Best Famous Wrings Poems

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

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• All Famous Wrings Poems

Written by Emily Brontë | Plead For Me Oh, thy bright eyes must answer now, When Reason, with a scornful brow, Is mocking at my overthrow! Oh, thy sweet tongue must plead for me And tell, why I have chosen thee! Stern Reason is to judgment come, Arrayed in all her forms of gloom: Wilt thou, my advocate, be dumb? No, radiant angel, speak and say, Why I did cast the world away. Why I have persevered to shun The common paths that others run, And on a strange road journeyed on, Heedless, alike, of wealth and power - Of glory's wreath and pleasure's flower. These, once, indeed, seemed Beings Divine; And they, perchance, heard vows of mine, And saw my offerings on their shrine; But, careless gifts are seldom prized, And mine were worthily despised. So, with a ready heart I swore To seek their altar-stone no more; And gave my spirit to adore Thee, ever - present, phantom thing; My slave, my comrade, and my king, A slave, because I rule thee still; Incline thee to my changeful will, And make thy influence good or ill: A comrade, for by day and night Thou art my intimate delight, - My darling pain that wounds and sears And wrings a blessing out from tears By deadening me to earthly cares; And yet, a king, though Prudence well Have taught thy subject to rebel. And am I wrong to worship, where Faith cannot doubt, nor hope despair, Since my own soul can grant my prayer? Speak, God of visions, plead for me, And tell why I have chosen thee !

Written by Amy Levy | Impotens If I were a woman of old, What prayers I would pray for you, dear; My pitiful tribute behold-- Not a prayer, but a tear. The pitiless order of things, Whose laws we may change not nor break, Alone I could face it--it wrings My heart for your sake.

Written by Dimitris P Kraniotis | The end The savour of fruits still remains in my mouth, but the bitterness of words demolishes the clouds and wrings the snow counting the pebbles. But you never told me why you deceived me, why with pain and injustice did you desire to say that the end always in tears is cast to flames.

Written by Derek Walcott | Egypt Tobago There is a shattered palm on this fierce shore, its plumes the rusting helm- et of a dead warrior. Numb Antony, in the torpor stretching her inert sex near him like a sleeping cat, knows his heart is the real desert. Over the dunes of her heaving, to his heart's drumming fades the mirage of the legions, across love-tousled sheets, the triremes fading. Ar the carved door of her temple a fly wrings its message. He brushes a damp hair away from an ear as perfect as a sleeping child's. He stares, inert, the fallen column. He lies like a copper palm tree at three in the afternoon by a hot sea and a river, in Egypt, Tobago Her salt marsh dries in the heat where he foundered without armor. He exchanged an empire for her beads of sweat, the uproar of arenas, the changing surf of senators, for this silent ceiling over silent sand - this grizzled bear, whose fur, moulting, is silvered - for this quick fox with her sweet stench. By sleep dismembered, his head is in Egypt, his feet in Rome, his groin a desert trench with its dead soldier. He drifts a finger through her stiff hair crisp as a mare's fountaining tail. Shadows creep up the palace tile. He is too tired to move; a groan would waken trumpets, one more gesture war. His glare, a shield reflecting fires, a brass brow that cannot frown at carnage, sweats the sun's force. It is not the turmoil of autumnal lust, its treacheries, that drove him, fired and grimed with dust, this far, not even love, but a great rage without clamor, that grew great because its depth is quiet; it hears the river of her young brown blood, it feels the whole sky quiver with her blue eyelid. She sleeps with the soft engine of a child, that sleep which scythes the stalks of lances, fells the harvest of legions with nothing for its knives, that makes Caesars, sputtering at flies, slapping their foreheads with the laurel's imprint, drunkards, comedians. All-humbling sleep, whose peace is sweet as death, whose silence has all the sea's weight and volubility, who swings this globe by a hair's trembling breath. Shattered and wild and palm-crowned Antony, rusting in Egypt, ready to lose the world, to Actium and sand, everything else is vanity, but this tenderness for a woman not his mistress but his sleeping child. The sky is cloudless. The afternoon is mild.

