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Best Famous Enlightened Poems

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

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Written by Erica Jong | Create an image from this poem

Smoke

 Smoke, it is all smoke
in the throat of eternity.
.
.
.
For centuries, the air was full of witches Whistling up chimneys on their spiky brooms cackling or singing more sweetly than Circe, as they flew over rooftops blessing & cursing their kind.
We banished & burned them making them smoke in the throat of god; we declared ourselves "enlightened.
" "The dark age of horrors is past," said my mother to me in 1952, seven years after our people went up in smoke, leaving a few teeth, a pile of bones.
The smoke curls and beckons.
It is blue & lavender & green as the undersea world.
It will take us, too.
O let us not go sheepishly clinging to our nakedness.
But let us go like witches sucked heavenward by the Goddess' powerful breath & whistling, whistling, whistling on our beautiful brooms.


Written by Charles Baudelaire | Create an image from this poem

Correspondences

 Nature is a temple where the living pillars
Let go sometimes a blurred speech—
A Forest of symbols passes through a man's reach
And observes him with a familiar regard.
Like the distant echoes that mingle and confound In a unity of darkness and quiet Deep as the night, clear as daylight The perfumes, the colors, the sounds correspond.
The perfume is as fresh as the flesh of an infant Sweet as an oboe, green as a prairie —And the others, corrupt, rich and triumphant Enlightened by the things of infinity, Like amber, musk, benzoin and incense That sing, transporting the soul and sense.
Written by Emily Dickinson | Create an image from this poem

I measure every grief I meet

I measure every grief I meet
   With analytic eyes;
I wonder if it weighs like mine,
   Or has an easier size.
I wonder if they bore it long, Or did it just begin? I could not tell the date of mine, It feels so old a pain.
I wonder if it hurts to live, And if they have to try, And whether, could they choose between, They would not rather die.
I wonder if when years have piled-- Some thousands--on the cause Of early hurt, if such a lapse Could give them any pause; Or would they go on aching still Through centuries above, Enlightened to a larger pain By contrast with the love.
The grieved are many, I am told; The reason deeper lies,-- Death is but one and comes but once And only nails the eyes.
There's grief of want, and grief of cold,-- A sort they call 'despair,' There's banishment from native eyes, In sight of native air.
And though I may not guess the kind Correctly yet to me A piercing comfort it affords In passing Calvary, To note the fashions of the cross Of those that stand alone Still fascinated to presume That some are like my own.
Written by John Milton | Create an image from this poem

