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Best Famous Happy Poems

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

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Written by Edgar Allan Poe |

Annabel Lee

It was many and many a year ago 
In a kingdom by the sea 
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of ANNABEL LEE;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.
I was a child and she was a child In this kingdom by the sea; But we loved with a love that was more than love- I and my Annabel Lee; With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven Coveted her and me.
And this was the reason that long ago In this kingdom by the sea A wind blew out of a cloud chilling My beautiful Annabel Lee; So that her highborn kinsman came And bore her away from me To shut her up in a sepulchre In this kingdom by the sea.
The angels not half so happy in heaven Went envying her and me- Yes!- that was the reason (as all men know In this kingdom by the sea) That the wind came out of the cloud by night Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.
But our love it was stronger by far than the love Of those who were older than we- Of many far wiser than we- And neither the angels in heaven above Nor the demons down under the sea Can ever dissever my soul from the soul Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.
For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And so all the night-tide I lie down by the side Of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride In the sepulchre there by the sea In her tomb by the sounding sea.

Written by Fleda Brown |

I Write My Mother a Poem

Sometimes I feel her easing further into her grave, 
resigned, as always, and I have to come to her rescue.
Like now, when I have so much else to do.
Not that she'd want a poem.
She would have been proud, of course, of all its mystery, involving her, but scared a little.
Her eyes would have filled with tears.
It always comes to that, I don't know why I bother.
One gesture and she's gone down a well of raw feeling, and I'm left alone again.
I avert my eyes, to keep from scaring her.
On her dresser is one of those old glass bottles of Jergen's Lotion with the black label, a little round bottle of Mum deodorant, a white plastic tray with Avon necklaces and earrings, pennies, paper clips, and a large black coat button.
I appear to be very interested in these objects, even interested in the sun through the blinds.
It falls across her face, and not, as she changes the bed.
She would rather have clean sheets than my poem, but as long as I don't bother her, she's glad to know I care.
She's talked my father into taking a drive later, stopping for an A & W root beer.
She is dreaming of foam on the glass, the tray propped on the car window.
And trees, farmhouses, the expanse of the world as seen from inside the car.
It is no use to try to get her out to watch airplanes take off, or walk a trail, or hear this poem and offer anything more than "Isn't that sweet!" Right now bombs are exploding in Kosovo, students shot in Colorado, and my mother is wearing a root beer mustache.
Her eyes are unfocused, everything's root beer.
I write root beer, root beer, to make her happy.
from Breathing In, Breathing Out, Anhinga Press, 2002 © 2000, Fleda Brown (first published in The Southern Review, 36 [2000])

Written by Alfred Lord Tennyson |

Tears Idle Tears

  Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,
Tears from the depth of some divine despair
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,
In looking on the happy Autumn-fields,
And thinking of the days that are no more.
Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail, That brings our friends up from the underworld, Sad as the last which reddens over one That sinks with all we love below the verge; So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.
Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns The earliest pipe of half-awakened birds To dying ears, when unto dying eyes The casement slowly grows a glimmering square; So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.
Dear as remembered kisses after death, And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned On lips that are for others; deep as love, Deep as first love, and wild with all regret; O Death in Life, the days that are no more!

More great poems below...

Written by Alexander Pope |

Ode on Solitude

How happy he, who free from care The rage of courts, and noise of towns; Contented breathes his native air, In his own grounds.
Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread, Whose flocks supply him with attire, Whose trees in summer yield him shade, In winter fire.
Blest! who can unconcern'dly find Hours, days, and years slide swift away, In health of body, peace of mind, Quiet by day, IV.
Sound sleep by night; study and ease Together mix'd; sweet recreation, And innocence, which most does please, With meditation.
Thus let me live, unheard, unknown; Thus unlamented let me die; Steal from the world, and not a stone Tell where I lie.

