Best Famous Good Morning Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Good Morning poems. This is a select list of the best famous Good Morning poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Good Morning poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of good morning poems.

Search for the best famous Good Morning poems, articles about Good Morning poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Good Morning poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

See Also:

Poems are below...



12
Written by Maya Angelou | Create an image from this poem

On the Pulse of Morning

(also referred to as The Rock Cries Out To Us Today)

A Rock, A River, A Tree
Hosts to species long since departed,
Mark the mastodon.
The dinosaur, who left dry tokens Of their sojourn here On our planet floor, Any broad alarm of their of their hastening doom Is lost in the gloom of dust and ages.
But today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly, forcefully, Come, you may stand upon my Back and face your distant destiny, But seek no haven in my shadow.
I will give you no hiding place down here.
You, created only a little lower than The angels, have crouched too long in The bruising darkness, Have lain too long Face down in ignorance.
Your mouths spelling words Armed for slaughter.
The rock cries out today, you may stand on me, But do not hide your face.
Across the wall of the world, A river sings a beautiful song, Come rest here by my side.
Each of you a bordered country, Delicate and strangely made proud, Yet thrusting perpetually under siege.
Your armed struggles for profit Have left collars of waste upon My shore, currents of debris upon my breast.
Yet, today I call you to my riverside, If you will study war no more.
Come, clad in peace and I will sing the songs The Creator gave to me when I And the tree and stone were one.
Before cynicism was a bloody sear across your brow And when you yet knew you still knew nothing.
The river sings and sings on.
There is a true yearning to respond to The singing river and the wise rock.
So say the Asian, the Hispanic, the Jew, The African and Native American, the Sioux, The Catholic, the Muslim, the French, the Greek, The Irish, the Rabbi, the Priest, the Sheikh, The Gay, the Straight, the Preacher, The privileged, the homeless, the teacher.
They hear.
They all hear The speaking of the tree.
Today, the first and last of every tree Speaks to humankind.
Come to me, here beside the river.
Plant yourself beside me, here beside the river.
Each of you, descendant of some passed on Traveller, has been paid for.
You, who gave me my first name, You Pawnee, Apache and Seneca, You Cherokee Nation, who rested with me, Then forced on bloody feet, Left me to the employment of other seekers-- Desperate for gain, starving for gold.
You, the Turk, the Swede, the German, the Scot.
.
.
You the Ashanti, the Yoruba, the Kru, Bought, sold, stolen, arriving on a nightmare Praying for a dream.
Here, root yourselves beside me.
I am the tree planted by the river, Which will not be moved.
I, the rock, I the river, I the tree I am yours--your passages have been paid.
Lift up your faces, you have a piercing need For this bright morning dawning for you.
History, despite its wrenching pain, Cannot be unlived, and if faced with courage, Need not be lived again.
Lift up your eyes upon The day breaking for you.
Give birth again To the dream.
Women, children, men, Take it into the palms of your hands.
Mold it into the shape of your most Private need.
Sculpt it into The image of your most public self.
Lift up your hearts.
Each new hour holds new chances For new beginnings.
Do not be wedded forever To fear, yoked eternally To brutishness.
The horizon leans forward, Offering you space to place new steps of change.
Here, on the pulse of this fine day You may have the courage To look up and out upon me, The rock, the river, the tree, your country.
No less to Midas than the mendicant.
No less to you now than the mastodon then.
Here on the pulse of this new day You may have the grace to look up and out And into your sister's eyes, Into your brother's face, your country And say simply Very simply With hope Good morning.
Written by Maya Angelou | Create an image from this poem

