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Best Famous Dog Poems

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

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See also: Best Member Poems

by Edward Estlin (E E) Cummings | |

a clowns smirk in the skull of a baboon

a clown's smirk in the skull of a baboon
(where once good lips stalked or eyes firmly stir
red)
my mirror gives me on this afternoon;
i am a shape that can but eat and turd
ere with the dirt death shall him vastly gird 
a coward waiting clumsily to cease
whom every perfect thing meanwhile doth miss;
a hand's impression in an empty glove 
a soon forgotten tune a house for lease.
I have never loved you dear as now i love behold this fool who in the month of June having certain stars and planets heard rose very slowly in a tight balloon until the smallening world became absurd; him did an archer spy(whose aim had erred never)and by that little trick or this he shot the aeronaut down into the abyss -and wonderfully i fell through the green groove of twilight striking into many a piece.
I have never loved you dear as now i love god's terrible face brighter than a spoon collects the image of one fatal word; so that my life(which liked the sun and the moon) resembles something that has not occurred: i am a birdcage without any bird a collar looking for a dog a kiss without lips;a prayer lacking any knees but something beats within my shirt to prove he is undead who living noone is.
I have never loved you dear as now i love.
Hell(by most humble me which shall increase) open thy fire!for i have had some bliss of one small lady upon earth above; to whom i cry remembering her face i have never loved you dear as now i love


by | by . You can read it on PoetrySoup.com' st_url='http://www.poetrysoup.com/famous/poem/22409/Caesars_Song' st_title='Caesar's Song'>|

Caesar's Song

 

  Bow-wow-wow!
Whose dog art thou?
Little Tom Tinker's dog,
  Bow-wow-wow!


by | |

Leg Over Leg


Leg over leg,
As the dog went to Dover;
When he came to a stile,
Jump, he went over.


More great poems below...

by | |

My Little Maid


High diddle doubt, my candle's out
  My little maid is not at home;
Saddle my hog and bridle my dog,
  And fetch my little maid home.


by | |

Old Mother Hubbard


Old Mother Hubbard
Went to the cupboard,
  To give her poor dog a bone;
But when she got there
The cupboard was bare,
  And so the poor dog had none.

She went to the baker's
  To buy him some bread;
When she came back
  The dog was dead.

She went to the undertaker's
  To buy him a coffin;
When she got back
  The dog was laughing.

She took a clean dish
  To get him some tripe;
When she came back
  He was smoking a pipe.

She went to the alehouse
  To get him some beer;
When she came back
  The dog sat in a chair.

She went to the tavern
  For white wine and red;
When she came back
  The dog stood on his head.

She went to the hatter's
  To buy him a hat;
When she came back
  He was feeding the cat.

She went to the barber's
  To buy him a wig;
When she came back
  He was dancing a jig.

She went to the fruiterer's
  To buy him some fruit;
When she came back
  He was playing the flute.

She went to the tailor's
  To buy him a coat;
When she came back
  He was riding a goat.

She went to the cobbler's
  To buy him some shoes;
When she came back
  He was reading the news.

She went to the sempster's
  To buy him some linen;
When she came back
  The dog was a-spinning.

She went to the hosier's
  To buy him some hose;
When she came back
  He was dressed in his clothes.

The dame made a curtsy,
  The dog made a bow;
The dame said, "Your servant,"
  The dog said, "Bow-wow.
"


by | |

Pussy-Cat By The Fire


Pussy-cat sits by the fire;
    How can she be fair?
In walks the little dog;
    Says: "Pussy, are you there?
How do you do, Mistress Pussy?
    Mistress Pussy, how d'ye do?"
"I thank you kindly, little dog,
    I fare as well as you!"


by | |

Ride Away, Ride Away


Ride away, ride away,
  Johnny shall ride,
And he shall have pussy-cat
  Tied to one side;
And he shall have little dog
  Tied to the other,
And Johnny shall ride
  To see his grandmother.


by | |

The Cat And The Fiddle

 

    Hey, diddle, diddle!
    The cat and the fiddle,
The cow jumped over the moon;
    The little dog laughed
    To see such sport,
And the dish ran away with the spoon.


by | |

The Old Woman And The Pedlar


There was an old woman, as I've heard tell,
She went to market her eggs for to sell;
She went to market all on a market-day,
And she fell asleep on the King's highway.

There came by a pedlar whose name was Stout,
He cut her petticoats all round about;
He cut her petticoats up to the knees,
Which made the old woman to shiver and freeze.

