Poems centres in those classes of them which are not too diffuse to run any risk when translated of offending the reader by their too great number.
Those by far the more generally admired are the Songs and Ballads, which are about 150 in number, and the whole of which are contained in this volume (with the exception of one or two of the former, which have been, on consideration, left out by me owing to their trifling and uninteresting nature).
The same may be said of the Odes, Sonnets, Miscellaneous Poems, &c.
In addition to those portions of Goethe's poetical works which are given in this complete form, specimens of the different other classes of them, such as the Epigrams, Elegies, &c.
, are added, as well as a collection of the various Songs found in his Plays, making a total number of about 400 Poems, embraced in the present volume.
A sketch of the life of Goethe is prefixed, in order that the reader may have before him both the Poet himself and the Poet's offspring, and that he may see that the two are but one--that Goethe lives in his works, that his works lived in him.
The dates of the different Poems are appended throughout, that of the first publication being given, when that of the composition is unknown.
The order of arrangement adopted is that of the authorized German editions.
As Goethe would never arrange them himself in the chronological order of their composition, it has become impossible to do so, now that he is dead.
The plan adopted in the present volume would therefore seem to be the best, as it facilitates reference to the original.
The circumstances attending or giving rise to the production of any of the Poems will be found specified in those cases in which they have been ascertained by me.
Having said thus much by way of explanation, I now leave the book to speak for itself, and to testify to its own character.
Whether viewed with a charitable eye by the kindly reader, who will make due allowance for the difficulties attending its execution, or received by the critic, who will judge of it only by its own merits, with the unfriendly welcome which it very probably deserves, I trust that I shall at least be pardoned for making an attempt, a failure in which does not necessarily imply disgrace, and which, by leading the way, may perhaps become the means of inducing some abler and more worthy (but not more earnest) labourer to enter upon the same field, the riches of which will remain unaltered and undiminished in value, even although they may be for the moment tarnished by the hands of the less skilful workman who first endeavours to transplant them to a foreign soil.
Written by Wallace Stevens | Create an image from this poem

The Poem That Took The Place Of A Mountain

 There it was, word for word,
The poem that took the place of a mountain.
He breathed its oxygen, Even when the book lay turned in the dust of his table.
It reminded him how he had needed A place to go to in his own direction, How he had recomposed the pines, Shifted the rocks and picked his way among clouds, For the outlook that would be right, Where he would be complete in an unexplained completion: The exact rock where his inexactness Would discover, at last, the view toward which they had edged, Where he could lie and, gazing down at the sea, Recognize his unique and solitary home.
Written by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | Create an image from this poem

Finnish Song

 IF the loved one, the well-known one,
Should return as he departed,
On his lips would ring my kisses,
Though the wolf's blood might have dyed them;
And a hearty grasp I'd give him,
Though his finger-ends were serpents.
Wind! Oh, if thou hadst but reason, Word for word in turns thou'dst carry, E'en though some perchance might perish 'Tween two lovers so far distant.
All choice morsels I'd dispense with, Table-flesh of priests neglect too, Sooner than renounce my lover, Whom, in Summer having vanquish'd, I in Winter tamed still longer.
1810.


Written by John Milton | Create an image from this poem

The Fifth Ode Of Horace. Lib. I

 Quis multa gracilis te puer in Rosa
Rendred almost word for word without Rhyme according to the
Latin Measure, as near as the Language permit.
WHAT slender Youth bedew'd with liquid odours Courts thee on Roses in some pleasant Cave, Pyrrha for whom bind'st thou In wreaths thy golden Hair, Plain in thy neatness; O how oft shall he On Faith and changed Gods complain: and Seas Rough with black winds and storms Unwonted shall admire: Who now enjoyes thee credulous, all Gold, Who alwayes vacant, alwayes amiable Hopes thee; of flattering gales Unmindfull.
Hapless they To whom thou untry'd seem'st fair.
Me in my vow'd Picture the sacred wall declares t' have hung My dank and dropping weeds To the stern God of Sea.
[The Latin text follows.
]

Book: Reflection on the Important Things