The Hymn

 I

It was the Winter wilde,
While the Heav'n-born-childe, 
All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies;
Nature in aw to him
Had doff't her gawdy trim,
With her great Master so to sympathize:
It was no season then for her
To wanton with the Sun her lusty Paramour.
II Only with speeches fair She woo'd the gentle Air To hide her guilty front with innocent Snow, And on her naked shame, Pollute with sinfull blame, The Saintly Vail of Maiden white to throw, Confounded, that her Makers eyes Should look so near upon her foul deformities.
III But he her fears to cease, Sent down the meek-eyd Peace, She crown'd with Olive green, came softly sliding Down through the turning sphear His ready Harbinger, With Turtle wing the amorous clouds dividing, And waving wide her mirtle wand, She strikes a universall Peace through Sea and Land.
IV No War, or Battails sound Was heard the World around, The idle spear and shield were high up hung; The hooked Chariot stood Unstain'd with hostile blood, The Trumpet spake not to the armed throng, And Kings sate still with awfull eye, As if they surely knew their sovran Lord was by.
V But peacefull was the night Wherin the Prince of light His raign of peace upon the earth began: The Windes with wonder whist, Smoothly the waters kist, Whispering new joyes to the milde Ocean, Who now hath quite forgot to rave, While Birds of Calm sit brooding on the charmed wave.
VI The Stars with deep amaze Stand fit in steadfast gaze, Bending one way their pretious influence, And will not take their flight, For all the morning light, Or Lucifer that often warned them thence; But in their glimmering Orbs did glow, Until their Lord himself bespake, and bid them go.
VII And though the shady gloom Had given day her room, The Sun himself with-held his wonted speed, And hid his head for shame, As his inferior flame, The new enlightened world no more should need; He saw a greater Sun appear Then his bright Throne, or burning Axletree could bear.
VIII The Shepherds on the Lawn, Or ere the point of dawn, Sate simply chatting in a rustic row; Full little thought they than, That the mighty Pan Was kindly com to live with them below; Perhaps their loves, or els their sheep, Was all that did their silly thoughts so busie keep.
IX When such Musick sweet Their hearts and ears did greet, As never was by mortal finger strook, Divinely-warbled voice Answering the stringed noise, As all their souls in blisfull rapture took: The Air such pleasure loth to lose, With thousand echo's still prolongs each heav'nly close.
X Nature that heard such sound Beneath the hollow round of Cynthia's seat the Airy region thrilling, Now was almost won To think her part was don And that her raign had here its last fulfilling; She knew such harmony alone Could hold all Heav'n and Earth in happier union.
XI At last surrounds their sight A globe of circular light, That with long beams the shame faced night arrayed The helmed Cherubim And sworded Seraphim, Are seen in glittering ranks with wings displaid, Harping in loud and solemn quire, With unexpressive notes to Heav'ns new-born Heir.
XII Such Musick (as 'tis said) Before was never made, But when of old the sons of morning sung, While the Creator Great His constellations set, And the well-ballanc't world on hinges hung, And cast the dark foundations deep, And bid the weltring waves their oozy channel keep.
XIII Ring out ye Crystall sphears, Once bless our human ears, (If ye have power to touch our senses so) And let your silver chime Move in melodious time; And let the Base of Heav'ns deep Organ blow, And with your ninefold harmony Make up full consort to th'Angelike symphony.
XIV For if such holy Song Enwrap our fancy long, Time will run back, and fetch the age of gold, And speckl'd vanity Will sicken soon and die, And leprous sin will melt from earthly mould, And Hell it self will pass away And leave her dolorous mansions to the peering day.
XV Yea Truth, and Justice then Will down return to men, Th'enameld Arras of the Rain-bow wearing, And Mercy set between Thron'd in Celestiall sheen, With radiant feet the tissued clouds down stearing, And Heav'n as at som festivall, Will open wide the gates of her high Palace Hall.
XVI But wisest Fate sayes no, This must not yet be so, The Babe lies yet in smiling Infancy, That on the bitter cross Must redeem our loss; So both himself and us to glorifie: Yet first to those ychain'd in sleep, The Wakeful trump of doom must thunder through the deep, XVII With such a horrid clang As on Mount Sinai rang While the red fire, and smouldring clouds out brake: The aged Earth agast With terrour of that blast, Shall from the surface to the center shake; When at the worlds last session, The dreadfull Judge in middle Air shall spread his throne.
XVIII And then at last our bliss Full and perfect is, But now begins; for from this happy day Th'old Dragon under ground In straiter limits bound, Not half so far casts his usurped sway, And wrath to see his Kingdom fail, Swindges the scaly Horrour of his foulded tail.
XIX The Oracles are dumm, No voice or hideous humm Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving.
Apollo from his shrine Can no more divine, With hollow shreik the steep of Delphos leaving.
No nightly trance, or breathed spell, Inspire's the pale-ey'd Priest from the prophetic cell.
XX The lonely mountains o're, And the resounding shore, A voice of weeping heard, and loud lament; From haunted spring, and dale Edg'd with poplar pale The parting Genius is with sighing sent, With flowre-inwov'n tresses torn The Nimphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn.
XXI In consecrated Earth, And on the holy Hearth, The Lars, and Lemures moan with midnight plaint, In Urns, and Altars round, A drear, and dying sound Affrights the Flamins at their service quaint; And the chill Marble seems to sweat, While each peculiar power forgoes his wonted seat.
XXII Peor, and Baalim, Forsake their Temples dim, With that twise-batter'd god of Palestine, And mooned Ashtaroth, Heav'ns Queen and Mother both, Now sits not girt with Tapers holy shine, The Libyc Hammon shrinks his horn, In vain the Tyrian Maids their wounded Thamuz mourn.
XXIII And sullen Moloch fled, Hath left in shadows dred, His burning Idol all of blackest hue, In vain with Cymbals ring, They call the grisly king, In dismall dance about the furnace Blue; And Brutish gods of Nile as fast, lsis and Orus, and the Dog Anubis hast.
Written by Aleister Crowley | Create an image from this poem

