Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

Rating: 4.33
Rating: 4.33

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle Poems

Put the saddle on the mare,
For the wet winds blow;
There's winter in the air,

There is a better thing, dear heart,
Than youthful flush or girlish grace.
There is the faith that never fails,
The courage in the danger place,

Ten mile in twenty minutes! 'E done it, sir. That's true.
The big bay 'orse in the further stall--the one wot's next to you.

Here's a keen and grim old huntsman
On a horse as white as snow;
Sometimes he is very swift
And sometimes he is slow.

The franklin he hath gone to roam, The franklin's maid she bides at home; But she is cold, and coy, and staid, And who may win the franklin's maid?

It is mine – the little chamber,
Mine alone.
I had it from my forbears
Years agone.

Said the king to the colonel, 'The complaints are eternal, That you Irish give more trouble Than any other corps.'

Men of the Twenty-first
Up by the Chalk Pit Wood,
Weak with our wounds and our thirst,

What of the bow?
The bow was made in England:
Of true wood, of yew-wood,
The wood of English bows;

What marks the frontier line? Thou man of India, say! Is it the Himalayas sheer,

The cheese-mites asked how the cheese got there,
And warmly debated the matter;
The Orthodox said that it came from the air,

Who's that walking on the moorland?
Who's that moving on the hill?
They are passing 'mid the bracken,

Ho! says the Nation's purse is lean,
Who fears for claim or bond or debt,
When all the glories that have been
Are scheduled as a cash asset?


Faith may break on reason,
Faith may prove a treason
to that highest gift
that is granted by Thy grace;


Master went a-hunting,
When the leaves were falling;
We saw him on the bridle path,
We heard him gaily calling.

Pennarby shaft is dark and steep,
Eight foot wide, eight hundred deep.

God's own best will bide the test
And God's own worst will fall;
But, best or worst or last or first,
He ordereth it all.

It was the hour of dawn,
When the heart beats thin and small,
The window glimmered grey,
Framed in a shadow wall.

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle Biography

Sir Arthur Ignatius Conan Doyle, DL (22 May 1859 – 7 July 1930) was a Scottish physician and writer, most noted for his stories about the detective Sherlock Holmes, which are generally considered a major innovation in the field of crime fiction, and for the adventures of Professor Challenger. He was a prolific writer whose other works include science fiction stories, historical novels, plays and romances, poetry, and non-fiction.)

The Best Poem Of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

A Hunting Morning

Put the saddle on the mare,
For the wet winds blow;
There's winter in the air,
And autumn all below.
For the red leaves are flying
And the red bracken dying,
And the red fox lying
Where the oziers grow.

Put the bridle on the mare,
For my blood runs chill;
And my heart, it is there,
On the heather-tufted hill,
With the gray skies o'er us,
And the long-drawn chorus
Of a running pack before us
From the find to the kill.

Then lead round the mare,
For it's time that we began,
And away with thought and care,
Save to live and be a man,
While the keen air is blowing,
And the huntsman holloing,
And the black mare going
As the black mare can.

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle Comments

joe bog 27 May 2019

he bad he bad he bad he bad he bad he bad he bad he bad he bad grammar goodest

1 0 Reply
wiiwe 01 September 2018

this was made by him or about him?

0 1 Reply

haha this is the best poeticianin everer

2 3 Reply
Fabrizio Frosini 26 August 2016

didn't know that Conan Doyle was a poet.. my fault, of course.. :)

27 2 Reply

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