When the little old woman first did wake,
She began to shiver and she began to shake;
She began to wonder and she began to cry,
"Lauk a mercy on me, this can't be I!
"But if it be I, as I hope it be,
I've a little dog at home, and he'll know me;
If it be I, he'll wag his little tail,
And if it be not I, he'll loudly bark and wail.
"
Home went the little woman all in the dark;
Up got the little dog, and he began to bark;
He began to bark, so she began to cry,
"Lauk a mercy on me, this is none of I!"


by Marcin Malek | |

In Between the Strophes

I'll never be a king of the brave

The vain poet - I lied, forgive me if you care
I went calmly through all the stages of madness
The last it's the tongue on a stranger face

And believe that man can turn in to a bird
To look at people and things
Without the need of rising the gaze

What a disruptive and ugly input
- Acquired romanticism
To have eyes placed on occiput

And after all, to see against the stiff neck
How veils of the wild cranes are waving
Across the sunset fires and dense shades

I'll never be a king of the brave

Timorous rhymer - I laughed, who cares
That I went through all the stages of foolishness
The last it's the thought that anyone chased

Man, dog or a worm
Will find an asylum
Somewhere in between the strophes

Copyright ©: Marcin Malek


by Thomas Stearns Eliot (T S) Eliot | |

The Ad-Dressing Of Cats

 You've read of several kinds of Cat,
And my opinion now is that
You should need no interpreter
To understand their character.
You now have learned enough to see That Cats are much like you and me And other people whom we find Possessed of various types of mind.
For some are same and some are mad And some are good and some are bad And some are better, some are worse-- But all may be described in verse.
You've seen them both at work and games, And learnt about their proper names, Their habits and their habitat: But How would you ad-dress a Cat? So first, your memory I'll jog, And say: A CAT IS NOT A DOG.
And you might now and then supply Some caviare, or Strassburg Pie, Some potted grouse, or salmon paste-- He's sure to have his personal taste.
(I know a Cat, who makes a habit Of eating nothing else but rabbit, And when he's finished, licks his paws So's not to waste the onion sauce.
) A Cat's entitled to expect These evidences of respect.
And so in time you reach your aim, And finally call him by his NAME.
So this is this, and that is that: And there's how you AD-DRESS A CAT.


by Thomas Stearns Eliot (T S) Eliot | |

Sweeney among the Nightingales

 APENECK SWEENEY spreads his knees
Letting his arms hang down to laugh,
The zebra stripes along his jaw
Swelling to maculate giraffe.
The circles of the stormy moon Slide westward toward the River Plate, Death and the Raven drift above And Sweeney guards the hornèd gate.
Gloomy Orion and the Dog Are veiled; and hushed the shrunken seas; The person in the Spanish cape Tries to sit on Sweeney’s knees Slips and pulls the table cloth Overturns a coffee-cup, Reorganised upon the floor She yawns and draws a stocking up; The silent man in mocha brown Sprawls at the window-sill and gapes; The waiter brings in oranges Bananas figs and hothouse grapes; The silent vertebrate in brown Contracts and concentrates, withdraws; Rachel née Rabinovitch Tears at the grapes with murderous paws; She and the lady in the cape Are suspect, thought to be in league; Therefore the man with heavy eyes Declines the gambit, shows fatigue, Leaves the room and reappears Outside the window, leaning in, Branches of wistaria Circumscribe a golden grin; The host with someone indistinct Converses at the door apart, The nightingales are singing near The Convent of the Sacred Heart, And sang within the bloody wood When Agamemnon cried aloud, And let their liquid siftings fall To stain the stiff dishonoured shroud.


by Erin Belieu | |

Against Writing about Children

 When I think of the many people
who privately despise children,
I can't say I'm completely shocked,

having been one.
I was not exceptional, uncomfortable as that is to admit, and most children are not exceptional.
The particulars of cruelty, sizes Large and X-Large, memory gnawing it like a fat dog, are ordinary: Mean Miss Smigelsky from the sixth grade; the orthodontist who slapped you for crying out.
Children frighten us, other people's and our own.
They reflect the virused figures in which failure began.
We feel accosted by their vulnerable natures.
Each child turns into a problematic ocean, a mirrored body growing denser and more difficult to navigate until sunlight merely bounces off the surface.
They become impossible to sound.
Like us, but even weaker.


by Erin Belieu | |

Georgic on Memory

 Make your daily monument the Ego,
use a masochist's epistemology
of shame and dog-eared certainty
that others less exacting might forgo.
If memory's an elephant, then feed the animal.
Resist revision: the stand of feral raspberry, contraband fruit the crows stole, ferrying seed for miles .
.
.
No.
It was a broken hedge, not beautiful, sunlight tacking its leafy gut in loose sutures.
Lacking imagination, you'll take the pledge to remember - not the sexy, new idea of history, each moment swamped in legend, liable to judgment and erosion; still, an appealing view, to draft our lives, a series of vignettes where endings could be substituted - your father, unconvoluted by desire, not grown bonsai in regret, the bedroom of blue flowers left intact.
The room was nearly dark, the streetlight a sentinel at the white curtain, its night face implicated.
Do not retract this.
Something did happen.
You recall, can feel a stumbling over wet ground, the cave the needled branches made around your body, the creature you couldn't console.


