Famous Short Joy Poems. Short Joy Poetry by Famous Poets. A collection of the all-time best Joy short poems
See also: Best Famous Short Poems | Short Member Poems | Best Short Member Poems
A Letter is a joy of Earth --
It is denied the Gods --
Praise, they that will, times past: I joy to see
Myself now live; this age best pleaseth me!
He who binds to himself a joy
Does the winged life destroy;
But he who kisses the joy as it flies
Lives in eternity's sun rise.
FOR thee is laughing Nature gay,
For thee she pours the vernal day;
For me in vain is Nature drest,
While Joy’s a stranger to my breast.
I ask of thee, love, nothing but relief.
Thou canst not bring the old days back again;
For I was happy then,
Not knowing heavenly joy, not knowing grief.
We shun it ere it comes,
Afraid of Joy,
Then sue it to delay
And lest it fly,
Beguile it more and more --
May not this be
Old Suitor Heaven,
Like our dismay at thee?
O Rose thou art sick.
The invisible worm.
That flies in the night
In the howling storm:
Has found out thy bed
Of crimson joy:
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy.
Satisfaction -- is the Agent
Of Satiety --
Want -- a quiet Commissary
To possess, is past the instant
We achieve the Joy --
Rather arid delight
If Contentment accrue
Make an abstemious Ecstasy
Not so good as joy --
But Rapture's Expense
Must not be incurred
With a tomorrow knocking
And the Rent unpaid --
Did life's penurious length
Italicize its sweetness,
The men that daily live
Would stand so deep in joy
That it would clog the cogs
Of that revolving reason
Whose esoteric belt
Protects our sanity.
IF men are never their thoughts to employ,
Take care to provide them a life full of joy;
But if to some profit and use thou wouldst bend them,
Take care to shear them, and then defend them.
Strike, churl; hurl, cheerless wind, then; heltering hail
May’s beauty massacre and wisp?d wild clouds grow
Out on the giant air; tell Summer No,
Bid joy back, have at the harvest, keep Hope pale.
The joy that has no stem no core,
Nor seed that we can sow,
Is edible to longing.
But ablative to show.
By fundamental palates
Those products are preferred
Impregnable to transit
And patented by pod.
The Treason of an accent
Might Ecstasy transfer --
Of her effacing Fathom
Is no Recoverer --
The Treason of an Accent
Might vilify the Joy --
To breathe -- corrode the rapture
Of Sanctity to be --
'Twas sorry, that we were --
For where the Holiday should be
There publishes a Tear --
Nor how Ourselves be justified --
Since Grief and Joy are done
So similar -- An Optizan
Could not decide between --
Consulting summer's clock,
But half the hours remain.
I ascertain it with a shock --
I shall not look again.
The second half of joy
Is shorter than the first.
The truth I do not dare to know
I muffle with a jest.
March is the Month of Expectation.
The things we do not know --
The Persons of prognostication
Are coming now --
We try to show becoming firmness --
But pompous Joy
Betrays us, as his first Betrothal
Betrays a Boy.
Go not too near a House of Rose --
The depredation of a Breeze --
Or inundation of a Dew
Alarms its walls away --
Nor try to tie the Butterfly,
Nor climb the Bars of Ecstasy,
In insecurity to lie
Is Joy's insuring quality.
(Pleas’d to my Soul at death I cry;)
Our life is closed—our life begins;
The long, long anchorage we leave,
The ship is clear at last—she leaps!
She swiftly courses from the shore;
Since four decades you've been to me
Both Guide and Friend,
I fondly hope you'll always be,
Right to the end;
And though my rhymes you rarely scan
(Oh, small the blame!)
I joy that on this Page I can
Inscribe your name.
My name is Solomon Levi,
the desert is my home,
my mother's breast was thorny,
and father I had none.
The sands whispered, Be separate,
the stones taught me, Be hard.
I dance, for the joy of surviving,
on the edge of the road.
His voice decrepit was with Joy --
Her words did totter so
How old the News of Love must be
To make Lips elderly
That purled a moment since with Glee --
Is it Delight or Woe --
Or Terror -- that do decorate
This livid interview --
The surroundings of home, centers, neighorhood
which I see and where I walk; for years and years.
I have created you in joy and in sorrows:
with so many circumstances, with so many things.
And you have become all feeling, for me.
In snow thou comest --
Thou shalt go with the resuming ground,
The sweet derision of the crow,
And Glee's advancing sound.
In fear thou comest --
Thou shalt go at such a gait of joy
That man anew embark to live
Upon the depth of thee.
In grayish doubt and black despair,
I drafted hymns to the earth and the air,
pretending to joy, although I lacked it.
The age had made lament redundant.
So here's the question -- who can answer it --
Was he a brave man or a hypocrite?