Written by John Donne |

The Dream

DEAR love for nothing less than thee 
Would I have broke this happy dream; 
It was a theme 
For reason much too strong for fantasy.
Therefore thou waked'st me wisely; yet 5 My dream thou brok'st not but continued'st it.
Thou art so true that thoughts of thee suffice To make dreams truths and fables histories; Enter these arms for since thou thought'st it best Not to dream all my dream let 's act the rest.
10 As lightning or a taper's light Thine eyes and not thy noise waked me; Yet I thought thee¡ª For thou lov'st truth¡ªan angel at first sight; But when I saw thou saw'st my heart 15 And knew'st my thoughts beyond an angel's art When thou knew'st what I dreamt when thou knew'st when Excess of joy would wake me and cam'st then I must confess it could not choose but be Profane to think thee anything but thee.
20 Coming and staying show'd thee thee But rising makes me doubt that now Thou art not thou.
That Love is weak where Fear 's as strong as he; 'Tis not all spirit pure and brave 25 If mixture it of Fear Shame Honour have.
Perchance as torches which must ready be Men light and put out so thou deal'st with me.
Thou cam'st to kindle go'st to come: then I Will dream that hope again but else would die.

Written by Thomas Hardy |

The Darkling Thrush

I leant upon a coppice gate
     When Frost was spectre-gray,
And Winter's dregs made desolate
     The weakening eye of day.
The tangled bine-stems scored the sky Like strings of broken lyres, And all mankind that haunted nigh Had sought their household fires.
The land's sharp features seemed to be The Century's corpse outleant, His crypt the cloudy canopy, The wind his death-lament.
The ancient pulse of germ and birth Was shrunken hard and dry, And every spirit upon earth Seemed fevourless as I.
At once a voice arose among The bleak twigs overhead In a full-hearted evensong Of joy illimited; An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small, In blast-beruffled plume, Had chosen thus to fling his soul Upon the growing gloom.
So little cause for carolings Of such ecstatic sound Was written on terrestrial things Afar or nigh around, That I could think there trembled through His happy good-night air Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew And I was unaware.

Written by John Keats |

Ode on a Grecian Urn

THOU still unravish'd bride of quietness  
Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time  
Sylvan historian who canst thus express 
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme: 
What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape 5 
Of deities or mortals or of both  
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady? 
What men or gods are these? What maidens loth? 
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape? 
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy? 10 

Heard melodies are sweet but those unheard 
Are sweeter; therefore ye soft pipes play on; 
Not to the sensual ear but more endear'd  
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone: 
Fair youth beneath the trees thou canst not leave 15 
Thy song nor ever can those trees be bare; 
Bold Lover never never canst thou kiss  
Though winning near the goal¡ªyet do not grieve; 
She cannot fade though thou hast not thy bliss  
For ever wilt thou love and she be fair! 20 

Ah happy happy boughs! that cannot shed 
Your leaves nor ever bid the Spring adieu; 
And happy melodist unweari¨¨d  
For ever piping songs for ever new; 
More happy love! more happy happy love! 25 
For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd  
For ever panting and for ever young; 
All breathing human passion far above  
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd  
A burning forehead and a parching tongue.
30 Who are these coming to the sacrifice? To what green altar O mysterious priest Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies And all her silken flanks with garlands drest? What little town by river or sea-shore 35 Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel Is emptied of its folk this pious morn? And little town thy streets for evermore Will silent be; and not a soul to tell Why thou art desolate can e'er return.
40 O Attic shape! fair attitude! with brede Of marble men and maidens overwrought With forest branches and the trodden weed; Thou silent form! dost tease us out of thought As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral! 45 When old age shall this generation waste Thou shalt remain in midst of other woe Than ours a friend to man to whom thou say'st 'Beauty is truth truth beauty ¡ªthat is all Ye know on earth and all ye need to know.
' 50

Written by Phillis Wheatley |

To S. M. a young African Painter on seeing his Works

To show the lab'ring bosom's deep intent,
And thought in living characters to paint,
When first thy pencil did those beauties give,
And breathing figures learnt from thee to live,
How did those prospects give my soul delight,
A new creation rushing on my sight?
Still, wond'rous youth! each noble path pursue,
On deathless glories fix thine ardent view:
Still may the painter's and the poet's fire
To aid thy pencil, and thy verse conspire!
And may the charms of each seraphic theme
Conduct thy footsteps to immortal fame!
High to the blissful wonders of the skies
Elate thy soul, and raise thy wishful eyes.
Thrice happy, when exalted to survey That splendid city, crown'd with endless day, Whose twice six gates on radiant hinges ring: Celestial Salem blooms in endless spring.
Calm and serene thy moments glide along, And may the muse inspire each future song! Still, with the sweets of contemplation bless'd, May peace with balmy wings your soul invest! But when these shades of time are chas'd away, And darkness ends in everlasting day, On what seraphic pinions shall we move, And view the landscapes in the realms above? There shall thy tongue in heav'nly murmurs flow, And there my muse with heav'nly transport glow: No more to tell of Damon's tender sighs, Or rising radiance of Aurora's eyes, For nobler themes demand a nobler strain, And purer language on th' ethereal plain.
Cease, gentle muse! the solemn gloom of night Now seals the fair creation from my sight.