Written by Emily Brontë | Speak God Of Visions O, thy bright eyes must answer now, When Reason, with a scornful brow, Is mocking at my overthrow! O, thy sweet tongue must plead for me, And tell why I have chosen thee! Stern Reason is to judgment come, Arrayed in all her forms of gloom: Wilt thou, my advocate, be dumb? No, radiant angel, speak and say Why I did cast the world away; Why I have presevered to shun The common paths that others run, And on a strange road journeyed on, Heedless alike of wealth and power, Of Glory's wreath and Pleasure's flower. These once, indeed, seemed Beings Divine; And they, perchance, heard vows of mine, And saw my offerings on their shrine; But careless gifts are seldom prized, And mine were worthily despised. So, with a ready heart I swore To seek their altar-stone no more; And gave my spirit to adore Thee, ever-present, phantom thing— My slave, my comrade, and my king. A slave, because I rule thee still, Incline thee to my changeful will, And make thy influence good or ill; A comrade, for by day and night Thou art my intimate delight,— My darling pain that wounds and sears, And wrings a blessing out of tears Be deadening me to earthly cares; And yet, a king, though Prudence well Have taught thy subject to rebel. And I am wrong to worship where Faith cannot doubt, nor Hope despair, Since my own soul can grant my prayer? Speak, God of Visions, plead for me, And tell why I have chosen thee!

Written by Francesco Petrarch | Canzone XVI [Pg 124] CANZONE XVI. Italia mia, benchè 'l parlar sia indarno. TO THE PRINCES OF ITALY, EXHORTING THEM TO SET HER FREE. O my own Italy! though words are vainThe mortal wounds to close,Unnumber'd, that thy beauteous bosom stain,Yet may it soothe my painTo sigh forth Tyber's woes,And Arno's wrongs, as on Po's sadden'd shoreSorrowing I wander, and my numbers pour.Ruler of heaven! By the all-pitying loveThat could thy Godhead moveTo dwell a lowly sojourner on earth,Turn, Lord! on this thy chosen land thine eye:See, God of Charity!From what light cause this cruel war has birth;And the hard hearts by savage discord steel'd,Thou, Father! from on high,Touch by my humble voice, that stubborn wrath may yield! Ye, to whose sovereign hands the fates confideOf this fair land the reins,—(This land for which no pity wrings your breast)—Why does the stranger's sword her plains invest?That her green fields be dyed,Hope ye, with blood from the Barbarians' veins?Beguiled by error weak,Ye see not, though to pierce so deep ye boast,Who love, or faith, in venal bosoms seek:When throng'd your standards most,Ye are encompass'd most by hostile bands.O hideous deluge gather'd in strange lands,That rushing down amainO'erwhelms our every native lovely plain!Alas! if our own handsHave thus our weal betray'd, who shall our cause sustain? Well did kind Nature, guardian of our state,Rear her rude Alpine heights,A lofty rampart against German hate;But blind ambition, seeking his own ill,[Pg 125]With ever restless will,To the pure gales contagion foul invites:Within the same strait foldThe gentle flocks and wolves relentless throng,Where still meek innocence must suffer wrong:And these,—oh, shame avow'd!—Are of the lawless hordes no tie can hold:Fame tells how Marius' swordErewhile their bosoms gored,—Nor has Time's hand aught blurr'd the record proud!When they who, thirsting, stoop'd to quaff the flood,With the cool waters mix'd, drank of a comrade's blood! Great Cæsar's name I pass, who o'er our plainsPour'd forth the ensanguin'd tide,Drawn by our own good swords from out their veins;But now—nor know I what ill stars preside—Heaven holds this land in hate!To you the thanks!—whose hands control her helm!—You, whose rash feuds despoilOf all the beauteous earth the fairest realm!Are ye impell'd by judgment, crime, or fate,To oppress the desolate?From broken fortunes, and from humble toil,The hard-earn'd dole to wring,While from afar ye bringDealers in blood, bartering their souls for hire?In truth's great cause I sing.Nor hatred nor disdain my earnest lay inspire. Nor mark ye yet, confirm'd by proof on proof,Bavaria's perfidy,Who strikes in mockery, keeping death aloof?(Shame, worse than aught of loss, in honour's eye!)While ye, with honest rage, devoted pourYour inmost bosom's gore!—Yet give one hour to thought,And ye shall own, how little he can holdAnother's glory dear, who sets his own at noughtO Latin blood of old!Arise, and wrest from obloquy thy fame,Nor bow before a name[Pg 126]Of hollow sound, whose power no laws enforce!For if barbarians rudeHave higher minds subdued,Ours! ours the crime!—not such wise Nature's course. Ah! is not this the soil my foot first press'd?And here, in cradled rest,Was I not softly hush'd?—here fondly rear'd?Ah! is not this my country?—so endear'dBy every filial tie!In whose lap shrouded both my parents lie!Oh! by this tender thought,Your torpid bosoms to compassion wrought,Look on the people's grief!Who, after God, of you expect relief;And if ye but relent,Virtue shall rouse her in embattled might,Against blind fury bent,Nor long shall doubtful hang the unequal fight;For no,—the ancient flameIs not extinguish'd yet, that raised the Italian name! Mark, sovereign Lords! how Time, with pinion strong,Swift hurries life along!E'en now, behold! Death presses on the rear.We sojourn here a day—the next, are gone!The soul disrobed—alone,Must shuddering seek the doubtful pass we fear.Oh! at the dreaded bourne,Abase the lofty brow of wrath and scorn,(Storms adverse to the eternal calm on high!)And ye, whose crueltyHas sought another's harm, by fairer deedOf heart, or hand, or intellect, aspireTo win the honest meedOf just renown—the noble mind's desire!Thus sweet on earth the stay!Thus to the spirit pure, unbarr'd is Heaven's way! My song! with courtesy, and numbers sooth,Thy daring reasons grace,For thou the mighty, in their pride of place,Must woo to gentle ruth,[Pg 127]Whose haughty will long evil customs nurse,Ever to truth averse!Thee better fortunes wait,Among the virtuous few—the truly great!Tell them—but who shall bid my terrors cease?Peace! Peace! on thee I call! return, O heaven-born Peace! Dacre. See Time, that flies, and spreads his hasty wing!See Life, how swift it runs the race of years,And on its weary shoulders death appears!Now all is life and all is spring:Think on the winter and the darker dayWhen the soul, naked and alone,Must prove the dubious step, the still unknown,Yet ever beaten way.And through this fatal valeWould you be wafted with some gentle gale?Put off that eager strife and fierce disdain,Clouds that involve our life's serene,And storms that ruffle all the scene;Your precious hours, misspent in others' pain,On nobler deeds, worthy yourselves, bestow;Whether with hand or wit you raiseSome monument of peaceful praise,Some happy labour of fair love:'Tis all of heaven that you can find below,And opens into all above. Basil Kennet.

