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Famous Short Race Poems. Short Race Poetry by Famous Poets

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

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

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by Friedrich von Schiller

The Present Generation

 Was it always as now? This race I truly can't fathom.
Nothing is young but old age; youth, alas! only is old.


by Emily Dickinson

He went by sleep that drowsy route

 He went by sleep that drowsy route
To the surmising Inn --
At day break to begin his race
Or ever to remain --


by Aleister Crowley

Optimist

 Kill off mankind,
And give the Earth a chance!
Nature might find
In her inheritance
The seedlings of a race
Less infinitely base.


by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

A Marine Etching

 A yacht from its harbour ropes pulled free,
And leaped like a steed o’er the race track blue,
Then up behind her, the dust of the sea,
A gray fog, drifted, and hid her from view.


by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

A yacht from its harbour ropes pulled free

 A yacht from its harbour ropes pulled free,
And leaped like a steed o’er the race track blue,
Then up behind her, the dust of the sea,
A gray fog, drifted, and hid her from view.


by Emily Dickinson

My friend attacks my friend!

 My friend attacks my friend!
Oh Battle picturesque!
Then I turn Soldier too,
And he turns Satirist!
How martial is this place!
Had I a mighty gun
I think I'd shoot the human race
And then to glory run!


by Emily Dickinson

When the Astronomer stops seeking

 When the Astronomer stops seeking
For his Pleiad's Face --
When the lone British Lady
Forsakes the Arctic Race

When to his Covenant Needle
The Sailor doubting turns --
It will be amply early
To ask what treason means.


by Walter Savage Landor

Rose Aylmer

 Ah, what avails the sceptred race!
Ah, what the form divine!
What every virtue, every grace!
Rose Aylmer, all were thine.

Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes
May weep, but never see,
A night of memories and sighs
I consecrate to thee.


by Walt Whitman

Race of Veterans.

 RACE of veterans! Race of victors! 
Race of the soil, ready for conflict! race of the conquering march! 
(No more credulity’s race, abiding-temper’d race;) 
Race henceforth owning no law but the law of itself; 
Race of passion and the storm. 5


by Emily Dickinson

My God -- He sees thee --

 My God -- He sees thee --
Shine thy best --
Fling up thy Balls of Gold
Till every Cubit play with thee
And every Crescent hold --
Elate the Acre at his feet --
Upon his Atom swim --
Oh Sun -- but just a Second's right
In thy long Race with him!


by Ogden Nash

The Germ

 A mighty creature is the germ,
Though smaller than the pachyderm.
His customary dwelling place 
Is deep within the human race. 
His childish pride he often pleases 
By giving people strange diseases. 
Do you, my poppet, feel infirm? 
You probably contain a germ.


by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

THE BRETHREN.

 SLUMBER and Sleep, two brethren ordain'd by the gods to their 
service,

Were by Prometheus implored, comfort to give to his race;
But though so light to the gods, too heavy for man was their burden,

We in their slumber find sleep, we in their sleep meet with death.

 1789.*


by William Butler Yeats

The Delphic Oracle Upon Plotinus

 Behold that great Plotinus swim,
Buffeted by such seas;
Bland Rhadamanthus beckons him,
But the Golden Race looks dim,
Salt blood blocks his eyes.
Scattered on the level grass
Or winding through the grove
plato there and Minos pass,
There stately Pythagoras
And all the choir of Love.


by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

A Fallen Leaf

 A trusting little leaf of green,
A bold audacious frost;
A rendezvous, a kiss or two,
And youth for ever lost.
Ah, me!
The bitter, bitter cost.

A flaunting patch of vivid red,
That quivers in the sun;
A windy gust, a grave of dust,
The little race is run.
Ah, me!
Were that the only one.


by Algernon Charles Swinburne

Wasted Love

 What shall be done for sorrow
With love whose race is run?
Where help is none to borrow,
What shall be done?

In vain his hands have spun
The web, or drawn the furrow:
No rest their toil hath won.

His task is all gone thorough,
And fruit thereof is none:
And who dare say to-morrow
What shall be done?


by Walt Whitman

To a Certain Cantatrice.

