Submit Your Poems
Get Your Premium Membership

Best Famous Music Poems

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

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

See also: Best Member Poems

Go Back

by Anna Akhmatova | |

I Dont Like Flowers...

I don't like flowers - they do remind me often
Of funerals, of weddings and of balls;
Their presence on tables for a dinner calls.
But sub-eternal roses' ever simple charm Which was my solace when I was a child, Has stayed - my heritage - a set of years behind, Like Mozart's ever-living music's hum.


by Phillis Wheatley | |

An Hymn to the Evening

Soon as the sun forsook the eastern main
The pealing thunder shook the heav'nly plain;
Majestic grandeur!  From the zephyr's wing,
Exhales the incense of the blooming spring.
Soft purl the streams, the birds renew their notes, And through the air their mingled music floats.
Through all the heav'ns what beauteous dies are spread! But the west glories in the deepest red: So may our breasts with ev'ry virtue glow, The living temples of our God below! Fill'd with the praise of him who gives the light, And draws the sable curtains of the night, Let placid slumbers sooth each weary mind, At morn to wake more heav'nly, more refin'd; So shall the labours of the day begin More pure, more guarded from the snares of sin.
Night's leaden sceptre seals my drowsy eyes, Then cease, my song, till fair Aurora rise.


by George (Lord) Byron | |

There be none of Beautys daughters

THERE be none of Beauty's daughters 
With a magic like thee; 
And like music on the waters 
Is thy sweet voice to me: 
When as if its sound were causing 5 
The charmed ocean's pausing  
The waves lie still and gleaming  
And the lull'd winds seem dreaming: 

And the midnight moon is weaving 
Her bright chain o'er the deep 10 
Whose breast is gently heaving 
As an infant's asleep: 
So the spirit bows before thee 
To listen and adore thee; 
With a full but soft emotion 15 
Like the swell of summer's ocean.


by Emily Dickinson | |

He fumbles at your spirit

He fumbles at your spirit
   As players at the keys
Before they drop full music on;
   He stuns you by degrees,

Prepares your brittle substance
   For the ethereal blow,
By fainter hammers, further heard,
   Then nearer, then so slow

Your breath has time to straighten,
   Your brain to bubble cool, --
Deals one imperial thunderbolt
   That scalps your naked soul.


by Wang Wei | |

TO QIWU QIAN BOUND HOME AFTER FAILING IN AN EXAMINATION

In a happy reign there should be no hermits; 
The wise and able should consult together.
.
.
.
So you, a man of the eastern mountains, Gave up your life of picking herbs And came all the way to the Gate of Gold -- But you found your devotion unavailing.
.
.
.
To spend the Day of No Fire on one of the southern rivers, You have mended your spring clothes here in these northern cities.
I pour you the farewell wine as you set out from the capital -- Soon I shall be left behind here by my bosomfriend.
In your sail-boat of sweet cinnamon-wood You will float again toward your own thatch door, Led along by distant trees To a sunset shining on a far-away town.
.
.
.
What though your purpose happened to fail, Doubt not that some of us can hear high music.


by Siegfried Sassoon | |

Ancestors

BEHOLD these jewelled merchant Ancestors 
Foregathered in some chancellery of death;
Calm provident discreet they stroke their beards
And move their faces slowly in the gloom 
And barter monstrous wealth with speech subdued 5
Lustreless eyes and acquiescent lids.
And oft in pauses of their conference They listen to the measured breath of night¡¯s Hushed sweep of wind aloft the swaying trees In dimly gesturing gardens; then a voice 10 Climbs with clear mortal song half-sad for heaven.
A silent-footed message flits and brings The ghostly Sultan from his glimmering halls; A shadow at the window turbaned vast He leans; and pondering the sweet influence 15 That steals around him in remembered flowers Hears the frail music wind along the slopes Put forth and fade across the whispering sea.


by Siegfried Sassoon | |

Goblin Revel

IN gold and grey with fleering looks of sin 
I watch them come; by two by three by four 
Advancing slow with loutings they begin
Their woven measure widening from the door;
While music-men behind are straddling in 5
With flutes to brisk their feet across the floor ¡ª
And jangled dulcimers and fiddles thin
That taunt the twirling antic through once more.
They pause and hushed to whispers steal away.
With cunning glances; silent go their shoon 10 On creakless stairs; but far away the dogs Bark at some lonely farm: and haply they Have clambered back into the dusky moon That sinks beyond the marshes loud with frogs.