Written by Walt Whitman | Singer in the Prison The 1 O sight of shame, and pain, and dole! O fearful thought—a convict Soul! RANG the refrain along the hall, the prison, Rose to the roof, the vaults of heaven above, Pouring in floods of melody, in tones so pensive, sweet and strong, the like whereof was never heard, Reaching the far-off sentry, and the armed guards, who ceas’d their pacing, Making the hearer’s pulses stop for extasy and awe. 2 O sight of pity, gloom, and dole! O pardon me, a hapless Soul! The sun was low in the west one winter day, When down a narrow aisle, amid the thieves and outlaws of the land, (There by the hundreds seated, sear-faced murderers, wily counterfeiters, Gather’d to Sunday church in prison walls—the keepers round, Plenteous, well-arm’d, watching, with vigilant eyes,) All that dark, cankerous blotch, a nation’s criminal mass, Calmly a Lady walk’d, holding a little innocent child by either hand, Whom, seating on their stools beside her on the platform, She, first preluding with the instrument, a low and musical prelude, In voice surpassing all, sang forth a quaint old hymn. 3THE HYMN.A Soul, confined by bars and bands, Cries, Help! O help! and wrings her hands; Blinded her eyes—bleeding her breast, Nor pardon finds, nor balm of rest. O sight of shame, and pain, and dole! O fearful thought—a convict Soul! Ceaseless, she paces to and fro; O heart-sick days! O nights of wo! Nor hand of friend, nor loving face; Nor favor comes, nor word of grace. O sight of pity, gloom, and dole! O pardon me, a hapless Soul! It was not I that sinn’d the sin, The ruthless Body dragg’d me in; Though long I strove courageously, The Body was too much for me. O Life! no life, but bitter dole! O burning, beaten, baffled Soul! (Dear prison’d Soul, bear up a space, For soon or late the certain grace; To set thee free, and bear thee home, The Heavenly Pardoner, Death shall come. Convict no more—nor shame, nor dole! Depart! a God-enfranchis’d Soul!) 4The singer ceas’d; One glance swept from her clear, calm eyes, o’er all those upturn’d faces; Strange sea of prison faces—a thousand varied, crafty, brutal, seam’d and beauteous faces; Then rising, passing back along the narrow aisle between them, While her gown touch’d them, rustling in the silence, She vanish’d with her children in the dusk. 5While upon all, convicts and armed keepers, ere they stirr’d, (Convict forgetting prison, keeper his loaded pistol,) A hush and pause fell down, a wondrous minute, With deep, half-stifled sobs, and sound of bad men bow’d, and moved to weeping, And youth’s convulsive breathings, memories of home, The mother’s voice in lullaby, the sister’s care, the happy childhood, The long-pent spirit rous’d to reminiscence; —A wondrous minute then—But after, in the solitary night, to many, many there, Years after—even in the hour of death—the sad refrain—the tune, the voice, the words, Resumed—the large, calm Lady walks the narrow aisle, The wailing melody again—the singer in the prison sings: O sight of shame, and pain, and dole! O fearful thought—a convict Soul!