 HERE, take this gift! 
I was reserving it for some hero, speaker, or General, 
One who should serve the good old cause, the great Idea, the progress and freedom of the
 race; 
Some brave confronter of despots—some daring rebel; 
—But I see that what I was reserving, belongs to you just as much as to any. 

 5


by Friedrich von Schiller

Different Destinies

 Millions busily toil, that the human race may continue;
But by only a few is propagated our kind.
Thousands of seeds by the autumn are scattered, yet fruit is engendered
Only by few, for the most back to the element go.
But if one only can blossom, that one is able to scatter
Even a bright living world, filled with creations eterne.


by Phillis Wheatley

On Being Brought from Africa to America

 'Twas mercy brought me from my Pagan land,
Taught my benighted soul to understand
That there's a God, that there's a Saviour too:
Once I redemption neither sought nor knew.
Some view our sable race with scornful eye,
"Their colour is a diabolic die."
Remember, Christians, Negro's, black as Cain,
May be refin'd, and join th' angelic train.


by Phillis Wheatley

One Being Brought From Africa To America

 'TWAS mercy brought me from my Pagan land,
Taught my benighted soul to understand
That there's a God, that there's a Saviour too:
Once I redemption neither sought now knew,
Some view our sable race with scornful eye,
'Their colour is a diabolic die.'
Remember, Christians, Negroes, black as Cain,
May be refin'd, and join th' angelic train.


by George Meredith

Dirge in Woods

 A wind sways the pines,
And below
Not a breath of wild air;
Still as the mosses that glow
On the flooring and over the lines
Of the roots here and there.
The pine-tree drops its dead;
They are quiet, as under the sea.
Overhead, overhead
Rushes life in a race,
As the clouds the clouds chase;
And we go,
And we drop like the fruits of the tree,
Even we,
Even so.


by Claude McKay

The Barrier

 I must not gaze at them although 
Your eyes are dawning day; 
I must not watch you as you go 
Your sun-illumined way; 

I hear but I must never heed 
The fascinating note, 
Which, fluting like a river reed, 
Comes from your trembing throat; 

I must not see upon your face 
Love's softly glowing spark; 
For there's the barrier of race, 
You're fair and I am dark.


by Robert Burns

180. Written by Somebody on the Window of an Inn at Stirling

 HERE Stuarts once in glory reigned,
And laws for Scotland’s weal ordained;
But now unroof’d their palace stands,
Their sceptre’s sway’d by other hands;
Fallen indeed, and to the earth
Whence groveling reptiles take their birth.
The injured Stuart line is gone,
A race outlandish fills their throne;
An idiot race, to honour lost;
Who know them best despise them most.


by Siegfried Sassoon

Vision

 I love all things that pass: their briefness is 
Music that fades on transient silences. 
Winds, birds, and glittering leaves that flare and fall— 
They fling delight across the world; they call 
To rhythmic-flashing limbs that rove and race...
A moment in the dawn for Youth’s lit face; 
A moment’s passion, closing on the cry— 
‘O Beauty, born of lovely things that die!’


by Ben Jonson

On Chuffe, Banks the Usurer's Kinsman



XLIV. ? ON CHUFFE, BANKS THE USURER'S KINSMAN.   

CHUFFE, lately rich in name, in chattels, goods,
    And rich in issue to inherit all,
    Ere blacks were bought for his own funeral,
Saw all his race approach the blacker floods :
    He meant they thither should make swift repair,
    When he made him executor, might be heir.



by Robert Herrick

COMFORT TO A YOUTH THAT HAD LOST HIS LOVE

 What needs complaints,
When she a place
Has with the race
Of saints?
In endless mirth,
She thinks not on
What's said or done
In earth:
She sees no tears,
Or any tone
Of thy deep groan
She hears;
Nor does she mind,
Or think on't now,
That ever thou
Wast kind:--
But changed above,
She likes not there,
As she did here,
Thy love.
--Forbear, therefore,
And lull asleep
Thy woes, and weep
No more.


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