by Philip Larkin | |

Home Is So Sad

 Home is so sad.
It stays as it was left, Shaped in the comfort of the last to go As if to win them back.
Instead, bereft Of anyone to please, it withers so, Having no heart to put aside the theft.
And turn again to what it started as, A joyous shot at how things ought to be, Long fallen wide.
You can see how it was: Look at the pictures and the cutlery.
The music in the piano stool.
That vase.


by Conrad Aiken | |

The House Of Dust: Part 03: 13: The half-shut doors through which we heard that music

 The half-shut doors through which we heard that music
Are softly closed.
Horns mutter down to silence.
The stars whirl out, the night grows deep.
Darkness settles upon us.
A vague refrain Drowsily teases at the drowsy brain.
In numberless rooms we stretch ourselves and sleep.
Where have we been? What savage chaos of music Whirls in our dreams?—We suddenly rise in darkness, Open our eyes, cry out, and sleep once more.
We dream we are numberless sea-waves languidly foaming A warm white moonlit shore; Or clouds blown windily over a sky at midnight, Or chords of music scattered in hurrying darkness, Or a singing sound of rain .
.
.
We open our eyes and stare at the coiling darkness, And enter our dreams again.


by Conrad Aiken | |

Music I Heard

 Music I heard with you was more than music, 
And bread I broke with you was more than bread; 
Now that I am without you, all is desolate; 
All that was once so beautiful is dead.
Your hands once touched this table and this silver, And I have seen your fingers hold this glass.
These things do not remember you, beloved, And yet your touch upon them will not pass.
For it was in my heart that you moved among them, And blessed them with your hands and with your eyes; And in my heart they will remember always, —They knew you once, O beautiful and wise.


by Wang Wei | |

To Qiwu Qian Bound Home After Failing an Examination.

 In a happy reign there should be no hermits; 
The wise and able should consult together.
.
.
.
So you, a man of the eastern mountains, Gave up your life of picking herbs And came all the way to the Gate of Gold -- But you found your devotion unavailing.
.
.
.
To spend the Day of No Fire on one of the southern rivers, You have mended your spring clothes here in these northern cities.
I pour you the farewell wine as you set out from the capital -- Soon I shall be left behind here by my bosomfriend.
In your sail-boat of sweet cinnamon-wood You will float again toward your own thatch door, Led along by distant trees To a sunset shining on a far-away town.
.
.
.
What though your purpose happened to fail, Doubt not that some of us can hear high music.


by Richard Wilbur | |

In the Smoking Car

 The eyelids meet.
He'll catch a little nap.
The grizzled, crew-cut head drops to his chest.
It shakes above the briefcase on his lap.
Close voices breathe, "Poor sweet, he did his best.
" "Poor sweet, poor sweet," the bird-hushed glades repeat, Through which in quiet pomp his litter goes, Carried by native girls with naked feet.
A sighing stream concurs in his repose.
Could he but think, he might recall to mind The righteous mutiny or sudden gale That beached him here; the dear ones left behind .
.
.
So near the ending, he forgets the tale.
Were he to lift his eyelids now, he might Behold his maiden porters, brown and bare.
But even here he has no appetite.
It is enough to know that they are there.
Enough that now a honeyed music swells, The gentle, mossed declivities begin, And the whole air is full of flower-smells.
Failure, the longed-for valley, takes him in.


by Gerard Manley Hopkins | |

The Habit Of Perfection

 Elected Silence, sing to me
And beat upon my whorlèd ear,
Pipe me to pastures still and be
The music that I care to hear.
Shape nothing, lips; be lovely-dumb: It is the shut, the curfew sent From there where all surrenders come Which only makes you eloquent.
Be shellèd, eyes, with double dark And find the uncreated light: This ruck and reel which you remark Coils, keeps, and teases simple sight.
Palate, the hutch of tasty lust, Desire not to be rinsed with wine: The can must be so sweet, the crust So fresh that come in fasts divine! Nostrils, your careless breath that spend Upon the stir and keep of pride, What relish shall the censers send Along the sanctuary side! O feel-of-primrose hands, O feet That want the yield of plushy sward, But you shall walk the golden street And you unhouse and house the Lord.
And, Poverty, be thou the bride And now the marriage feast begun, And lily-coloured clothes provide Your spouse not laboured-at nor spun.