Written by Francesco Petrarch | Canzone XVII CANZONE XVII. Di pensier in pensier, di monte in monte. DISTANCE AND SOLITUDE. From hill to hill I roam, from thought to thought,With Love my guide; the beaten path I fly,For there in vain the tranquil life is sought:If 'mid the waste well forth a lonely rill,Or deep embosom'd a low valley lie,In its calm shade my trembling heart's still;And there, if Love so will,[Pg 128]I smile, or weep, or fondly hope, or fear.While on my varying brow, that speaks the soul,The wild emotions roll,Now dark, now bright, as shifting skies appear;That whosoe'er has proved the lover's stateWould say, He feels the flame, nor knows his future fate. On mountains high, in forests drear and wide,I find repose, and from the throng'd resortOf man turn fearfully my eyes aside;At each lone step thoughts ever new ariseOf her I love, who oft with cruel sportWill mock the pangs I bear, the tears, the sighs;Yet e'en these ills I prize,Though bitter, sweet, nor would they were removedFor my heart whispers me, Love yet has powerTo grant a happier hour:Perchance, though self-despised, thou yet art loved:E'en then my breast a passing sigh will heave,Ah! when, or how, may I a hope so wild believe? Where shadows of high rocking pines dark waveI stay my footsteps, and on some rude stoneWith thought intense her beauteous face engrave;Roused from the trance, my bosom bathed I findWith tears, and cry, Ah! whither thus aloneHast thou far wander'd, and whom left behind?But as with fixed mindOn this fair image I impassion'd rest,And, viewing her, forget awhile my ills,Love my rapt fancy fills;In its own error sweet the soul is blest,While all around so bright the visions glide;Oh! might the cheat endure, I ask not aught beside. Her form portray'd within the lucid streamWill oft appear, or on the verdant lawn,Or glossy beech, or fleecy cloud, will gleamSo lovely fair, that Leda's self might say,Her Helen sinks eclipsed, as at the dawnA star when cover'd by the solar ray:And, as o'er wilds I stray[Pg 129]Where the eye nought but savage nature meets,There Fancy most her brightest tints employs;But when rude truth destroysThe loved illusion of those dreamed sweets,I sit me down on the cold rugged stone,Less coid, less dead than I, and think, and weep alone. Where the huge mountain rears his brow sublime,On which no neighbouring height its shadow flings,Led by desire intense the steep I climb;And tracing in the boundless space each woe,Whose sad remembrance my torn bosom wrings,Tears, that bespeak the heart o'erfraught, will flow:While, viewing all below,From me, I cry, what worlds of air divideThe beauteous form, still absent and still near!Then, chiding soft the tear,I whisper low, haply she too has sigh'dThat thou art far away: a thought so sweetAwhile my labouring soul will of its burthen cheat. Go thou, my song, beyond that Alpine bound,Where the pure smiling heavens are most serene,There by a murmuring stream may I be found,Whose gentle airs aroundWaft grateful odours from the laurel green;Nought but my empty form roams here unblest,There dwells my heart with her who steals it from my breast. Dacre.