by Edmund Blunden | by Edmund Blunden. You can read it on PoetrySoup.com' st_url='http://www.poetrysoup.com/famous/poem/23152/The_Poor_Mans_Pig' st_title='The Poor Man's Pig'>|

The Poor Man's Pig

Already fallen plum-bloom stars the green
And apple-boughs as knarred as old toads' backs
Wear their small roses ere a rose is seen;
The building thrush watches old Job who stacks
The bright-peeled osiers on the sunny fence,
The pent sow grunts to hear him stumping by,
And tries to push the bolt and scamper thence,
But her ringed snout still keeps her to the sty.
Then out he lets her run; away she snorts In bundling gallop for the cottage door, With hungry hubbub begging crusts and orts, Then like the whirlwind bumping round once more; Nuzzling the dog, making the pullets run, And sulky as a child when her play's done.


by Edmund Blunden | by Edmund Blunden. You can read it on PoetrySoup.com' st_url='http://www.poetrysoup.com/famous/poem/23156/The_Childs_Grave' st_title='The Child's Grave'>|

The Child's Grave

I came to the churchyard where pretty Joy lies
On a morning in April, a rare sunny day;
Such bloom rose around, and so many birds' cries
That I sang for delight as I followed the way.
I sang for delight in the ripening of spring, For dandelions even were suns come to earth; Not a moment went by but a new lark took wing To wait on the season with melody's mirth.
Love-making birds were my mates all the road, And who would wish surer delight for the eye Than to see pairing goldfinches gleaming abroad Or yellowhammers sunning on paling and sty? And stocks in the almswomen's garden were blown, With rich Easter roses each side of the door; The lazy white owls in the glade cool and lone Paid calls on their cousins in the elm's chambered core.
This peace, then, and happiness thronged me around.
Nor could I go burdened with grief, but made merry Till I came to the gate of that overgrown ground Where scarce once a year sees the priest come to bury.
Over the mounds stood the nettles in pride, And, where no fine flowers, there kind weeds dared to wave; It seemed but as yesterday she lay by my side, And now my dog ate of the grass on her grave.
He licked my hand wondering to see me muse so, And wished I would lead on the journey or home, As though not a moment of spring were to go In brooding; but I stood, if her spirit might come And tell me her life, since we left her that day In the white lilied coffin, and rained down our tears; But the grave held no answer, though long I should stay; How strange that this clay should mingle with hers! So I called my good dog, and went on my way; Joy's spirit shone then in each flower I went by, And clear as the noon, in coppice and ley, Her sweet dawning smile and her violet eye!


by William Lisle Bowles | |

On a Beautiful Landscape

 Beautiful landscape! I could look on thee 
For hours,--unmindful of the storm and strife, 
And mingled murmurs of tumultuous life.
Here, all is still as fair--the stream, the tree, The wood, the sunshine on the bank: no tear No thought of time's swift wing, or closing night Which comes to steal away the long sweet light, No sighs of sad humanity are here.
Here is no tint of mortal change--the day Beneath whose light the dog and peasant-boy Gambol with look, and almost bark, of joy-- Still seems, though centuries have passed, to stay.
Then gaze again, that shadowed scenes may teach Lessons of peace and love, beyond all speech.


by Oliver Wendell Holmes | |

Daily Trials by a Sensitive Man

 Oh, there are times 
When all this fret and tumult that we hear 
Do seem more stale than to the sexton's ear 
His own dull chimes.
Ding dong! ding dong! The world is in a simmer like a sea Over a pent volcano, -- woe is me All the day long! From crib to shroud! Nurse o'er our cradles screameth lullaby, And friends in boots tramp round us as we die, Snuffling aloud.
At morning's call The small-voiced pug-dog welcomes in the sun, And flea-bit mongrels, wakening one by one, Give answer all.
When evening dim Draws round us, then the lonely caterwaul, Tart solo, sour duet, and general squall, -- These are our hymn.
Women, with tongues Like polar needles, ever on the jar; Men, plugless word-spouts, whose deep fountains are Within their lungs.
Children, with drums Strapped round them by the fond paternal ass; Peripatetics with a blade of grass Between their thumbs.
Vagrants, whose arts Have caged some devil in their mad machine, Which grinding, squeaks, with husky groans between, Come out by starts.
Cockneys that kill Thin horses of a Sunday, -- men, with clams, Hoarse as young bisons roaring for their dams From hill to hill.
Soldiers, with guns, Making a nuisance of the blessed air, Child-crying bellman, children in despair, Screeching for buns.
Storms, thunders, waves! Howl, crash, and bellow till ye get your fill; Ye sometimes rest; men never can be still But in their graves.