The Rock Cries Out to Us Today

 A Rock, A River, A Tree
Hosts to species long since departed,
Mark the mastodon.
The dinosaur, who left dry tokens Of their sojourn here On our planet floor, Any broad alarm of their of their hastening doom Is lost in the gloom of dust and ages.
But today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly, forcefully, Come, you may stand upon my Back and face your distant destiny, But seek no haven in my shadow.
I will give you no hiding place down here.
You, created only a little lower than The angels, have crouched too long in The bruising darkness, Have lain too long Face down in ignorance.
Your mouths spelling words Armed for slaughter.
The rock cries out today, you may stand on me, But do not hide your face.
Across the wall of the world, A river sings a beautiful song, Come rest here by my side.
Each of you a bordered country, Delicate and strangely made proud, Yet thrusting perpetually under siege.
Your armed struggles for profit Have left collars of waste upon My shore, currents of debris upon my breast.
Yet, today I call you to my riverside, If you will study war no more.
Come, clad in peace and I will sing the songs The Creator gave to me when I And the tree and stone were one.
Before cynicism was a bloody sear across your brow And when you yet knew you still knew nothing.
The river sings and sings on.
There is a true yearning to respond to The singing river and the wise rock.
So say the Asian, the Hispanic, the Jew, The African and Native American, the Sioux, The Catholic, the Muslim, the French, the Greek, The Irish, the Rabbi, the Priest, the Sheikh, The Gay, the Straight, the Preacher, The privileged, the homeless, the teacher.
They hear.
They all hear The speaking of the tree.
Today, the first and last of every tree Speaks to humankind.
Come to me, here beside the river.
Plant yourself beside me, here beside the river.
Each of you, descendant of some passed on Traveller, has been paid for.
You, who gave me my first name, You Pawnee, Apache and Seneca, You Cherokee Nation, who rested with me, Then forced on bloody feet, Left me to the employment of other seekers-- Desperate for gain, starving for gold.
You, the Turk, the Swede, the German, the Scot.
.
.
You the Ashanti, the Yoruba, the Kru, Bought, sold, stolen, arriving on a nightmare Praying for a dream.
Here, root yourselves beside me.
I am the tree planted by the river, Which will not be moved.
I, the rock, I the river, I the tree I am yours--your passages have been paid.
Lift up your faces, you have a piercing need For this bright morning dawning for you.
History, despite its wrenching pain, Cannot be unlived, and if faced with courage, Need not be lived again.
Lift up your eyes upon The day breaking for you.
Give birth again To the dream.
Women, children, men, Take it into the palms of your hands.
Mold it into the shape of your most Private need.
Sculpt it into The image of your most public self.
Lift up your hearts.
Each new hour holds new chances For new beginnings.
Do not be wedded forever To fear, yoked eternally To brutishness.
The horizon leans forward, Offering you space to place new steps of change.
Here, on the pulse of this fine day You may have the courage To look up and out upon me, The rock, the river, the tree, your country.
No less to Midas than the mendicant.
No less to you now than the mastodon then.
Here on the pulse of this new day You may have the grace to look up and out And into your sister's eyes, Into your brother's face, your country And say simply Very simply With hope Good morning.
Written by Maya Angelou | Create an image from this poem

