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Famous Short Business Poems

Famous Short Business Poems. Short Business Poetry by Famous Poets. A collection of the all-time best Business short poems

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Business | Short Famous Poems and Poets

by Omar Khayyam

Long time in wine and rose I took delight,

Long time in wine and rose I took delight,
But then my business never went aright;
Since wine could not accomplish my desire,
I have abandoned and forsworn it quite.

by Omar Khayyam

Since all man's business in this world of woe

Since all man's business in this world of woe
Is sorrow's pangs to feel, and grief to know,
Happy are they that never come at all,
And they that, having come, the soonest go!

by Hilaire Belloc

Lord Finchley

 Lord Finchley tried to mend the Electric Light
It struck him dead: And serve him right! It is the business of the wealthy man To give employment to the artisan.

by Omar Khayyam

Days changed to nights, ere you were born, or I,

Days changed to nights, ere you were born, or I,
And on its business ever rolled the sky;
See you tread gently on this dust—perchance
'Twas once the apple of some beauty's eye.

by Walt Whitman

Hast Never Come to Thee an Hour

 HAST never come to thee an hour, 
A sudden gleam divine, precipitating, bursting all these bubbles, fashions, wealth? 
These eager business aims—books, politics, art, amours, 
To utter nothingness?

by Edgar Lee Masters

Ace Shaw

 I never saw any difference
Between playing cards for money
And selling real estate,
Practicing law, banking, or anything else.
For everything is chance.
Nevertheless Seest thou a man diligent in business? He shall stand before Kings!

by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe


 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.

by Wang Wei

Fields and Gardens by the River Qi

 I dwell apart by the River Qi,
Where the Eastern wilds stretch far without hills.
The sun darkens beyond the mulberry trees; The river glistens through the villages.
Shepherd boys depart, gazing back to their hamlets; Hunting dogs return following their men.
When a man's at peace, what business does he have? I shut fast my rustic door throughout the day.

by Rg Gregory


 fog owns the town

in its palm
lawyers nibble each other's fingers
the churches take their cut

at the fat lunch
the men of business
carve themselves prayers and praises

the fog comes to my window
and lisping in says

 i've drained the town of you
 and you of the town
 come outside
 and let me smother you
 to the border

no person calls
and only the headless
watch and watch in the street

by Emily Dickinson

A little bread -- a crust -- a crumb

 A little bread -- a crust -- a crumb --
A little trust -- a demijohn --
Can keep the soul alive --
Not portly, mind! but breathing -- warm --
Conscious -- as old Napoleon,
The night before the Crown!

A modest lot -- A fame petite --
A brief Campaign of sting and sweet
Is plenty! Is enough!
A Sailor's business is the shore!
A Soldier's -- balls! Who asketh more,
Must seek the neighboring life!

by Rg Gregory


 fancy shooting a man dead for an old label

but think
if there weren't any old labels
nobody would ever be shot dead

and all those poor people
whose livelihood depends on making guns
would have to be left to starve

make up your mind
who would you sooner see living
 men with bullets in them
 or thousands of ordinary people
 going about their decent business

there's a lot to thank old labels for

by Robert Burns

248. Pegasus at Wanlockhead

 WITH Pegasus upon a day,
 Apollo, weary flying,
Through frosty hills the journey lay,
 On foot the way was plying.
Poor slipshod giddy Pegasus Was but a sorry walker; To Vulcan then Apollo goes, To get a frosty caulker.
Obliging Vulcan fell to work, Threw by his coat and bonnet, And did Sol’s business in a crack; Sol paid him with a sonnet.
Ye Vulcan’s sons of Wanlockhead, Pity my sad disaster; My Pegasus is poorly shod, I’ll pay you like my master.

by Carl Sandburg

To Certain Journeymen

 UNDERTAKERS, hearse drivers, grave diggers,
I speak to you as one not afraid of your business.
You handle dust going to a long country, You know the secret behind your job is the same whether you lower the coffin with modern, automatic machinery, well-oiled and noiseless, or whether the body is laid in by naked hands and then covered by the shovels.
Your day's work is done with laughter many days of the year, And you earn a living by those who say good-by today in thin whispers.