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Best Famous Mark Twain Poems

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

Search for the best famous Mark Twain poems, articles about Mark Twain poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Mark Twain poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

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Written by Mark Twain |

To Jennie

 Good-bye! a kind good-bye,
I bid you now, my friend,
And though 'tis sad to speak the word,
To destiny I bend

And though it be decreed by Fate
That we ne'er meet again,
Your image, graven on my heart,
Forever shall remain.
Aye, in my heart thoult have a place, Among the friends held dear,- Nor shall the hand of Time efface The memories written there.
Goodbye, S.

Written by Mark Twain |

A Sweltering Day In Australia

 The Bombola faints in the hot Bowral tree, 
Where fierce Mullengudgery's smothering fires 
Far from the breezes of Coolgardie 
Burn ghastly and blue as the day expires; 

And Murriwillumba complaineth in song 
For the garlanded bowers of Woolloomooloo, 
And the Ballarat Fly and the lone Wollongong 
They dream of the gardens of Jamberoo; 

The wallabi sighs for the Murrubidgee, 
For the velvety sod of the Munno Parah, 
Where the waters of healing from Muloowurtie 
Flow dim in the gloaming by Yaranyackah; 

The Koppio sorrows for lost Wolloway, 
And sigheth in secret for Murrurundi, 
The Whangeroo wombat lamenteth the day 
That made him an exile from Jerrilderie; 

The Teawamute Tumut from Wirrega's glade, 
The Nangkita swallow, the Wallaroo swan, 
They long for the peace of the Timaru shade 
And thy balmy soft airs, O sweet Mittagong! 

The Kooringa buffalo pants in the sun, 
The Kondoparinga lies gaping for breath, 
The Kongorong Camaum to the shadow has won, 
But the Goomeroo sinks in the slumber of death; 

In the weltering hell of the Moorooroo plain 
The Yatala Wangary withers and dies, 
And the Worrow Wanilla, demented with pain, 
To the Woolgoolga woodlands despairingly flies; 

Sweet Nangwarry's desolate, Coonamble wails, 
And Tungkillo Kuito in sables is drest, 
For the Whangerei winds fall asleep in the sails 
And the Booleroo life-breeze is dead in the west.
Mypongo, Kapunda, O slumber no more Yankalilla, Parawirra, be warned There's death in the air! Killanoola, wherefore Shall the prayer of Penola be scorned? Cootamundra, and Takee, and Wakatipu, Toowoomba, Kaikoura are lost From Onkaparinga to far Oamaru All burn in this hell's holocaust! Paramatta and Binnum are gone to their rest In the vale of Tapanni Taroom, Kawakawa, Deniliquin - all that was best In the earth are but graves and a tomb! Narrandera mourns, Cameron answers not When the roll of the scathless we cry Tongariro, Goondiwindi, Woolundunga, the spot Is mute and forlorn where ye lie.

Written by Mark Twain |

Those Annual Bills

 These annual bills! these annual bills!
How many a song their discord trills
Of "truck" consumed, enjoyed, forgot,
Since I was skinned by last year's lot!

Those joyous beans are passed away;
Those onions blithe, O where are they?
Once loved, lost, mourned--now vexing ILLS
Your shades troop back in annual bills!

And so 'twill be when I'm aground
These yearly duns will still go round,
While other bards, with frantic quills,
Shall damn and damn these annual bills!

More great poems below...

Written by Mark Twain |

Ode to Stephen Bowling Dots Decd

 And did young Stephen sicken,
And did young Stephen die?
And did the sad hearts thicken,
And did the mourners cry?

No; such was not the fate of
Young Stephen Dowling Bots;
Though sad hearts round him thickened,
'Twas not from sickness' shots.
No whooping-cough did rack his frame, Nor measles drear, with spots; Not these impaired the sacred name Of Stephen Dowling Bots.
Despised love struck not with woe That head of curly knots, Nor stomach troubles laid him low, Young Stephen Dowling Bots.
O no.
Then list with tearful eye, Whilst I his fate do tell.
His soul did from this cold world fly, By falling down a well.
They got him out and emptied him; Alas it was too late; His spirit was gone for to sport aloft In the realms of the good and great.

Written by Henry Van Dyke |

A Health to Mark Twain

 At his Birthday Feast

With memories old and wishes new
We crown our cups again,
And here's to you, and here's to you
With love that ne'er shall wane!
And may you keep, at sixty-seven,
The joy of earth, the hope of heaven,
And fame well-earned, and friendship true,
And peace that comforts every pain,
And faith that fights the battle through,
And all your heart's unbounded wealth,
And all your wit, and all your health,--
Yes, here's a hearty health to you,
And here's to you, and here's to you,
Long life to you, Mark Twain.

Written by Vachel Lindsay |

Mark Twain and Joan of Arc

 When Yankee soldiers reach the barricade
Then Joan of Arc gives each the accolade.
For she is there in armor clad, today, All the young poets of the wide world say.
Which of our freemen did she greet the first, Seeing him come against the fires accurst? Mark Twain, our Chief, with neither smile nor jest, Leading to war our youngest and our best.
The Yankee to King Arthur's court returns.
The sacred flag of Joan above him burns.
For she has called his soul from out the tomb.
And where she stands, there he will stand till doom.
But I, I can but mourn, and mourn again At bloodshed caused by angels, saints, and men.

Written by Ellis Parker Butler |

Jabed Meeker Humorist

 Twain? Oh, yes, I’ve heard Mark Twain
Heard him down to Pleasant Plain;
Funny? Yes, I guess so.
Folks Seemed to laugh loud at his jokes— Laughed to beat the band; but I Couldn’t rightly make out why.
Guess his humor ain’t refined.
Quite enough to suit my mind.
Mark’s all right—right clever speaker— But he can’t touch Jabed Meeker; And one thing that makes it queer Is that Jabed lives right here.
You ain’t met him? Son, you’ve missed The most funniest humorist I’ve met with in my born days— Funniest talker, anyways, When it comes to repartee— That’s the humor catches me! Like a specimen? Huh! Well, Take, for instance, his umbrell; Wouldn’t think, until he spoke, He could turn that to a joke; Mark Twain couldn’t, bet you that! That’s where Meeker beats Mark flat! Just imagine three or four Fellers in Jim Beemer’s store— ‘Long comes Meeker, and some feller Says, “See Meeker’s bum umbreller.
” Quick as lightning Meeker ‘d yell: “Don’t you guy my bumberell! Where’s the feller dares to hoot At this sping-spang bumbershoot? Show me some one dares to call Bad names at my bumbersoll!” Right like that! Right off the reel! Say, you’d ought to heard us squeal! Then, before we’d got our breath, Meeker, solemn sad as death, Says: “Stand up there ‘gainst that wall, Para-bumber-shooter-soll!” Twain? All right! But just give me Some one slick at repartee!