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Famous Short England Poems. Short England Poetry by Famous Poets

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

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

 
by Emily Dickinson

The Butterflys Assumption Gown

 The Butterfly's Assumption Gown
In Chrysoprase Apartments hung
This afternoon put on --

How condescending to descend
And be of Buttercups the friend
In a New England Town --


by Stevie Smith

Happiness

 Happiness is silent, or speaks equivocally for friends,
Grief is explicit and her song never ends,
Happiness is like England, and will not state a case,
Grief, like Guilt, rushes in and talks apace.


by Mother Goose

A Plum Pudding


Flour of England, fruit of Spain,
  Met together in a shower of rain;
Put in a bag tied round with a string;
  If you'll tell me this riddle,
  I'll give you a ring.


by Emily Dickinson

A Field of Stubble lying sere

 A Field of Stubble, lying sere
Beneath the second Sun --
Its Toils to Brindled People thrust --
Its Triumphs -- to the Bin --
Accosted by a timid Bird
Irresolute of Alms --
Is often seen -- but seldom felt,
On our New England Farms --


by G K Chesterton

Elegy In A Country Churchyard

 The men that worked for England
They have their graves at home:
And bees and birds of England
About the cross can roam.
But they that fought for England, Following a falling star, Alas, alas for England They have their graves afar.
And they that rule in England, In stately conclave met, Alas, alas for England, They have no graves as yet.


by A E Housman

The Isle Of Portland

 The star-filled seas are smooth tonight
 From France to England strown;
Black towers above Portland light
 The felon-quarried stone.
On yonder island; not to rise, Never to stir forth free, Far from his folk a dead lad lies That once was friends with me.
Lie you easy, dream you light, And sleep you fast for aye; And luckier may you find the night Than you ever found the day.


by William Blake

Jerusalem: England! awake! awake! awake!

 England! awake! awake! awake! 
Jerusalem thy Sister calls!
Why wilt thou sleep the sleep of death
And close her from thy ancient walls?

Thy hills and valleys felt her feet
Gently upon their bosoms move:
Thy gates beheld sweet Zion's ways:
Then was a time of joy and love.
And now the time returns again: Our souls exult, and London's towers Receive the Lamb of God to dwell In England's green and pleasant bowers.


by Robert Graves

The Cruel Moon

 The cruel Moon hangs out of reach 
Up above the shadowy beech.
Her face is stupid, but her eye Is small and sharp and very sly.
Nurse says the Moon can drive you mad? No, that’s a silly story, lad! Though she be angry, though she would Destroy all England if she could, Yet think, what damage can she do Hanging there so far from you? Don’t heed what frightened nurses say: Moons hang much too far away.


by William Blake

England! awake! awake! awake!

 England! awake! awake! awake! 
Jerusalem thy Sister calls! 
Why wilt thou sleep the sleep of death 
And close her from thy ancient walls? 

Thy hills and valleys felt her feet 
Gently upon their bosoms move: 
Thy gates beheld sweet Zion's ways: 
Then was a time of joy and love.
And now the time returns again: Our souls exult, and London's towers Receive the Lamb of God to dwell In England's green and pleasant bowers.


by Linda Pastan

Emily Dickinson

 We think of hidden in a white dress
among the folded linens and sachets
of well-kept cupboards, or just out of sight
sending jellies and notes with no address
to all the wondering Amherst neighbors.
Eccentric as New England weather the stiff wind of her mind, stinging or gentle, blew two half imagined lovers off.
Yet legend won't explain the sheer sanity of vision, the serious mischief of language, the economy of pain.


by Robert Browning

Home Thoughts From The Sea

 Nobly, nobly Cape Saint Vincent to the North-west died away;
Sunset ran, one glorious blood-red, reeking into Cadiz Bay;
Bluish 'mid the burning water, full in face Trafalgar lay;
In the dimmest North-east distance dawned Gibraltar grand and grey;
"Here and here did England help me: how can I help England?"—say,
Whoso turns as I, this evening, turn to God to praise and pray,
While Jove's planet rises yonder, silent over Africa.


by Emily Dickinson

The Robin is a Gabriel

 The Robin is a Gabriel
In humble circumstances --
His Dress denotes him socially,
Of Transport's Working Classes --
He has the punctuality
Of the New England Farmer --
The same oblique integrity,
A Vista vastly warmer --

A small but sturdy Residence
A self denying Household,
The Guests of Perspicacity
Are all that cross his Threshold --
As covert as a Fugitive,
Cajoling Consternation
By Ditties to the Enemy
And Sylvan Punctuation --


by Thomas Stearns Eliot (T S) Eliot

Cousin Nancy

 MISS NANCY ELLICOTT
Strode across the hills and broke them,
Rode across the hills and broke them—
The barren New England hills—
Riding to hounds
Over the cow-pasture.
Miss Nancy Ellicott smoked And danced all the modern dances; And her aunts were not quite sure how they felt about it, But they knew that it was modern.
Upon the glazen shelves kept watch Matthew and Waldo, guardians of the faith, The army of unalterable law.


by Walter de la Mare

How Sleep the Brave

 Nay, nay, sweet England, do not grieve! 
Not one of these poor men who died 
But did within his soul believe 
That death for thee was glorified.
Ever they watched it hovering near That mystery 'yond thought to plumb, Perchance sometimes in loathèd fear They heard cold Danger whisper, Come! -- Heard and obeyed.
O, if thou weep Such courage and honour, beauty, care, Be it for joy that those who sleep Only thy joy could share.


by Joseph Brodsky

Stone Villages

The stone-built villages of England.
A cathedral bottled in a pub window.
Cows dispersed across fields.
Monuments to kings.
A man in a moth-eaten suit sees a train off heading like everything here for the sea smiles at his daughter leaving for the East.
A whistle blows.
And the endless sky over the tiles grows bluer as swelling birdsong fills.
And the clearer the song is heard the smaller the bird.


by Amy Lowell

The Cyclists

 Spread on the roadway,
With open-blown jackets,
Like black, soaring pinions,
They swoop down the hillside,
The Cyclists.
Seeming dark-plumaged Birds, after carrion, Careening and circling, Over the dying Of England.
She lies with her bosom Beneath them, no longer The Dominant Mother, The Virile -- but rotting Before time.
The smell of her, tainted, Has bitten their nostrils.
Exultant they hover, And shadow the sun with Foreboding.


by Regina Derieva

It Was Not Necessary To Study

 It was not necessary to study
the language
of a strange country;
anyway, it would be of no help.
It was not necessary to know where Italy or England is located; travel was obviously out of question.
It was not necessary to live among the wild beasts of Noah's ark, which had just devoured the last dove of peace, along with Noah and his virtuous family.
It was not necessary to strive for some holy land awash in milk and honey, according to rumor.


by Richard Brautigan

To England

 There are no postage stamps that send letters
back to England three centuries ago,
no postage stamps that make letters
travel back until the grave hasn't been dug yet,
and John Donne stands looking out the window,
it is just beginning to rain this April morning,
and the birds are falling into the trees
like chess pieces into an unplayed game,
and John Donne sees the postman coming up the street,
the postman walks very carefully because his cane
is made of glass.