Inaugural Poem

A Rock, A River, A Tree
Hosts to species long since departed,
Marked the mastodon.
The dinosaur, who left dry tokens Of their sojourn here On our planet floor, Any broad alarm of their hastening doom Is lost in the gloom of dust and ages.
But today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly, forcefully, Come, you may stand upon my Back and face your distant destiny, But seek no haven in my shadow.
I will give you no more hiding place down here.
You, created only a little lower than The angels, have crouched too long in The bruising darkness, Have lain too long Face down in ignorance.
Your mouths spilling words Armed for slaughter.
The Rock cries out today, you may stand on me, But do not hide your face.
Across the wall of the world, A River sings a beautiful song, Come rest here by my side.
Each of you a bordered country, Delicate and strangely made proud, Yet thrusting perpetually under siege.
Your armed struggles for profit Have left collars of waste upon My shore, currents of debris upon my breast.
Yet, today I call you to my riverside, If you will study war no more.
Come, Clad in peace and I will sing the songs The Creator gave to me when I and the Tree and the stone were one.
Before cynicism was a bloody sear across your Brow and when you yet knew you still Knew nothing.
The River sings and sings on.
There is a true yearning to respond to The singing River and the wise Rock.
So say the Asian, the Hispanic, the Jew The African and Native American, the Sioux, The Catholic, the Muslim, the French, the Greek The Irish, the Rabbi, the Priest, the Sheikh, The Gay, the Straight, the Preacher, The privileged, the homeless, the Teacher.
They hear.
They all hear The speaking of the Tree.
Today, the first and last of every Tree Speaks to humankind.
Come to me, here beside the River.
Plant yourself beside me, here beside the River.
Each of you, descendant of some passed On traveller, has been paid for.
You, who gave me my first name, you Pawnee, Apache and Seneca, you Cherokee Nation, who rested with me, then Forced on bloody feet, left me to the employment of Other seekers--desperate for gain, Starving for gold.
You, the Turk, the Swede, the German, the Scot .
.
.
You the Ashanti, the Yoruba, the Kru, bought Sold, stolen, arriving on a nightmare Praying for a dream.
Here, root yourselves beside me.
I am the Tree planted by the River, Which will not be moved.
I, the Rock, I the River, I the Tree I am yours--your Passages have been paid.
Lift up your faces, you have a piercing need For this bright morning dawning for you.
History, despite its wrenching pain, Cannot be unlived, and if faced With courage, need not be lived again.
Lift up your eyes upon The day breaking for you.
Give birth again To the dream.
Women, children, men, Take it into the palms of your hands.
Mold it into the shape of your most Private need.
Sculpt it into The image of your most public self.
Lift up your hearts Each new hour holds new chances For new beginnings.
Do not be wedded forever To fear, yoked eternally To brutishness.
The horizon leans forward, Offering you space to place new steps of change.
Here, on the pulse of this fine day You may have the courage To look up and out upon me, the Rock, the River, the Tree, your country.
No less to Midas than the mendicant.
No less to you now than the mastodon then.
Here on the pulse of this new day You may have the grace to look up and out And into your sister's eyes, into Your brother's face, your country And say simply Very simply With hope Good morning.
Written by Philip Levine | Create an image from this poem

The Dead

 A good man is seized by the police
and spirited away.
Months later someone brags that he shot him once through the back of the head with a Walther 7.
65, and his life ended just there.
Those who loved him go on searching the cafés in the Barrio Chino or the bars near the harbor.
A comrade swears he saw him at a distance buying two kilos of oranges in the market of San José and called out, "Andrés, Andrés," but instead of turning to a man he'd known since child- hood and opening his great arms wide, he scurried off, the oranges tumbling out of the damp sack, one after another, a short bright trail left on the sidewalk to say, Farewell! Farewell to what? I ask.
I asked then and I ask now.
I first heard the story fifty years ago; it became part of the mythology I hauled with me from one graveyard to another, this belief in the power of my yearning.
The dead are every- where, crowding the narrow streets that jut out from the wide boulevard on which we take our morning walk.
They stand in the cold shadows of men and women come to sell themselves to anyone, they stride along beside me and stop when I stop to admire the bright garlands or the little pyramids of fruit, they reach a hand out to give money or to take change, they say "Good morning" or "Thank you," they turn with me and retrace my steps back to the bare little room I've come to call home.
Patiently, they stand beside me staring out over the soiled roofs of the world until the light fades and we are all one or no one.
They ask for so little, a prayer now and then, a toast to their health which is our health, a few lies no one reads incised on a dull plaque between a pharmacy and a sports store, the least little daily miracle.
Written by Ogden Nash | Create an image from this poem

