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Famous Short Work Poems. Short Work Poetry by Famous Poets

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

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

by Emily Dickinson

The Work of Her that went

 The Work of Her that went,
The Toil of Fellows done --
In Ovens green our Mother bakes,
By Fires of the Sun.

by Emily Dickinson

All men for Honor hardest work

 All men for Honor hardest work
But are not known to earn --
Paid after they have ceased to work
In Infamy or Urn --

by Dorothy Parker

Alexandre Dumas And His Son

 Although I work, and seldom cease,
At Dumas pere and Dumas fils,
Alas, I cannot make me care
For Dumas fils and Dumas pere.

by Dorothy Parker

Walter Savage Landor

 Upon the work of Walter Landor
I am unfit to write with candor.
If you can read it, well and good; But as for me, I never could.

by John Betjeman

The Last Laugh

 I made hay while the sun shone.
My work sold.
Now, if the harvest is over And the world cold, Give me the bonus of laughter As I lose hold.

by Robert William Service

Rhyme For My Tomb

 Here lyeth one
Who loved the sun;
Who lived with zest,
Whose work was done,
Reward, dear Lord,
Thy weary son:
May he be blest
With peace and rest,
Nor wake again,

by Wanda Phipps

Morning Poem #6

 groggy voice
hangover head
phone rongs
work call
money writing
muddled thoughts
adrenaline rush
hands clutch
power book
pauses comerapid doubts
make calls
take notes
ming push
fear waits

by Emily Dickinson

Theres the Battle of Burgoyne --

 There's the Battle of Burgoyne --
Over, every Day,
By the Time that Man and Beast
Put their work away
"Sunset" sounds majestic --
But that solemn War
Could you comprehend it
You would chastened stare --

by William Butler Yeats

To Be Carved On A Stone At Thoor Ballylee

 I, the poet William Yeats,
With old mill boards and sea-green slates,
And smithy work from the Gort forge,
Restored this tower for my wife George;
And may these characters remain
When all is ruin once again.

by Emily Dickinson

The Service without Hope --

 The Service without Hope --
Is tenderest, I think --
Because 'tis unsustained
By stint -- Rewarded Work --

Has impetus of Gain --
And impetus of Goal --
There is no Diligence like that
That knows not an Until --

by Emily Dickinson

Too cold is this

 Too cold is this
To warm with Sun --
Too stiff to bended be,
To joint this Agate were a work --
Outstaring Masonry --

How went the Agile Kernel out
Contusion of the Husk
Nor Rip, nor wrinkle indicate
But just an Asterisk.

by Emily Dickinson

The Notice that is called the Spring

 The Notice that is called the Spring
Is but a month from here --
Put up my Heart thy Hoary work
And take a Rosy Chair.
Not any House the Flowers keep -- The Birds enamor Care -- Our salary the longest Day Is nothing but a Bier.

by Emily Dickinson

The Missing All -- prevented Me

 The Missing All -- prevented Me
From missing minor Things.
If nothing larger than a World's Departure from a Hinge -- Or Sun's extinction, be observed -- 'Twas not so large that I Could lift my Forehead from my work For Curiosity.

by Friedrich von Schiller

The Iliad

 Tear forever the garland of Homer, and number the fathers
Of the immortal work, that through all time will survive!
Yet it has but one mother, and bears that mother's own feature,
'Tis thy features it bears,--Nature,--thy features eterne!

by Emily Dickinson

At leisure is the Soul

 At leisure is the Soul
That gets a Staggering Blow --
The Width of Life -- before it spreads
Without a thing to do --

It begs you give it Work --
But just the placing Pins --
Or humblest Patchwork -- Children do --
To Help its Vacant Hands --

by Emily Dickinson

The Bird her punctual music brings

 The Bird her punctual music brings
And lays it in its place --
Its place is in the Human Heart
And in the Heavenly Grace --
What respite from her thrilling toil
Did Beauty ever take --
But Work might be electric Rest
To those that Magic make --

by Dorothy Parker


 Were you to cross the world, my dear,
To work or love or fight,
I could be calm and wistful here,
And close my eyes at night.
It were a sweet and gallant pain To be a sea apart; But, oh, to have you down the lane Is bitter to my heart.

by Mother Goose

If Wishes Were Horses


If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.
If turnips were watches, I would wear one by my side.
    And if "ifs" and "ands"
    Were pots and pans,
There'd be no work for tinkers!

by Rg Gregory

a koestler on the human brain

 the man and the horse and the crocodile
lay down on the couch together

the man said
this isn't going to work

the horse neighed
i love you

the crocodile
slimy as ever

neither complained nor adored

it snapped its jaws
and got on with the feast

by Yehuda Amichai

My Father

 The memory of my father is wrapped up in
white paper, like sandwiches taken for a day at work.
Just as a magician takes towers and rabbits out of his hat, he drew love from his small body, and the rivers of his hands overflowed with good deeds.

by Gary Snyder

There Are Those Who Love To Get Dirty

 There are those who love to get dirty
 and fix things.
They drink coffee at dawn, beer after work, And those who stay clean, just appreciate things, At breakfast they have milk and juice at night.
There are those who do both, they drink tea.

by Wendell Berry

The Real Work

 It may be that when we no longer know what to do
we have come our real work,

and that when we no longer know which way to go
we have come to our real journey.
The mind that is not baffled is not employed.
The impeded stream is the one that sings.

by Carolyn Kizer

Cultural Evolution

 When from his cave, young Mao in his youthful mind
A work to renew old China first designed,
Then he alone interpreted the law,
and from tradtional fountains scorned to draw:
But when to examine every part he came,
Marx and Confucius turned out much the same.

by Robert Herrick


 Laid out for dead, let thy last kindness be
With leaves and moss-work for to cover me;
And while the wood-nymphs my cold corpse inter,
Sing thou my dirge, sweet-warbling chorister!
For epitaph, in foliage, next write this:

by Carl Sandburg

Loin Cloth

 BODY of Jesus taken down from the cross
Carved in ivory by a lover of Christ,
It is a child’s handful you are here,
The breadth of a man’s finger,
And this ivory loin cloth
Speaks an interspersal in the day’s work,
The carver’s prayer and whim
And Christ-love.