Tiger poems from famous poets and best beautiful poems to feel good. Best tiger poems ever written. Read all poems about tiger.
How neatly a cat sleeps,
sleeps with its paws and its posture,
sleeps with its wicked claws,
and with its unfeeling blood,
A Dying Tiger—moaned for Drink—
I hunted all the Sand—
there is enough treachery, hatred violence absurdity in the average
human being to supply any given army on any given day
and the best at murder are those who preach against it
Modern Verse For The Railway
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Vertically they have gone to see the horizon
Although she feeds me bread of bitterness,
And sinks into my throat her tiger's tooth,
Stealing my breath of life, I will confess
I love this cultured hell that tests my youth!
Belinda lived in a little white house,
With a little black kitten and a little gray mouse,
And a little yellow dog and a little red wagon,
And a realio, trulio, little pet dragon.
(Translated from the French by Edouard Rodti)
My wife with the hair of a wood fire
With the thoughts of heat lightning
DEEP in the shady sadness of a vale
Far sunken from the healthy breath of morn,
Far from the fiery noon, and eve's one star,
Now the new chum loaded his three-nought-three,
It's a small-bore gun, but his hopes were big.
"I am fed to the teeth with old ewe," said he,
"And I might be able to shoot a pig."
The floor was shaking under my feet
My heart was beating fast
I thought I would fall off my seat
I felt my head would blast
Tiger King, Tiger King
Where are you now weird thing?
Your story is incredible
Not like cat
But like tiger.
And I do admit
Tiger is a large
The name itself is ferocious
But imagine a tiger
Without teeth and
(Man Said to Himselves.)
What a Pleasant Sight it has been and my Desire is to Plant Trees and Make this a Beautiful Scene.
Grandfather hunted tigers.
Father sold tiger skins.
Before being sold,
Those tiger skins were hung before the house.
And as pregnant ewes crossed the courtyard one by one
Their lambs were lost.
Hung behind the house, those skins,
And the pears and peach trees withered one by one.
On the prairie of my dreams Father
Strode among the crowds
Clothed in a tiger skin.
As shouts of, "A tiger's coming" rang throughout
The stone walls of the village,
And rocks rolled like scrambling goats.
The last was Mother, chased by the tiger to wood's end;
There she died, yet was brought to life again.
Before being sold, the tiger skins
Were the skins of sky
The skins of earth
The skins of water
The skins of rock.
When turned into windows on the wall
Those tiger skins would reveal my person.
Should I be seen it would be seen with
Hunting gun on shoulder.
When deciding to make a sacred drum of tiger skin,
One fears only those beats that deliver
Withering plagues through the endless forest.
On making a harness of tiger skin for the ox
The one fear is no more land to plow.
When making a banner of tiger skin
The one fear is that of finding no one to raise it.
I have never seen a tiger skin, nor indeed a tiger.
"'A man leaves behind only his name at death;
A tiger leaves only its skin.'"
In this life of yours, why not be a tiger?"
And why were the children taught this way?
Whatever the reason, all those tiger skins
Were sold by my father.
On New Year's Eve pine needles covered the sitting room floor.
Not one of Grandfather's footprints could be found.
Did he die again in the sky? Let it be just a dream.
I carried my cold heart to lay it upon
the pine needles piled there in the sitting room.
I did not feel the needle pricks as their tattoos
Covered my body.
It was again the midnight of that day
The midnight of that day.
Tiger, Tiger burning bright;
Hits a golf ball out of sight!
What precise hand & eye contact;
What sublime symmetry!
I am a professional hunter by tradition
Managed a hunting program of a tiger.
To ensure historic glory of my hidden ability.
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