Written by Raymond Carver |


 So early it's still almost dark out.
I'm near the window with coffee, and the usual early morning stuff that passes for thought.
When I see the boy and his friend walking up the road to deliver the newspaper.
They wear caps and sweaters, and one boy has a bag over his shoulder.
They are so happy they aren't saying anything, these boys.
I think if they could, they would take each other's arm.
It's early in the morning, and they are doing this thing together.
They come on, slowly.
The sky is taking on light, though the moon still hangs pale over the water.
Such beauty that for a minute death and ambition, even love, doesn't enter into this.
It comes on unexpectedly.
And goes beyond, really, any early morning talk about it.

Written by William Blake |


THE sun descending in the west  
The evening star does shine; 
The birds are silent in their nest.
And I must seek for mine.
The moon like a flower 5 In heaven's high bower With silent delight Sits and smiles on the night.
Farewell green fields and happy grove Where flocks have took delight: 10 Where lambs have nibbled silent move The feet of angels bright; Unseen they pour blessing And joy without ceasing On each bud and blossom 15 And each sleeping bosom.
They look in every thoughtless nest Where birds are cover'd warm; They visit caves of every beast To keep them all from harm: 20 If they see any weeping That should have been sleeping They pour sleep on their head And sit down by their bed.
When wolves and tigers howl for prey 25 They pitying stand and weep Seeking to drive their thirst away And keep them from the sheep.
But if they rush dreadful The angels most heedful 30 Receive each mild spirit New worlds to inherit.
And there the lion's ruddy eyes Shall flow with tears of gold: And pitying the tender cries 35 And walking round the fold: Saying 'Wrath by His meekness And by His health sickness Are driven away From our immortal day.
40 'And now beside thee bleating lamb I can lie down and sleep Or think on Him who bore thy name Graze after thee and weep.
For wash'd in life's river 45 My bright mane for ever Shall shine like the gold As I guard o'er the fold.

Written by Pablo Neruda |

A Dog Has Died

 My dog has died.
I buried him in the garden next to a rusted old machine.
Some day I'll join him right there, but now he's gone with his shaggy coat, his bad manners and his cold nose, and I, the materialist, who never believed in any promised heaven in the sky for any human being, I believe in a heaven I'll never enter.
Yes, I believe in a heaven for all dogdom where my dog waits for my arrival waving his fan-like tail in friendship.
Ai, I'll not speak of sadness here on earth, of having lost a companion who was never servile.
His friendship for me, like that of a porcupine withholding its authority, was the friendship of a star, aloof, with no more intimacy than was called for, with no exaggerations: he never climbed all over my clothes filling me full of his hair or his mange, he never rubbed up against my knee like other dogs obsessed with sex.
No, my dog used to gaze at me, paying me the attention I need, the attention required to make a vain person like me understand that, being a dog, he was wasting time, but, with those eyes so much purer than mine, he'd keep on gazing at me with a look that reserved for me alone all his sweet and shaggy life, always near me, never troubling me, and asking nothing.
Ai, how many times have I envied his tail as we walked together on the shores of the sea in the lonely winter of Isla Negra where the wintering birds filled the sky and my hairy dog was jumping about full of the voltage of the sea's movement: my wandering dog, sniffing away with his golden tail held high, face to face with the ocean's spray.
Joyful, joyful, joyful, as only dogs know how to be happy with only the autonomy of their shameless spirit.
There are no good-byes for my dog who has died, and we don't now and never did lie to each other.
So now he's gone and I buried him, and that's all there is to it.

Written by Emily Dickinson |

Going to him! Happy letter!

