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Famous Short Self Poems

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

Other Short Poem Pages

More great short poems below.

Self | Short Famous Poems and Poets

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by Anne Killigrew

An Epitaph on her Self.

 WHen I am Dead, few Friends attend my Hearse, 
And for a Monument, I leave my VERSE.


by Dorothy Parker

Post-Graduate

 Hope it was that tutored me,
And Love that taught me more;
And now I learn at Sorrow's knee
The self-same lore.


by Hilaire Belloc

The world is full of double beds

 The world is full of double beds
And most delightful maidenheads, 
Which being so, there’s no excuse
For sodomy of self-abuse.


by Omar Khayyam

In drinking thus it is not my design

In drinking thus it is not my design
To riot, or transgress the law divine,
No! to attain unconsciousness of self
Is the sole cause I drink me drunk with wine.


by Omar Khayyam

O Lord! from self-conceit deliver me,

O Lord! from self-conceit deliver me,
Sever from self, and occupy with Thee!
This self is captive to earth's good and ill,
Make me beside myself, and set me free!


by Omar Khayyam

The more I die to self, I live the more,

The more I die to self, I live the more,
The more abase myself, the higher soar;
And, strange! the more I drink of Being's wine,
More sane I grow and sober than before.


by Omar Khayyam

The tenants of the tombs to dust decay,

The tenants of the tombs to dust decay,
Nescient of self, and all beside are they;
Their sundered atoms float about the world,
Like mirage clouds, until the judgment day.


by Omar Khayyam

The very wine a myriad forms sustains,

The very wine a myriad forms sustains,
And to take shapes of plants and creatures deigns
But deem not that its essence ever dies,
Its forms may perish, but its self remains.


by Edward Estlin (E E) Cummings

a total stranger one black day

a total stranger one black day
knocked living the hell out of me-- 

who found forgiveness hard because
my(as it happened)self he was 

-but now that fiend and i are such


by Omar Khayyam

Though you should sit in sage Aristo's room,

Though you should sit in sage Aristo's room,
Or rival Cæsar on his throne of Rum,
Drain Jemshid's goblet, for your end's the tomb,
Yea, were you Bahram's self, your end's the tomb!


by Omar Khayyam

O heart! when on the Loved One's sweets you feed,

O heart! when on the Loved One's sweets you feed,
You lose yourself, but find your Self indeed;
And, when you drink of His entrancing cup,
You hasten your escape from quick and dead!


by Omar Khayyam

If I drink wine 'tis not for mere desire; nor for the

If I drink wine 'tis not for mere desire; nor for the
rousing of the mob or insult to the Faith. No, 'tis for a
passing knowledge of relief from self. No other motive
could enwreath the cup.


by Omar Khayyam

If the heart knew life's secrets here below,

If the heart knew life's secrets here below,
At death 'twould know God's secrets too, I trow;
But, if you know naught here, while still yourself,
To-morrow, stripped of self, what can you know?


by Omar Khayyam

This wine, which by its nature hath a multitude of

This wine, which by its nature hath a multitude of
forms, which now is animal and now is plant, can never
cease to be, for its imperishable self ordains a lasting
life though forms may disappear.


by William Butler Yeats

Old Tom Again

 Things out of perfection sail,
And all their swelling canvas wear,
Nor shall the self-begotten fail
Though fantastic men suppose
Building-yard and stormy shore,
Winding-sheet and swaddling - clothes.


by Omar Khayyam

O thou that lusteth night and day for the goods of

O thou that lusteth night and day for the goods of
this world, dost thou not reflect upon the terrible day?
Take into consideration thy last breath, come back to
self, and see how time deals with others.


by Omar Khayyam

This rolling hostelry we call the world, where light and

This rolling hostelry we call the world, where light and
darkness alternate, is but the ruin of a Jamshid's entertainment
of a hundred Kings, or e'en a faint memento
of a host of hunters like to Bahram's self.


by Wanda Phipps

Morning Poem #48

 cold bed
gray day
memories
of "birds of prey"
talk for the sake
of words shaping
mouth moving
thoughts changing
energy moving
outside of self
talk for the sake
of a warm bed
a sanny day
and memories
of birds at play


by Omar Khayyam

Cease, if ye are my friends, all vain discourse, and,

Cease, if ye are my friends, all vain discourse, and,
to relieve my mental pains pour out the wine. And
when to dust my frame returns, the self-same dust
collect and make it brick to stop some crevice in the
tavern wall.


by Omar Khayyam

O Khayyam! why so much sorrow for a sin committed?

O Khayyam! why so much sorrow for a sin committed?
What comfort more or less do you find in this self-torment?
He who has not sinned cannot enjoy the sweetness
of pardon. It is for sin that pardon must exist; in
that event why entertain a fear?


by Denise Duhamel

Buddhist Barbie

 In the 5th century B.
C.
an Indian philosopher Gautama teaches "All is emptiness" and "There is no self.
" In the 20th century A.
D.
Barbie agrees, but wonders how a man with such a belly could pose, smiling, and without a shirt.


by George William Russell

Mistrust

 YOU look at me with wan, bright eyes
 When in the deeper world I stray:
You fear some hidden ambush lies
 In wait to call me, “Come away.
” What if I see behind the veil Your starry self beseeching me, Or at its stern command grow pale, “Let her be free, let her be free”?


by Robert Frost

Atmosphere

 Inscription for a Garden Wall

Winds blow the open grassy places bleak;
But where this old wall burns a sunny cheek,
They eddy over it too toppling weak
To blow the earth or anything self-clear;
Moisture and color and odor thicken here.
The hours of daylight gather atmosphere.


by Robert Burns

182. The Libeller's Self-reproof

 RASH 1 mortal, and slanderous poet, thy name
Shall no longer appear in the records of Fame;
Dost not know that old Mansfield, who writes like the Bible,
Says, the more ’tis a truth, sir, the more ’tis a libel!


 Note 1.
These are rhymes of dubious authenticity.
—Lang.
[back]


by Anne Killigrew

St. John Baptist Painted by her self in the Wilderness with Angels appearing to him and with a Lamb by him

 THe Sun's my Fire, when it does shine, 
The hollow Spring's my Cave of Wine, 
The Rocks and Woods afford me Meat; 
This Lamb and I on one Dish eat: 
The neighbouring Herds my Garments send, 
My Pallet the kind Earth doth lend: 
Excess and Grandure I decline, 
M'Associates onely are Divine.


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