Written by Gerard Manley Hopkins | The Loss Of The Eurydice Foundered March 24. 1878 1 The Eurydice—it concerned thee, O Lord: Three hundred souls, O alas! on board, Some asleep unawakened, all un- warned, eleven fathoms fallen 2 Where she foundered! One stroke Felled and furled them, the hearts of oak! And flockbells off the aerial Downs' forefalls beat to the burial. 3 For did she pride her, freighted fully, on Bounden bales or a hoard of bullion?— Precious passing measure, Lads and men her lade and treasure. 4 She had come from a cruise, training seamen— Men, boldboys soon to be men: Must it, worst weather, Blast bole and bloom together? 5 No Atlantic squall overwrought her Or rearing billow of the Biscay water: Home was hard at hand And the blow bore from land. 6 And you were a liar, O blue March day. Bright sun lanced fire in the heavenly bay; But what black Boreas wrecked her? he Came equipped, deadly-electric, 7 A beetling baldbright cloud thorough England Riding: there did stores not mingle? and Hailropes hustle and grind their Heavengravel? wolfsnow, worlds of it, wind there? 8 Now Carisbrook keep goes under in gloom; Now it overvaults Appledurcombe; Now near by Ventnor town It hurls, hurls off Boniface Down. 9 Too proud, too proud, what a press she bore! Royal, and all her royals wore. Sharp with her, shorten sail! Too late; lost; gone with the gale. 10 This was that fell capsize, As half she had righted and hoped to rise Death teeming in by her portholes Raced down decks, round messes of mortals. 11 Then a lurch forward, frigate and men; 'All hands for themselves' the cry ran then; But she who had housed them thither Was around them, bound them or wound them with her. 12 Marcus Hare, high her captain, Kept to her—care-drowned and wrapped in Cheer's death, would follow His charge through the champ-white water-in-a-wallow, 13 All under Channel to bury in a beach her Cheeks: Right, rude of feature, He thought he heard say 'Her commander! and thou too, and thou this way.' 14 It is even seen, time's something server, In mankind's medley a duty-swerver, At downright 'No or yes?' Doffs all, drives full for righteousness. 15 Sydney Fletcher, Bristol-bred, (Low lie his mates now on watery bed) Takes to the seas and snows As sheer down the ship goes. 16 Now her afterdraught gullies him too down; Now he wrings for breath with the deathgush brown; Till a lifebelt and God's will Lend him a lift from the sea-swill. 17 Now he shoots short up to the round air; Now he gasps, now he gazes everywhere; But his eye no cliff, no coast or Mark makes in the rivelling snowstorm. 18 Him, after an hour of wintry waves, A schooner sights, with another, and saves, And he boards her in Oh! such joy He has lost count what came next, poor boy.— 19 They say who saw one sea-corpse cold He was all of lovely manly mould, Every inch a tar, Of the best we boast our sailors are. 20 Look, foot to forelock, how all things suit! he Is strung by duty, is strained to beauty, And brown-as-dawning-skinned With brine and shine and whirling wind. 21 O his nimble finger, his gnarled grip! Leagues, leagues of seamanship Slumber in these forsaken Bones, this sinew, and will not waken. 22 He was but one like thousands more, Day and night I deplore My people and born own nation, Fast foundering own generation. 23 I might let bygones be—our curse Of ruinous shrine no hand or, worse, Robbery's hand is busy to Dress, hoar-hallowèd shrines unvisited; 24 Only the breathing temple and fleet Life, this wildworth blown so sweet, These daredeaths, ay this crew, in Unchrist, all rolled in ruin— 25 Deeply surely I need to deplore it, Wondering why my master bore it, The riving off that race So at home, time was, to his truth and grace 26 That a starlight-wender of ours would say The marvellous Milk was Walsingham Way And one—but let be, let be: More, more than was will yet be.— 27 O well wept, mother have lost son; Wept, wife; wept, sweetheart would be one: Though grief yield them no good Yet shed what tears sad truelove should. 28 But to Christ lord of thunder Crouch; lay knee by earth low under: 'Holiest, loveliest, bravest, Save my hero, O Hero savest. 29 And the prayer thou hearst me making Have, at the awful overtaking, Heard; have heard and granted Grace that day grace was wanted.' 30 Not that hell knows redeeming, But for souls sunk in seeming Fresh, till doomfire burn all, Prayer shall fetch pity eternal.

Written by Thomas Hardy | Neutral Tones WE stood by a pond that winter day, And the sun was white, as though chidden of God, And a few leaves lay on the starving sod, --They had fallen from an ash, and were gray. Your eyes on me were as eyes that rove Over tedious riddles solved years ago; And some words played between us to and fro-- On which lost the more by our love. The smile on your mouth was the deadest thing Alive enough to have strength to die; And a grin of bitterness swept thereby Like an ominous bird a-wing.... Since then, keen lessons that love deceives, And wrings with wrong, have shaped to me Your face, and the God-curst sun, and a tree, And a pond edged with grayish leaves.