"Going to him! Happy letter! Tell him--
Tell him the page I didn't write;
Tell him I only said the syntax,
And left the verb and the pronoun out.
Tell him just how the fingers hurried Then how they waded, slow, slow, slow- And then you wished you had eyes in your pages, So you could see what moved them so.
"Tell him it wasn't a practised writer, You guessed, from the way the sentence toiled; You could hear the bodice tug, behind you, As if it held but the might of a child; You almost pitied it, you, it worked so.
Tell him--No, you may quibble there, For it would split his heart to know it, And then you and I were silenter.
"Tell him night finished before we finished And the old clock kept neighing 'day!' And you got sleepy and begged to be ended-- What could it hinder so, to say? Tell him just how she sealed you, cautious But if he ask where you are hid Until to-morrow,--happy letter! Gesture, coquette, and shake your head!"

Written by Elizabeth Barrett Browning |


ALL are not taken; there are left behind 
Living Belov¨¨ds tender looks to bring 
And make the daylight still a happy thing  
And tender voices to make soft the wind: 
But if it were not so¡ªif I could find 5 
No love in all this world for comforting  
Nor any path but hollowly did ring 
Where 'dust to dust' the love from life disjoin'd; 
And if before those sepulchres unmoving 
I stood alone (as some forsaken lamb 10 
Goes bleating up the moors in weary dearth) 
Crying 'Where are ye O my loved and loving?'¡ª 
I know a voice would sound 'Daughter I AM.
Can I suffice for Heaven and not for earth?'

Written by Friedrich von Schiller |


 Friend!--the Great Ruler, easily content,
Needs not the laws it has laborious been
The task of small professors to invent;
A single wheel impels the whole machine
Matter and spirit;--yea, that simple law,
Pervading nature, which our Newton saw.
This taught the spheres, slaves to one golden rein, Their radiant labyrinths to weave around Creation's mighty hearts: this made the chain, Which into interwoven systems bound All spirits streaming to the spiritual sun As brooks that ever into ocean run! Did not the same strong mainspring urge and guide Our hearts to meet in love's eternal bond? Linked to thine arm, O Raphael, by thy side Might I aspire to reach to souls beyond Our earth, and bid the bright ambition go To that perfection which the angels know! Happy, O happy--I have found thee--I Have out of millions found thee, and embraced; Thou, out of millions, mine!--Let earth and sky Return to darkness, and the antique waste-- To chaos shocked, let warring atoms be, Still shall each heart unto the other flee! Do I not find within thy radiant eyes Fairer reflections of all joys most fair? In thee I marvel at myself--the dyes Of lovely earth seem lovelier painted there, And in the bright looks of the friend is given A heavenlier mirror even of the heaven! Sadness casts off its load, and gayly goes From the intolerant storm to rest awhile, In love's true heart, sure haven of repose; Does not pain's veriest transports learn to smile From that bright eloquence affection gave To friendly looks?--there, finds not pain a grave? In all creation did I stand alone, Still to the rocks my dreams a soul should find, Mine arms should wreathe themselves around the stone, My griefs should feel a listener in the wind; My joy--its echo in the caves should be! Fool, if ye will--Fool, for sweet sympathy! We are dead groups of matter when we hate; But when we love we are as gods!--Unto The gentle fetters yearning, through each state And shade of being multiform, and through All countless spirits (save of all the sire)-- Moves, breathes, and blends, the one divine desire.
Lo! arm in arm, through every upward grade, From the rude mongrel to the starry Greek, Who the fine link between the mortal made, And heaven's last seraph--everywhere we seek Union and bond--till in one sea sublime Of love be merged all measure and all time! Friendless ruled God His solitary sky; He felt the want, and therefore souls were made, The blessed mirrors of his bliss!--His eye No equal in His loftiest works surveyed; And from the source whence souls are quickened, He Called His companion forth--ETERNITY!

Written by William Blake |

Reeds of Innocence

PIPING down the valleys wild  
Piping songs of pleasant glee  
On a cloud I saw a child  
And he laughing said to me: 

'Pipe a song about a Lamb!' 5 
So I piped with merry cheer.
'Piper pipe that song again;' So I piped: he wept to hear.
'Drop thy pipe thy happy pipe; Sing thy songs of happy cheer!' 10 So I sung the same again While he wept with joy to hear.
'Piper sit thee down and write In a book that all may read.
' So he vanish'd from my sight; 15 And I pluck'd a hollow reed And I made a rural pen And I stain'd the water clear And I wrote my happy songs Every child may joy to hear.