Farmers poems from famous poets and best beautiful poems to feel good. Best Farmers poems ever written. Read all poems about Farmers.
Listen, my children, and you shall hear
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,
On the eighteenth of April, in 'Seventy-five;
Hardly a man is now alive
The green village, the colored city, the ever familiar locality
Each path, tree, house, turn, each native I have left behind
But creepers, hedges have entangled with my leg and hand
The green crops fields, green hills, fruit trees, call me back,
This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks,
Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight,
Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic,
Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms.
By the rude bridge that arched the flood,
Their flag to April's breeze unfurled,
Here once the embattled farmers stood
And fired the shot heard round the world.
WHY! who makes much of a miracle?
As to me, I know of nothing else but miracles,
Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan,
Taped to the wall of my cell are 47 pictures: 47 black
faces: my father, mother, grandmothers (1 dead) , grand-
fathers (both dead) , brothers, sisters, uncles, aunts,
cousins (1st and 2nd) , nieces, and nephews.They stare
Three jolly Farmers
Once bet a pound
Each dance the others would
Off the ground.
AS I sat alone, by blue Ontario's shore,
As I mused of these mighty days, and of peace return'd, and the dead
that return no more,
from Memories of President Lincoln
Christmas is come and every hearth
Makes room to give him welcome now
E'en want will dry its tears in mirth
And crown him wi' a holly bough
behave yourself you always said to me.
I behaved myself
when others were warm in winter
As most Nigerians remain ruefully lukewarm
about President Buhari's second term bid;
An ever-increasing multitude of potential
voters across ethnic divides, seem to be
The young Lady to whom this was addressed was my Sister. It was
composed at school, and during my two first College vacations.
There is not an image in it which I have not observed; and now, in
my seventy-third year, I recollect the time and place where most
Always our own feuillage!
Always Florida's green peninsula! Always the priceless delta of
Long and winding road
with patches and holes
The holes which sometimes
turned into small ponds,
The blue forest, chilled and blue, like the lips of the dead
if the lips were gone. The year has been cut in half
with dull scissors, the solstice still looking for its square
on the calendar. Perhaps the scissors were really
Oh! what's the matter? what's the matter?
What is't that ails young Harry Gill?
That evermore his teeth they chatter,
Chatter, chatter, chatter still!
Last day of farmers' festival, agriculturalists go round to meet all dear ones and friends;
They exchange greetings once in the Harvest Festival only as they toil all the year;
Since it has become a general festival holiday, all common people also do the same;
They go for collection of things, money and dresses and spend a joyful time in fun!
Rice with milk is boiled in a newly made clay pot to produce Pongal
To honour and pray in praise as gratitude to rain, Sun, farmers, ox and cow;
For, sans them, survival of all living beings everywhere in the world is impossible;
This is celebrated as farmers' and harvest festival in the beginning of New Year!
a bird on the blue branch of an oak tree in the himalayyas forest.
farmers are sowing seeds.
farmers are ploughing padddy fields
And this is what Stubble Fire thus spoke:
I am the fire that burns annually in those meadows
where dry grass has found its shadows;
SPERM AS SEED
Farmers of faith
Seeds into holes
Don't say the government has no business
to do business with the farmers' produce.
You send satellites of other nations
from our country's launching pads for pelf.
Our Farmers are on the streets, tormenting in pain
It's a Revolt, poor fighting for their Rights, against the Elite
Rich want to hoard grains in their Godowns, ensure rich gain
We must all stand up against this injustice, need not be polite
For centuries, farmers have fed us, but,
Not for a moment, we think about them!
The secret of our fine, fit, robust living?
How food is readily made available to us!
What a marvelous country is my India,
how hardworking is not my nation,
everywhere are our people, rushing to work
morning, evening and even on night shifts;
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