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Famous Short Poets Poems. Short Poets Poetry by Famous Poets

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

See also: Best Famous Short Poems | Short Member Poems | Best Short Member Poems | Top 100 Famous Short Poems

 
by William Butler Yeats

To A Poet Who Would Have Me Praise Certain Bad Poets Imitators Of His And Mine

 You say, as I have often given tongue
In praise of what another's said or sung,
'Twere politic to do the like by these;
But was there ever dog that praised his fleas?


by Emily Dickinson

The Poets light but Lamps --

 The Poets light but Lamps --
Themselves -- go out --
The Wicks they stimulate --
If vital Light

Inhere as do the Suns --
Each Age a Lens
Disseminating their
Circumference --


by Robert Herrick

UPON THE DETRACTER

 I ask'd thee oft what poets thou hast read,
And lik'st the best? Still thou repli'st, The dead.
--I shall, ere long, with green turfs cover'd be;
Then sure thou'lt like, or thou wilt envy, me.


by Lucy Maud Montgomery

The Poets Thought

 It came to him in rainbow dreams, 
Blent with the wisdom of the sages, 
Of spirit and of passion born; 
In words as lucent as the morn 
He prisoned it, and now it gleams 
A jewel shining through the ages.


by Vachel Lindsay

The Encyclopaedia

 "If I could set the moon upon
This table," said my friend, 
"Among the standard poets 
And brouchures without end, 
And noble prints of old Japan,
How empty they would seem,
By that encyclopaedia
Of whim and glittering dream."


by Robert Herrick

UPON A MAID

 Here she lies, in bed of spice,
Fair as Eve in paradise;
For her beauty, it was such,
Poets could not praise too much.
Virgins come, and in a ring
Her supremest REQUIEM sing;
Then depart, but see ye tread
Lightly, lightly o'er the dead.


by Li Po

To Tu Fu from Shantung

 You ask how I spend my time--
I nestle against a treetrunk
and listen to autumn winds
in the pines all night and day.

Shantung wine can't get me drunk.
The local poets bore me.
My thoughts remain with you,
like the Wen River, endlessly flowing.


by William Butler Yeats

He Tells Of The Perfect Beauty

 O cloud-pale eyelids, dream-dimmed eyes,
The poets labouring all their days
To build a perfect beauty in rhyme
Are overthrown by a woman's gaze
And by the unlabouring brood of the skies:
And therefore my heart will bow, when dew
Is dropping sleep, until God burn time,
Before the unlabouring stars and you.


by Emily Dickinson

The Martyr Poets -- did not tell --

 The Martyr Poets -- did not tell --
But wrought their Pang in syllable --
That when their mortal name be numb --
Their mortal fate -- encourage Some --

The Martyr Painters -- never spoke --
Bequeathing -- rather -- to their Work --
That when their conscious fingers cease --
Some seek in Art -- the Art of Peace --


by James Joyce

Though I Thy Mithridates Were

 Though I thy Mithridates were, 
Framed to defy the poison-dart, 
Yet must thou fold me unaware 
To know the rapture of thy heart, 
And I but render and confess 
The malice of thy tenderness. 

For elegant and antique phrase, 
Dearest, my lips wax all too wise; 
Nor have I known a love whose praise 
Our piping poets solemnize, 
Neither a love where may not be 
Ever so little falsity.


by Robert Herrick

ORPHEUS

 Orpheus he went, as poets tell,
To fetch Eurydice from hell;
And had her, but it was upon
This short, but strict condition;
Backward he should not look, while he
Led her through hell's obscurity.
But ah! it happen'd, as he made
His passage through that dreadful shade,
Revolve he did his loving eye,
For gentle fear or jealousy;
And looking back, that look did sever
Him and Eurydice for ever.


by Dorothy Parker

Bohemia

 Authors and actors and artists and such
Never know nothing, and never know much.
Sculptors and singers and those of their kidney
Tell their affairs from Seattle to Sydney.
Playwrights and poets and such horses' necks
Start off from anywhere, end up at sex.
Diarists, critics, and similar roe
Never say nothing, and never say no.
People Who Do Things exceed my endurance;
God, for a man that solicits insurance!


by Walter Savage Landor

Lately our poets

 Lately our poets loiter'd in green lanes,
Content to catch the ballads of the plains;
I fancied I had strength enough to climb
A loftier station at no distant time,
And might securely from intrusion doze
Upon the flowers thro' which Ilissus flows.
In those pale olive grounds all voices cease,
And from afar dust fills the paths of Greece.
My sluber broken and my doublet torn,
I find the laurel also bears a thorn.


by Constantine P Cavafy

He Came To Read

 He came to read. Two or three books
are open; historians and poets.
But he only read for ten minutes,
and gave them up. He is dozing
on the sofa. He is fully devoted to books --
but he is twenty-three years old, and he's very handsome;
and this afternoon love passed
through his ideal flesh, his lips.
Through his flesh which is full of beauty
the heat of love passed;
without any silly shame for the form of the enjoyment.....


by Andrei Voznesensky

ABUSES AND AWARDS

 A poet can't be in disfavour, 
 he needs no awards, no fame. 
 A star has no setting whatever, 
 no black nor a golden frame. 

