10 Best Famous Playroom Poems

Here is a collection of the top 10 all-time best famous Playroom poems. This is a select list of the best famous Playroom poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Playroom poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of playroom poems.

• All Famous Playroom Poems

 And now behold this sulking boy,
His costly presents bring no joy;
Harsh tears of anger fill his eye
Tho’ he has all that wealth can buy.
What profits it that he employs
His many gifts to make a noise?
His playroom is so placed that he
Can cause his folks no agony.

MORAL:

Mere worldly wealth does not possess
The power of giving happiness.

 for Sylvia Plath
O Sylvia, Sylvia, 
with a dead box of stones and spoons, 
with two children, two meteors 
wandering loose in a tiny playroom, 
with your mouth into the sheet, 
into the roofbeam, into the dumb prayer, 
(Sylvia, Sylvia 
where did you go 
after you wrote me 
from Devonshire 
about rasing potatoes 
and keeping bees?) 
what did you stand by, 
just how did you lie down into? 
Thief -- 
how did you crawl into, 
crawl down alone 
into the death I wanted so badly and for so long, 
the death we said we both outgrew, 
the one we wore on our skinny breasts, 
the one we talked of so often each time 
we downed three extra dry martinis in Boston, 
the death that talked of analysts and cures, 
the death that talked like brides with plots, 
the death we drank to, 
the motives and the quiet deed? 
(In Boston 
the dying 
ride in cabs, 
yes death again, 
that ride home 
with our boy.) 
O Sylvia, I remember the sleepy drummer 
who beat on our eyes with an old story, 
how we wanted to let him come 
like a sadist or a New York fairy 
to do his job, 
a necessity, a window in a wall or a crib, 
and since that time he waited 
under our heart, our cupboard, 
and I see now that we store him up 
year after year, old suicides 
and I know at the news of your death 
a terrible taste for it, like salt, 
(And me, 
me too. 
And now, Sylvia, 
you again 
with death again, 
that ride home 
with our boy.) 
And I say only 
with my arms stretched out into that stone place, 
what is your death 
but an old belonging, 
a mole that fell out 
of one of your poems? 
(O friend, 
while the moon's bad, 
and the king's gone, 
and the queen's at her wit's end 
the bar fly ought to sing!) 
O tiny mother, 
you too! 
O funny duchess! 
O blonde thing!

 The day was when I did not keep myself in readiness for thee; 
and entering my heart unbidden even as one of the common crowd, 
unknown to me, my king, thou didst press the signet of eternity upon 
many a fleeting moment of my life. 

And today when by chance I light upon them and see thy signature, 
I find they have lain scattered in the dust mixed with the memory of 
joys and sorrows of my trivial days forgotten. 

Thou didst not turn in contempt from my childish play among dust, 
and the steps that I heard in my playroom 
are the same that are echoing from star to star.