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Best Famous Short Poems

The Best Famous Short Poems. Read the all-time best and most popular famous short poems by famous poets.

See also: Short Member Poems | Best Short Member Poems

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by Emily Dickinson | |

Im nobody! Who are you?

I'm nobody! Who are you?
Are you nobody, too?
Then there's a pair of us -- don't tell!
They'd advertise -- you know!

How dreary to be somebody!
How public like a frog
To tell one's name the livelong day
To an admiring bog!


by Ben Jonson | |

The Hourglass

Consider this small dust here running in the glass,
By atoms moved;
Could you believe that this the body was 
Of one that loved?
And in his mistress' flame, playing like a fly,
Turned to cinders by her eye:
Yes; and in death, as life, unblessed,
To have it expressed,
Even ashes of lovers find no rest.


by | |

The Iliad

http://www.gutenberg.org/files/6130/6130-h/6130-h.html


by Maya Angelou | |

Rememberance

Your hands easy
weight, teasing the bees
hived in my hair, your smile at the
slope of my cheek.
On the occasion, you press above me, glowing, spouting readiness, mystery rapes my reason When you have withdrawn your self and the magic, when only the smell of your love lingers between my breasts, then, only then, can I greedily consume your presence.


by Maya Angelou | |

When You Come

When you come to me, unbidden,
Beckoning me
To long-ago rooms,
Where memories lie.
Offering me, as to a child, an attic, Gatherings of days too few.
Baubles of stolen kisses.
Trinkets of borrowed loves.
Trunks of secret words, I cry.


by Maya Angelou | |

The Lesson

I keep on dying again.
Veins collapse, opening like the Small fists of sleeping Children.
Memory of old tombs, Rotting flesh and worms do Not convince me against The challenge.
The years And cold defeat live deep in Lines along my face.
They dull my eyes, yet I keep on dying, Because I love to live.


by Maya Angelou | |

Passing Time

Your skin like dawn
Mine like musk

One paints the beginning
of a certain end.
The other, the end of a sure beginning.


by Maya Angelou | |

A Conceit

Give me your hand

Make room for me
to lead and follow
you
beyond this rage of poetry.
Let others have the privacy of touching words and love of loss of love.
For me Give me your hand.


by Sarah Fuller Flower Adams | |

Love

O Love! thou makest all things even 
In earth or heaven; 
Finding thy way through prison-bars 
Up to the stars; 
Or, true to the Almighty plan, 
That out of dust created man, 
Thou lookest in a grave,--to see 
Thine immortality! 


by Emily Dickinson | |

I had no time to hate because

I had no time to hate, because
The grave would hinder me,
And life was not so ample I
Could finish enmity.
Nor had I time to love, but since Some industry must be, The little toil of love, I thought, Was large enough for me.


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 Emily Dickinson | |

A little road not made of man

A little road not made of man,
Enabled of the eye,
Accessible to thill of bee,
Or cart of butterfly.
If town it have, beyond itself, 'T is that I cannot say; I only sigh,--no vehicle Bears me along that way.


by William Blake | |

Loves Secret

NEVER seek to tell thy love  
Love that never told can be; 
For the gentle wind doth move 
Silently invisibly.
I told my love I told my love 5 I told her all my heart Trembling cold in ghastly fears.
Ah! she did depart! Soon after she was gone from me A traveller came by 10 Silently invisibly: He took her with a sigh.


by Emily Dickinson | |

Hope is the thing with feathers

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I've heard it in the chillest land, And on the strangest sea; Yet, never, in extremity, It asked a crumb of me.


by Anna Akhmatova | |

And As Its Going...

An as it's going often at love's breaking,
The ghost of first days came again to us,
The silver willow through window then stretched in,
The silver beauty of her gentle branches.
The bird began to sing the song of light and pleasure To us, who fears to lift looks from the earth, Who are so lofty, bitter and intense, About days when we were saved together.


by Emily Dickinson | |

A thought went up my mind to-day

A thought went up my mind to-day
That I have had before,
But did not finish,--some way back,
I could not fix the year,

Nor where it went, nor why it came
The second time to me,
Nor definitely what it was,
Have I the art to say.
But somewhere in my soul, I know I've met the thing before; It just reminded me--'t was all-- And came my way no more.


by Emily Dickinson | |

I held a jewel in my fingers

I held a jewel in my fingers
And went to sleep
The day was warm, and winds were prosy;
I said: " 'T will keep.
" I woke and chid my honest fingers, -- The gem was gone; And now an amethyst remembrance Is all I own.


by Edward Estlin (E E) Cummings | |

i shall imagine life

i shall imagine life

is not worth dying if
(and when)roses complain
their beauties are in vain

but though mankind persuades
itself that every weed's
a rose roses(you feel
certain)will only smile


by Emily Dickinson | |

A shady friend for torrid days

A shady friend for torrid days
Is easier to find
Than one of higher temperature
For frigid hour of mind.
The vane a little to the east Scares muslin souls away; If broadcloth breasts are firmer Than those of organdy, Who is to blame? The weaver? Ah! the bewildering thread! The tapestries of paradise! So notelessly are made!


by Emily Dickinson | |

God permit industrious angels

God permit industrious angels
Afternoons to play.
I met one, -- forgot my school-mates, All, for him, straightaway.
God calls home the angels promptly At the setting sun; I missed mine.
How dreary marbles, After playing the Crown!


by Emily Dickinson | |

Heaven is what I cannot reach!

Heaven is what I cannot reach!
   The apple on the tree,
Provided it do hopeless hang,
   That "heaven" is, to me.
The color on the cruising cloud, The interdicted ground Behind the hill, the house behind, -- There Paradise is found!


by Anna Akhmatova | |

Alexander By Thebes

I think, the king was fierce, though young,
When he proclaimed, “You’ll level Thebes with ground.
” And the old chief perceived this city proud, He’d seen in times that are in sagas sung.
Set all to fire! The king listed else The towers, the gates, the temples – rich and thriving… But sank in thoughts, and said with lighted face, “You just provide the Bard Home’s surviving.


by Anna Akhmatova | |

Along the Hard Crust...

Along the hard crust of deep snows,
To the secret, white house of yours,
So gentle and quiet – we both
Are walking, in silence half-lost.
And sweeter than all songs, sung ever, Are this dream, becoming the truth, Entwined twigs’ a-nodding with favor, The light ring of your silver spurs.
.
.


by Anna Akhmatova | |

Crucifix

I
This greatist hour was hallowed and thandered
By  angel's choirs;  fire melted sky.
He asked his Father:"Why am I abandoned.
.
.
?" And told his Mother: "Mother, do not cry.
.
.
" II Magdalena struggled, cried and moaned.
Piter sank into the stone trance.
.
.
Only there, where Mother stood alone, None has dared cast a single glance.


by Percy Bysshe Shelley | |

Music when soft voices die

MUSIC when soft voices die  
Vibrates in the memory; 
Odours when sweet violets sicken  
Live within the sense they quicken; 

Rose leaves when the rose is dead 5 
Are heap'd for the belov¨¨d's bed: 
And so thy thoughts when thou art gone  
Love itself shall slumber on.


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