by Gerard Manley Hopkins | |

The Sea And The Skylark

 On ear and ear two noises too old to end
 Trench—right, the tide that ramps against the shore;
 With a flood or a fall, low lull-off or all roar,
Frequenting there while moon shall wear and wend.
Left hand, off land, I hear the lark ascend, His rash-fresh re-winded new-skeinèd score In crisps of curl off wild winch whirl, and pour And pelt music, till none 's to spill nor spend.
How these two shame this shallow and frail town! How ring right out our sordid turbid time, Being pure! We, life's pride and cared-for crown, Have lost that cheer and charm of earth's past prime: Our make and making break, are breaking, down To man's last dust, drain fast towards man's first slime.


by Gerard Manley Hopkins | |

Let me be to Thee as the circling bird

 Let me be to Thee as the circling bird, 
Or bat with tender and air-crisping wings
That shapes in half-light his departing rings, 
From both of whom a changeless note is heard.
I have found my music in a common word, Trying each pleasurable throat that sings And every praised sequence of sweet strings, And know infallibly which I preferred.
The authentic cadence was discovered late Which ends those only strains that I approve, And other science all gone out of date And minor sweetness scarce made mention of: I have found the dominant of my range and state - Love, O my God, to call Thee Love and Love.


by Constantine P Cavafy | |

Voices

 Ideal and beloved voices
of those who are dead, or of those
who are lost to us like the dead.
Sometimes they speak to us in our dreams; sometimes in thought the mind hears them.
And with their sound for a moment return other sounds from the first poetry of our life -- like distant music that dies off in the night.


by Constantine P Cavafy | |

The God Abandons Antony

 When suddenly, at midnight, you hear
an invisible procession going by
with exquisite music, voices,
don't mourn your luck that's failing now,
work gone wrong, your plans
all proving deceptive -- don't mourn them uselessly.
As one long prepared, and graced with courage, say goodbye to her, the Alexandria that is leaving.
Above all, don't fool yourself, don't say it was a dream, your ears deceived you: don't degrade yourself with empty hopes like these.
As one long prepared, and graced with courage, as is right for you who were given this kind of city, go firmly to the window And listen with deep emotion, but not with whining, the pleas of a coward; listen -- your final delectation -- to the voices, to the exquisite music of that strange procession, and say goodbye to her, to the Alexandria you are losing.


by William Henry Davies | |

Charms

 She walks as lightly as the fly 
Skates on the water in July.
To hear her moving petticoat For me is music's highest note.
Stones are not heard, when her feet pass, No more than tumps of moss or grass.
When she sits still, she's like the flower To be a butterfly next hour.
The brook laughs not more sweet, when he Trips over pebbles suddenly.
My Love, like him, can whisper low -- When he comes where green cresses grow.
She rises like the lark, that hour He goes halfway to meet a shower.
A fresher drink is in her looks Than Nature gives me, or old books.
When I in my Love's shadow sit, I do not miss the sun one bit.
When she is near, my arms can hold All that's worth having in this world.
And when I know not where she is, Nothing can come but comes amiss.


by William Henry Davies | |

The Moon

 Thy beauty haunts me heart and soul, 
Oh, thou fair Moon, so close and bright; 
Thy beauty makes me like the child 
That cries aloud to own thy light: 
The little child that lifts each arm 
To press thee to her bosom warm.
Though there are birds that sing this night With thy white beams across their throats, Let my deep silence speak for me More than for them their sweetest notes: Who worships thee till music fails, Is greater than thy nightingales.


by Oliver Wendell Holmes | |

The Voiceless

 WE count the broken lyres that rest
Where the sweet wailing singers slumber,
But o'er their silent sister's breast
The wild-flowers who will stoop to number?
A few can touch the magic string,
And noisy Fame is proud to win them:--
Alas for those that never sing,
But die with all their music in them!

Nay, grieve not for the dead alone
Whose song has told their hearts' sad story,--
Weep for the voiceless, who have known
The cross without the crown of glory!
Not where Leucadian breezes sweep
O'er Sappho's memory-haunted billow,
But where the glistening night-dews weep
On nameless sorrow's churchyard pillow.
O hearts that break and give no sign Save whitening lip and fading tresses, Till Death pours out his longed-for wine Slow-dropped from Misery's crushing presses,-- If singing breath or echoing chord To every hidden pang were given, What endless melodies were poured, As sad as earth, as sweet as heaven!