Adventures Of Isabel

 Isabel met an enormous bear,
Isabel, Isabel, didn't care;
The bear was hungry, the bear was ravenous,
The bear's big mouth was cruel and cavernous.
The bear said, Isabel, glad to meet you, How do, Isabel, now I'll eat you! Isabel, Isabel, didn't worry.
Isabel didn't scream or scurry.
She washed her hands and she straightened her hair up, Then Isabel quietly ate the bear up.
Once in a night as black as pitch Isabel met a wicked old witch.
the witch's face was cross and wrinkled, The witch's gums with teeth were sprinkled.
Ho, ho, Isabel! the old witch crowed, I'll turn you into an ugly toad! Isabel, Isabel, didn't worry, Isabel didn't scream or scurry, She showed no rage and she showed no rancor, But she turned the witch into milk and drank her.
Isabel met a hideous giant, Isabel continued self reliant.
The giant was hairy, the giant was horrid, He had one eye in the middle of his forhead.
Good morning, Isabel, the giant said, I'll grind your bones to make my bread.
Isabel, Isabel, didn't worry, Isabel didn't scream or scurry.
She nibled the zwieback that she always fed off, And when it was gone, she cut the giant's head off.
Isabel met a troublesome doctor, He punched and he poked till he really shocked her.
The doctor's talk was of coughs and chills And the doctor's satchel bulged with pills.
The doctor said unto Isabel, Swallow this, it will make you well.
Isabel, Isabel, didn't worry, Isabel didn't scream or scurry.
She took those pills from the pill concocter, And Isabel calmly cured the doctor.
Written by Edwin Arlington Robinson | Create an image from this poem

Richard Cory

Whenever Richard Cory went down town,
We people on the pavement looked at him:
He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
Clean favored and imperially slim.
And he was always quietly arrayed, And he was always human when he talked, But still he fluttered pulses when he said, "Good-morning," and he glittered when he walked.
And he was rich--yes, richer than a king-- And admirably schooled in every grace: In fine, we thought that he was everything To make us wish that we were in his place.
So on we worked, and waited for the light, And went without the meat and cursed the bread; And Richard Cory, one calm summer night, Went home and put a bullet through his head.
Written by Hilaire Belloc | Create an image from this poem

The Early Morning

 The moon on the one hand, the dawn on the other:
The moon is my sister, the dawn is my brother.
The moon on my left and the dawn on my right.
My brother, good morning: my sister, good night.
Written by William Henry Davies | Create an image from this poem

A Greeting

 Good morning, Life--and all 
Things glad and beautiful.
My pockets nothing hold, But he that owns the gold, The Sun, is my great friend-- His spending has no end.
Hail to the morning sky, Which bright clouds measure high; Hail to you birds whose throats Would number leaves by notes; Hail to you shady bowers, And you green field of flowers.
Hail to you women fair, That make a show so rare In cloth as white as milk-- Be't calico or silk: Good morning, Life--and all Things glad and beautiful.
Written by Philip Levine | Create an image from this poem

Green Thumb

 Shake out my pockets! Harken to the call 
Of that calm voice that makes no sound at all! 
Take of me all you can; my average weight 
May make amends for this, my low estate.
But do not shake, Green Thumb, as once you did My heart and liver, or my prostate bid Good Morning to -- leave it, the savage gland Content within the mercy of my hand.
The world was safe in winter, I was spring, Enslaved and rattling to the slightest thing That she might give.
If planter were my trade Why was I then not like a planter made: With veins like rivers, smudge-pots for a soul, A simple mind geared to a simple goal? You fashioned me, great headed and obscene On two weak legs, the weakest thing between.
My blood was bubbling like a ten-day stew; it kept on telling me the thing to do.
I asked, she acquiesced, and then we fell To private Edens in the midst of hell.
For forty days temptation was our meal, The night our guide, and what we could not feel We could not trust.
Later, beneath the bed, We found you taking notes of all we said.
At last we parted, she to East Moline, I to the service of the great unseen.
All the way home I watched a circling crow And read your falling portents in the snow.
I burned my clothes, I moved, I changed my name, But every night, unstamped her letter came: "Ominous cramps and pains.
" I cursed the vows That cattle make to grass when cattle browse.
Heartsick and tired, to you, Green Thumb, I prayed For her reprieve and that our debt be paid By my remorse.
"Give me a sign," I said, "Give me my burning bush.
" You squeaked the bed.
I hid my face like Moses on the hill, But unlike Moses did not feel my will Swell with new strength; I put my choice to sleep.
That night we cowered, choice and I, like sheep.
When I awoke I found beneath the door Only the invoice from the liquor store.
The grape-vine brought the word.
I switched to beer: She had become a civil engineer.
When I went walking birds and children fled.
I took my love, myself, behind the shed; The shed burned down.
I switched to milk and eggs.
At night a dream ran up and down my legs.
I have endured, as Godless Nazarite, Life like a bone even a dog would slight; All that the dog would have, I have refused.
May I, of all your subjects, be excused? The world is yours, Green Thumb; I smell your heat Licking the winter to a green defeat.
The creatures join, the coupling seasons start; Leave me, Green Thumb, my solitary part.
Written by Marriott Edgar | Create an image from this poem