Arhan

 When the chill of earth black-breasted is uplifted at the
glance
Of the red sun million-crested, and the forest blossoms
dance
With the light that stirs and lustres of the dawn, and with
the bloom
Of the wind’s cheek as it clusters from the hidden valley’s
gloom :
Then I walk in woodland spaces, musing on the solemn
ways
Of the immemorial places shut behind the starry rays
Of the East and all its splendour, of the West and all its peace;
And the stubborn lights grow tender, and the hard sounds
hush and cease.
In the wheel of heaven revolving, mysteries of death and birth, In the wonb of time dissolving, shape anew a heaven and earth Ever changing, ever growing, ever dwindling, ever dear, Ever worth the passion glowing to distil a doubtful tear.
These are with me, these are of me, these approve me, these obey, Choose me, move me, fear me, love me, master of the night and day.
These are real, these illusion : I am of them, false or frail, True or lasting, all is fusion in the spirit’s shadow-veil, Till the knowledge -Lotus flowering hides the world beneath its stem; Neither I, nor nor God life-showering, find a counterpart in them.
As a spirit in a vision shows a countenance in fear, Laughs the looker to derision, only comes to disappear, Gods and mortals, mind and matter, in the glowing bud dissever : Vein from vein they rend and shatter, and are nothingness for ever.
In the blessed, the enlightened, perfect eyes these visions pass, Pass and cease, poor shadows frightened, leave no stain upon the glass.
One last stroke, O heart- free master, one last certain calm of will, And the maker of Disaster shall be strcken and grow still.
Burn thou to the core of matter, to the spirit’s utmost flame, Consciousness and sense to shatter, ruin sight and form and name! Shatter, lake-reflected spectre; lake, rise up in mist to sun; Sun, dissolve in showers of nectar, and the Master’s work is done.
Nectar perfume gently stealing, masterful and sweet and strong, Cleanse the world with light of healing in the ancient House of Wrong ! Free a million mortals on the wheel og being tossed ! Open wide the mystic portals, and be altogether lost! At Akyab.


Written by Anne Bronte | Create an image from this poem

A Word To The Elect

 You may rejoice to think yourselves secure;
You may be grateful for the gift divine --
That grace unsought, which made your black hearts pure,
And fits your earth-born souls in Heaven to shine.
But, is it sweet to look around, and view Thousands excluded from that happiness, Which they deserved, at least, as much as you, -- Their faults not greater, nor their virtues less? And, wherefore should you love your God the more, Because to you alone his smiles are given; Because he chose to pass the many o'er, And only bring the favoured few to Heaven? And, wherefore should your hearts more grateful prove, Because for ALL the Saviour did not die? Is yours the God of justice and of love And are your bosoms warm with charity? Say, does your heart expand to all mankind? And, would you ever to your neighbour do -- The weak, the strong, the enlightened, and the blind -­ As you would have your neighbour do to you? And, when you, looking on your fellow-men, Behold them doomed to endless misery, How can you talk of joy and rapture then? -- May God withhold such cruel joy from me! That none deserve eternal bliss I know; Unmerited the grace in mercy given: But, none shall sink to everlasting woe, That have not well deserved the wrath of Heaven.
And, Oh! there lives within my heart A hope, long nursed by me; (And, should its cheering ray depart, How dark my soul would be!) That as in Adam all have died, In Christ shall all men live; And ever round his throne abide, Eternal praise to give.
That even the wicked shall at last Be fitted for the skies; And, when their dreadful doom is past, To life and light arise.
I ask not, how remote the day, Nor what the sinner's woe, Before their dross is purged away; Enough for me, to know That when the cup of wrath is drained, The metal purified, They'll cling to what they once disdained, And live by Him that died.
Written by Roddy Lumsden | Create an image from this poem