by Edna St Vincent Millay | |

Pastoral

 The little sparrows 
hop ingenuously 
about the pavement 
quarreling 
with sharp voices 
over those things 
that interest them.
But we who are wiser shut ourselves in on either hand and no one knows whether we think good or evil.
Meanwhile, the old man who goes about gathering dog-lime walks in the gutter without looking up and his tread is more majestic than that of the Episcopal minister approaching the pulpit of a Sunday.
These things astonish me beyond words.


by Edna St Vincent Millay | |

Fontaine Je Ne Boirai Pas De Ton Eau!

 I know I might have lived in such a way
As to have suffered only pain:
Loving not man nor dog;
Not money, even; feeling
Toothache perhaps, but never more than an hour away
From skill and novocaine;
Making no contacts, dealing with life through Agents, drinking
 one cocktail, betting two dollars, wearing raincoats in the
 rain.
Betrayed at length by no one but the fog Whispering to the wing of the plane.
"Fountain," I have cried to that unbubbling well, "I will not drink of thy water!" Yet I thirst For a mouthful of—not to swallow, only to rinse my mouth in —peace.
And while the eyes of the past condemn, The eyes of the present narrow into assignation.
And— worst— The young are so old, they are born with their fingers crossed; I shall get no help from them.


by Edna St Vincent Millay | |

Three Songs Of Shattering

 I

The first rose on my rose-tree
 Budded, bloomed, and shattered,
During sad days when to me
 Nothing mattered.
Grief of grief has drained me clean; Still it seems a pity No one saw,—it must have been Very pretty.
II Let the little birds sing; Let the little lambs play; Spring is here; and so 'tis spring;— But not in the old way! I recall a place Where a plum-tree grew; There you lifted up your face, And blossoms covered you.
If the little birds sing, And the little lambs play, Spring is here; and so 'tis spring— But not in the old way! III All the dog-wood blossoms are underneath the tree! Ere spring was going—ah, spring is gone! And there comes no summer to the like of you and me,— Blossom time is early, but no fruit sets on.
All the dog-wood blossoms are underneath the tree, Browned at the edges, turned in a day; And I would with all my heart they trimmed a mound for me, And weeds were tall on all the paths that led that way!


by Edna St Vincent Millay | |

Doubt No More That Oberon

 Doubt no more that Oberon—
Never doubt that Pan
Lived, and played a reed, and ran
After nymphs in a dark forest,
In the merry, credulous days,—
Lived, and led a fairy band
Over the indulgent land!
Ah, for in this dourest, sorest
Age man's eye has looked upon,
Death to fauns and death to fays,
Still the dog-wood dares to raise—
Healthy tree, with trunk and root—
Ivory bowls that bear no fruit,
And the starlings and the jays—
Birds that cannot even sing—
Dare to come again in spring!


by Julie Hill Alger | |

Death in the Family

 They call it stroke.
Two we loved were stunned by that same blow of cudgel or axe to the brow.
Lost on the earth they left our circle broken.
One spent five months falling from our grasp mute, her grace, wit, beauty erased.
Her green eyes gazed at us as if asking, as if aware, as if hers.
One night she slipped away; machinery of mercy brought her back to die more slowly.
At long last she escaped.
Our collie dog fared better.
A lesser creature, she had to spend only one day drifting and reeling, her brown eyes beseeching.
Then she was tenderly lifted, laid on a table, praised, petted and set free.
-Julie Alger


by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | |

THE YELPERS.

 OUR rides in all directions bend,

For business or for pleasure,
Yet yelpings on our steps attend,

And barkings without measure.
The dog that in our stable dwells, After our heels is striding, And all the while his noisy yells But show that we are riding.
1815.
*


by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | |

THE SHEPHERDS LAMENT.

 ON yonder lofty mountain

A thousand times I stand,
And on my staff reclining,

Look down on the smiling land.
My grazing flocks then I follow, My dog protecting them well; I find myself in the valley, But how, I scarcely can tell.
The whole of the meadow is cover'd With flowers of beauty rare; I pluck them, but pluck them unknowing To whom the offering to bear.
In rain and storm and tempest, I tarry beneath the tree, But closed remaineth yon portal; 'Tis all but a vision to me.
High over yonder dwelling, There rises a rainbow gay; But she from home hath departed And wander'd far, far away.
Yes, far away bath she wander'd, Perchance e'en over the sea; Move onward, ye sheep, then, move onward! Full sad the shepherd must be.
1803.
*