best poems

8/11/2019 Best Poems

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A Poet To His Beloved

by William Butler Yeats

I BRING you with reverent handsThe books of my numberless dreams,

White woman that passion has worn

As the tide wears the dove-grey sands,

And with heart more old than the hornThat is brimmed from the pale fire of time:

White woman with numberless dreams,

I bring you my passionate rhyme.

The Blessed Damozel

by Dante Gabriel Rossetti

The blessed damozel leaned out

From the gold bar of Heaven;

Her eyes were deeper than the depthOf waters stilled at even;

She had three lilies in her hand,

And the stars in her hair were seven.

Her robe, ungirt from clasp to hem,

No wrought flowers did adorn,But a white rose of Mary's gift,

For service meetly worn;

Her hair that lay along her back

Was yellow like ripe corn.

Herseemed she scarce had been a day

One of God's choristers;

The wonder was not yet quite goneFrom that still look of hers;

Albeit, to them she left, her dayHad counted as ten years.

(To one, it is ten years of years....Yet now, and in this place,

Surely she leaned o'er me -her hair


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Fell all about my face...

Nothing: the autumn-fall of leaves.

The whole year sets apace.)

It was the rampart of God's house

That she was standing on;By God built over the sheer depth

The which is Space begun;

So high, that looking downward thenceShe scarce could see the sun.

It lies in Heaven, across the floodOf ether, as a bridge.

Beneath, the tides of day and night

With flame and darkness ridge

The void, as low as where this earth

Spins like a fretful midge.

Around her, lovers, newly metMid deathless love's acclaims,

Spoke evermore among themselves

Their heart-remembered names;And the souls mounting up to God

Went by her like thin flames.

And still she bowed herself and stooped

Out of the circling charm;

Until her bosom must have madeThe bar she leaned on warm,And the lilies lay as if asleep

Along her bended arm.

From the fixed place of Heaven she saw

Time like a pulse shake fierceThrough all the worlds. Her gaze still strove

Within the gulf to pierce

Its path; and now she spoke as when

The stars sang in their spheres.

The sun was gone now; the curled moon

Was like a little featherFluttering far down the gulf; and now

She spoke through the still weather.

Her voice was like the voice the starsHad when they sang together.


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(Ah sweet! Even now, in that bird's song,

Strove not her accents there,

Fain to be hearkened? When those bellsPossessed the midday air,

Strove not her steps to reach my side

Down all the echoing stair?)

"I wish that he were come to me,

For he will come," she said."Have I not prayed in Heaven? -on earth,

Lord, Lord, has he not prayed?

Are not two prayers a perfect strength?

And shall I feel afraid?

"When round his head the aureole clings,

And he is clothed in white,

I'll take his hand and go with himTo the deep wells of light;

As unto a stream we will step down,And bathe there in God's sight.

"We two will stand beside that shrine,Occult, withheld, untrod,

Whose lamps are stirred continually

With prayer sent up to God;

And see our old prayers, granted, meltEach like a little cloud.

"We two will lie i' the shadow ofThat living mystic tree

Within whose secret growth the Dove

Is sometimes felt to be,While every leaf that His plumes touch

Saith His Name audibly.

"And I myself will teach to him,

I myself, lying so,

The songs I sing here; with his voiceShall pause in, hushed and slow,

And find some knowledge at each pause,

Or some new thing to know."

(Alas! we two, we two, thou sayst!

Yea, one wast thou with meThat once of old. But shall God lift

To endless unity


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The soul whose likeness with thy soul

Was but its love for thee?)

"We two," she said, "will seek the groves

Where the lady Mary is,

With her five handmaidens, whose namesAre five sweet symphonies,

Cecily, Gertrude, Magdalen,

Margaret and Rosalys.

"Circlewise sit they, with bound locks

And foreheads garlanded;Into the fine cloth white like flame

Weaving the golden thread,

To fashion the birth-robes for them

Who are just born, being dead.

"He shall fear, haply, and be dumb:

Then will I lay my cheekTo his, and tell about our love,

Not once abashed or weak:

And the dear Mother will approveMy pride, and let me speak.

