Poems about filmed (19 Poems)

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    Hyperion, A Vision: Attempted Reconstruction Of The Poem (John Keats Poems)

    CANTO I.Fanatics have their dreams, wherewith they weaveA paradise for a sect; the savage, too,From forth the loftiest fashion of his sleepGuesses at heaven; pity these have notTrac’d upon vellum or wild Indian leafThe shadows of melodious utterance,But bare of … Continue reading

    Vision of War (Lincoln Colcord Poems)

    1.I went out into the night of quiet stars;I looked up at the wheeling heavens, at the mysterious firmament;I thought of the awful distances out there, of the incredible magnitudes, of space and silence and eternity;I thought of man, his … Continue reading

    Currajong (John O Brien Poems)

    Old Father Pat! They’ll tell you still with mingled love and prideOf stirring deeds that live and thrill the quiet country-side;And when they praise his tours-de-force, be sure it won’t be longBefore they talk about his horse-the old grey Currajong. … Continue reading

    The Assault (Robert Nichols Poems)

    The beating of the guns grows louder.‘Not long, boys, now.’My heart burns whiter, fearfuller, prouder;Hurricanes growAs guns redouble their fire.Through the shaken periscope peepingI glimpse their wire:Black earth, fountains of earth rise, leaping,Spouting like shocks of meeting waves.Death’s fountains are … Continue reading

    Homage to Hieronymus Bosch (Thomas MacGreevy Poems)

    A woman with no face walked into the light;A boy, in a brown-tree norfolk suit,Holding onWithout handsTo her seeming skirt. She stopped,And he stopped,And I, in terror, stopped, staring. Then I saw a group of shadowy figures behind her. It … Continue reading

    The Belfry Pigeon (Nathaniel Parker Willis Poems)

    On the cross-beam under the old south bellthe nest of a pigeon is builded well.In summer and winter that bird is there,out and in with the morning air:I love to see him track the street,with his wary eye and active … Continue reading

    L’Apprenti Sorcier (C. S. Lewis Poems)

    Suddenly there came to meThe music of a mighty seaThat on a bare and iron shoreThundered with a deeper roarThan all the tides that leap and runWith us below the real sun:Because the place was far away,Above, beyond our homely … Continue reading

    In Irish Rain (Martha Haskell Clark Poems)

    THE GREAT world stretched its arms to me and held me to its breast, They say I’ve song-birds in my throat, and give me of their best; But sure, not all their gold can buy, can take me back again To little Mag … Continue reading

    Comfort of the Fields (Archibald Lampman Poems)

       What would’st thou have for easement after grief,      When the rude world hath used thee with despite,     And care sits at thine elbow day and night,   Filching thy pleasures like a subtle thief?   To me, when life besets me in such wise,   ‘Tis sweetest to break forth, to drop the chain,     And grasp the freedom of this pleasant earth,       To roam in idleness and sober mirth,    Through summer airs and summer lands, and drain   The comfort of wide fields unto tired eyes.   By hills and waters, farms and solitudes,    To wander by the day with wilful feet;    Through fielded valleys wide with yellowing wheat;  Along gray roads that run between deep woods,  Murmurous and cool; through hallowed slopes of pine,    Where the long daylight dreams, unpierced, unstirred,    And only the rich-throated thrush is heard;  By lonely forest brooks that froth and shine    In bouldered crannies buried in the hills;  By broken beeches tangled with wild vine,    And long-strewn rivers murmurous with mills.   In upland pastures, sown with gold, and sweet    With the keen perfume of the ripening grass,    Where wings of birds and filmy shadows pass,  Spread thick as stars with shining marguerite:  To haunt old fences overgrown with brier,    Muffled in vines, and hawthorns, and wild cherries,    Rank poisonous ivies, red-bunched elder-berries,  And pièd blossoms to the heart’s desire,    Gray mullein towering into yellow bloom,    Pink-tasseled milkweed, breathing dense perfume,   And swarthy vervain, tipped with violet fire.   To hear at eve the bleating of far flocks,    The mud-hen’s whistle from the marsh at morn;    To skirt with deafened ears and brain o’erborne  Some foam-filled rapid charging down its rocks  With iron roar of waters; far away    Across wide-reeded meres, pensive with noon,    To hear the querulous outcry of the loon;  To lie among deep rocks, and watch all day    On liquid heights the snowy clouds melt by;  Or hear from wood-capped mountain-brows the jay    Pierce the bright morning with his jibing cry.   To feast on summer sounds; the jolted wains,    The thresher humming from the farm near by,    The prattling cricket’s intermittent cry,  The locust’s rattle from the sultry lanes;  Or in the shadow of some oaken spray,    To watch, as through a mist of light and dreams,    The far-off hayfields, where the dusty teams  Drive round and round the lessening squares of hay,    And hear upon the wind, now loud, now low,  With drowsy cadence half a summer’s day,    The clatter of the reapers come and go.   Far violet hills, horizons filmed with showers,    The murmur of cool streams, the forest’s gloom,    The voices of the breathing grass, the hum  Of ancient gardens overbanked with flowers:  Thus, with a smile as golden as the dawn,    And cool fair fingers radiantly divine,    The mighty mother brings us in her hand,  For all tired eyes and foreheads pinched and wan,  Her restful cup, her beaker of bright wine:    Drink, and be filled, and ye shall understand! (Archibald Lampman)

    Hospital Window (Allen Ginsberg Poems)

    At gauzy dusk, thin haze like cigarette smoke ribbons past Chrysler Building’s silver fins tapering delicately needletopped, Empire State’s taller antenna filmed milky lit amid blocks black and white apartmenting veil’d sky over Manhattan, offices new built dark glassed in … Continue reading

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