Three HaPence a Foot

 I'll tell you an old-fashioned story 
That Grandfather used to relate, 
Of a joiner and building contractor; 
'Is name, it were Sam Oglethwaite.
In a shop on the banks of the Irwell, Old Sam used to follow 'is trade, In a place you'll have 'eard of, called Bury; You know, where black puddings is made.
One day, Sam were filling a knot 'ole Wi' putty, when in thro' the door Came an old feller fair wreathed wi' whiskers; T'ould chap said 'Good morning, I'm Noah.
' Sam asked Noah what was 'is business, And t'ould chap went on to remark, That not liking the look of the weather, 'E were thinking of building an Ark.
'E'd gotten the wood for the bulwarks, And all t'other shipbuilding junk, And wanted some nice Bird's Eye Maple To panel the side of 'is bunk.
Now Maple were Sam's Monopoly; That means it were all 'is to cut, And nobody else 'adn't got none; So 'e asked Noah three ha'pence a foot.
'A ha'penny too much,' replied Noah 'A Penny a foot's more the mark; A penny a foot, and when t'rain comes, I'll give you a ride in me Ark.
' But neither would budge in the bargain; The whole daft thing were kind of a jam, So Sam put 'is tongue out at Noah, And Noah made 'Long Bacon ' at Sam In wrath and ill-feeling they parted, Not knowing when they'd meet again, And Sam had forgot all about it, 'Til one day it started to rain.
It rained and it rained for a fortni't, And flooded the 'ole countryside.
It rained and it kept' on raining, 'Til the Irwell were fifty mile wide.
The 'ouses were soon under water, And folks to the roof 'ad to climb.
They said 'twas the rottenest summer That Bury 'ad 'ad for some time.
The rain showed no sign of abating, And water rose hour by hour, 'Til the only dry land were at Blackpool, And that were on top of the Tower.
So Sam started swimming to Blackpool; It took 'im best part of a week.
'Is clothes were wet through when 'e got there, And 'is boots were beginning to leak.
'E stood to 'is watch-chain in water, On Tower top, just before dark, When who should come sailing towards 'im But old Noah, steering 'is Ark.
They stared at each other in silence, 'Til Ark were alongside, all but, Then Noah said: 'What price yer Maple?' Sam answered 'Three ha'pence a foot.
' Noah said 'Nay; I'll make thee an offer, The same as I did t'other day.
A penny a foot and a free ride.
Now, come on, lad, what does tha say?' 'Three ha'pence a foot,' came the answer.
So Noah 'is sail 'ad to hoist, And sailed off again in a dudgeon, While Sam stood determined, but moist.
Noah cruised around, flying 'is pigeons, 'Til fortieth day of the wet, And on 'is way back, passing Blackpool, 'E saw old Sam standing there yet.
'Is chin just stuck out of the water; A comical figure 'e cut, Noah said: 'Now what's the price of yer Maple?' Sam answered: 'Three ha'pence a foot.
' Said Noah: 'Ye'd best take my offer; It's last time I'll be hereabout; And if water comes half an inch higher, I'll happen get Maple for nowt.
' 'Three ha'pence a foot it'll cost yer, And as fer me,' Sam said, 'don't fret.
The sky's took a turn since this morning; I think it'll brighten up yet.
'
12