 A star can't be killed with a stone, or 
 award, or that kind of stuff. 
 He'll bear the blow of a fawner 
 lamenting he's not big enough. 

 What matters is music and fervour, 
 not fame, nor abuse, anyway. 
 World powers are out of favour 
 when poets turn them away. 

© Copyright Alec Vagapov's translation


by Percy Bysshe Shelley

The Poets Dream

ON a Poet's lips I slept  
Dreaming like a love-adept 
In the sound his breathing kept; 
Nor seeks nor finds he mortal blisses  
But feeds on the aerial kisses 5 
Of shapes that haunt Thought's wildernesses. 
He will watch from dawn to gloom 
The lake-reflected sun illume 
The blue bees in the ivy-bloom  
Nor heed nor see what things they be¡ª 10 
But from these create he can 
Forms more real than living man  
Nurslings of Immortality! 


by Sarojini Naidu

The Poets Love-Song

 In noon-tide hours, O Love, secure and strong, 
I need thee not; mad dreams are mine to bind
The world to my desire, and hold the wind
A voiceless captive to my conquering song.
I need thee not, I am content with these:
Keep silence in thy soul, beyond the seas!

But in the desolate hour of midnight, when
An ectasy of starry silence sleeps 
And my soul hungers for thy voice, O then,
Love, like the magic of wild melodies,
Let thy soul answer mine across the seas.


by Emily Dickinson

Besides the Autumn poets sing

 Besides the Autumn poets sing
A few prosaic days
A little this side of the snow
And that side of the Haze --

A few incisive Mornings --
A few Ascetic Eves --
Gone -- Mr. Bryant's "Golden Rod" --
And Mr. Thomson's "sheaves."

Still, is the bustle in the Brook --
Sealed are the spicy valves --
Mesmeric fingers softly touch
The Eyes of many Elves --

Perhaps a squirrel may remain --
My sentiments to share --
Grant me, Oh Lord, a sunny mind --
Thy windy will to bear!


by Joyce Kilmer

The Singing Girl

 (For the Rev. Edward F. Garesche, S. J.)

There was a little maiden
In blue and silver drest,
She sang to God in Heaven
And God within her breast.
It flooded me with pleasure,
It pierced me like a sword,
When this young maiden sang: "My soul
Doth magnify the Lord."
The stars sing all together
And hear the angels sing,
But they said they had never heard
So beautiful a thing.
Saint Mary and Saint Joseph,
And Saint Elizabeth,
Pray for us poets now
And at the hour of death.


by Robert William Service

What Kisses Had John Keats?

 I scanned two lines with some surmise
As over Keats I chanced to pore:
'And there I shut her wild, wild eyes
 With kisses four.'

Says I: 'Why was it only four,
Not five or six or seven?
I think I would have made it more,--
 Even eleven.

'Gee! If she'd lured a guy like me
Into her gelid grot
I'd make that Belle Dame sans Merci
 Sure kiss a lot.

'Them poets have their little tricks;
I think John counted kisses for,
Not two or three or five or six
 To rhyme with "sore."'


by Rabindranath Tagore

The Gardener LIX: O Woman

 O woman, you are not merely the
handiwork of God, but also of men;
these are ever endowing you with
beauty from their hearts.
Poets are weaving for you a web
with threads of golden imagery;
painters are giving your form ever
new immortality.
The sea gives its pearls, the mines
their gold, the summer gardens their
flowers to deck you, to cover you, to
make you more precious.
The desire of men's hearts has shed
its glory over your youth.
You are one half woman and one
half dream.


by Carl Sandburg

White Hands

 FOR the second time in a year this lady with the white hands is brought to the west room second floor of a famous sanatorium.
Her husband is a cornice manufacturer in an Iowa town and the lady has often read papers on Victorian poets before the local literary club.
Yesterday she washed her hands forty seven times during her waking hours and in her sleep moaned restlessly attempting to clean imaginary soiled spots off her hands.
Now the head physician touches his chin with a crooked forefinger.