Acid

 "She was right.
I had to find something new.
There was only one thing for it.
" My mother told it straight, London will finish you off, and I'd heard what Doctor Johnson said, When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life, but I'd been tired of life for fourteen years; Scotland, never thoroughly enlightened, was gathering back its clutch of medieval wonts and lately there had been what my doctors called a pica (like a pregnant woman's craving to eat Twix with piccalilli or chunks of crunchy sea-coal): I'd been guzzling vinegar, tipping it on everything, falling for women who were beautifully unsuitable, and hiding up wynds off the Cowgate with a pokeful of hot chips drenched in the sacred stuff and wrapped in the latest, not last, edition of The Sunday Post where I read that in London they had found a Chardonnay with a bouquet of vine leaves and bloomed skins, a taste of grapes and no finish whatsoever, which clinched the deal.
Written by Dejan Stojanovic | Create an image from this poem

Morning

He placed a rose on the bed-stand 
While she was sleeping.
His wake-up message on the stand— Her smile on his face—awaken bliss.
Remembrance; Memory box opened; Anticipation; Future opened and saved.
Back and forth Through memory and experience, She recognizes this morning In her awakened spirit.
She recognizes the mist, The rose, the moist grass; She recognizes his enlightened face And goes into the new morning with a smile.
Written by Isaac Watts | Create an image from this poem

Hymn 11

 The humble enlightened, and carnal reason humbled.
Luke 10:21,22.
There was an hour when Christ rejoiced, And spoke his joy in words of praise: "Father, I thank thee, mighty God, Lord of the earth, and heav'ns, and seas.
"I thank thy sovereign power and love That crowns my doctrine with success, And makes the babes in knowledge learn The heights, and breadths, and lengths of grace.
"But all this glory lies concealed From men of prudence and of wit; The prince of darkness blinds their eyes, And their own pride resists the light.
"Father, 'tis thus, because thy will Chose and ordained it should be so; 'Tis thy delight t' abase the proud, And lay the haughty scorner low.
"There's none can know the Father right But those who learn it from the Son; Nor can the Son be well received But where the Father makes him known.
" Then let our souls adore our God, Who deals his graces as he please; Nor gives to mortals an account Or of his actions or decrees.
Written by David Wagoner | Create an image from this poem

Wallace Stevens On His Way To Work

 He would leave early and walk slowly
 As if balancing books
 On the way to school, already expecting
To be tardy once again and heavy
 With numbers, the unfashionably rounded
 Toes of his shoes invisible beyond
The slope of his corporation.
He would pause At his favorite fundamentally sound Park bench, which had been the birthplace Of paeans and ruminations on other mornings, And would turn his back to it, having gauged the distance Between his knees and the edge of the hardwood Almost invariably unoccupied At this enlightened hour by the bums of nighttime (For whom the owlish eye of the moon Had been closed by daylight), and would give himself wholly over Backwards and trustingly downwards And be well seated there.
He would remove From his sinister jacket pocket a postcard And touch it and retouch it with the point Of the fountain he produced at his fingertips And fill it with his never-before-uttered Runes and obbligatos and pellucidly cryptic Duets from private pageants, from broken ends Of fandangos with the amoeba chaos chaos Couchant and rampant.
Then he would rise With an effort as heartfelt as a decision To get out of bed on Sunday and carefully Relocate his center of gravity Above and beyond an imaginary axis Between his feet and carry the good news Along the path and the sidewalk, well on his way To readjusting the business of the earth.

Book: Shattered Sighs