"Herself shall bring us, hand in hand,To Him round Whom all souls

Kneel, the clear-ranged unnumbered heads

Bowed with their aureoles:And angels meeting us shall singTo their citherns and citoles.

"There will I ask of Christ the Lord

Thus much for him and me: -

Only to live as once on earthWith Love, -only to be,

As then awhile, for ever now

Together, I and he."

She gazed and listened and then said,

Less sad of speech than mild, -

"All this is when he comes." She ceased.The light thrilled towards her, filled

With angels in strong level flight.

Her eyes prayed, and she smiled.


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(I saw her smile.) But soon their path

Was vague in distant spheres:

And then she cast her arms alongThe golden barriers,

And laid her face between her hands,

And wept. (I heard her tears.)

Where the Sidewalk Ends

by Shel Silverstein

There is a place where the sidewalk endsAnd before the street begins,

And there the grass grows soft and white,

And there the sun burns crimson bright,

And there the moon-bird rests from his flightTo cool in the peppermint wind.

Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black

And the dark street winds and bends.

Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow

We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,And watch where the chalk-white arrows go

To the place where the sidewalk ends.

Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,

And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,For the children, they mark, and the children, they knowThe place where the sidewalk ends.

Be Glad Your Nose is on Your Face

by Jack Prelutsky

Be glad your nose is on your face,

not pasted on some other place,for if it were where it is not,

you might dislike your nose a lot.

Imagine if your precious nose

were sandwiched in between your toes,


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that clearly would not be a treat,

for you'd be forced to smell your feet.

Your nose would be a source of dread

were it attached atop your head,

it soon would drive you to despair,forever tickled by your hair.

Within your ear, your nose would bean absolute catastrophe,

for when you were obliged to sneeze,

your brain would rattle from the breeze.

Your nose, instead, through thick and thin,

remains between your eyes and chin,not pasted on some other place--

be glad your nose is on your face!

Happiness

by Raymond Carver

So early it's still almost dark out.

I'm near the window with coffee,and the usual early morning stuff

that passes for thought.

When I see the boy and his friend

walking up the road

to deliver the newspaper.

They wear caps and sweaters,

and one boy has a bag over his shoulder.They are so happy

they aren't saying anything, these boys.

I think if they could, they would take

each other's arm.It's early in the morning,and they are doing this thing together.

They come on, slowly.The sky is taking on light,

though the moon still hangs pale over the water.


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Such beauty that for a minute

death and ambition, even love,

doesn't enter into this.

Happiness. It comes on

unexpectedly. And goes beyond, really,any early morning talk about it.

Bear In There

by Shel Silverstein

There's a Polar Bear

In our Frigidaire--He likes it 'cause it's cold in there.

With his seat in the meat

And his face in the fishAnd his big hairy paws

In the buttery dish,

He's nibbling the noodles,He's munching the rice,

He's slurping the soda,

He's licking the ice.

And he lets out a roar

If you open the door.And it gives me a scare

To know he's in there--That Polary Bear

In our Fridgitydaire.

Digging

by Seamus Heaney

Between my finger and my thumbThe squat pin rest; snug as a gun.


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Under my window, a clean rasping sound

When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:

My father, digging. I look down

Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds

Bends low, comes up twenty years awayStooping in rhythm through potato drills

Where he was digging.

The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft

Against the inside knee was levered firmly.

He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deepTo scatter new potatoes that we picked,

Loving their cool hardness in our hands.

By God, the old man could handle a spade.

Just like his old man.

My grandfather cut more turf in a day

Than any other man on Toner's bog.

Once I carried him milk in a bottleCorked sloppily with paper. He straightened upTo drink it, then fell to right away

Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods

Over his shoulder, going down and downFor the good turf. Digging.

The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slapOf soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge

Through living roots awaken in my head.

But I've no spade to follow men like them.

Between my finger and my thumb

The squat pen rests.I'll dig with it.


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There is another sky

by Emily Dickinson

There is another sky,Ever serene and fair,

And there is another sunshine,

Though it be darkness there;

Never mind faded forests, Austin,Never mind silent fields -

Here is a little forest,

Whose leaf is ever green;

Here is a brighter garden,Where not a frost has been;

In its unfading flowers

I hear the bright bee hum:Prithee, my brother,

Into my garden come!

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