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Best Famous Teen Poems

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

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Written by Duncan Campbell Scott | Create an image from this poem

The Harvest

 Sun on the mountain,
Shade in the valley,
Ripple and lightness
Leaping along the world,
Sun, like a gold sword
Plucked from the scabbard,
Striking the wheat-fields,
Splendid and lusty,
Close-standing, full-headed,
Toppling with plenty;
Shade, like a buckler
Kindly and ample,
Sweeping the wheat-fields
Darkening and tossing;
There on the world-rim
Winds break and gather
Heaping the mist
For the pyre of the sunset;
And still as a shadow,
In the dim westward,
A cloud sloop of amethyst
Moored to the world
With cables of rain.
Acres of gold wheat Stir in the sunshine, Rounding the hill-top, Crested with plenty, Filling the valley, Brimmed with abundance, Wind in the wheat-field Eddying and settling, Swaying it, sweeping it, Lifting the rich heads, Tossing them soothingly Twinkle and shimmer The lights and the shadowings, Nimble as moonlight Astir in the mere.
Laden with odors Of peace and of plenty, Soft comes the wind From the ranks of the wheat-field, Bearing a promise Of harvest and sickle-time, Opulent threshing-floors Dusty and dim With the whirl of the flail, And wagons of bread, Sown-laden and lumbering Through the gateways of cities.
When will the reapers Strike in their sickles, Bending and grasping, Shearing and spreading; When will the gleaners Searching the stubble Take the last wheat-heads Home in their arms ? Ask not the question! - Something tremendous Moves to the answer.
Hunger and poverty Heaped like the ocean Welters and mutters, Hold back the sickles! Millions of children Born to their mothers' womb, Starved at the nipple, cry,-- Ours is the harvest! Millions of women Learned in the tragical Secrets of poverty, Sweated and beaten, cry,-- Hold back the sickles! Millions of men With a vestige of manhood, Wild-eyed and gaunt-throated, Shout with a leonine Accent of anger, Leaves us the wheat-fields! When will the reapers Strike in their sickles? Ask not the question; Something tremendous Moves to the answer.
Long have they sharpened Their fiery, impetuous Sickles of carnage, Welded them aeons Ago in the mountains Of suffering and anguish; Hearts were their hammers Blood was their fire, Sorrow their anvil, (Trusty the sickle Tempered with tears;) Time they had plenty- Harvests and harvests Passed them in agony, Only a half-filled Ear for their lot; Man that has taken God for a master Made him a law, Mocked him and cursed him, Set up this hunger, Called it necessity, Put in the blameless mouth Juda's language: The poor ye have with you Always, unending.
But up from the impotent Anguish of children, Up from the labor Fruitless, unmeaning, Of millions of mothers, Hugely necessitous, Grew by a just law Stern and implacable, Art born of poverty, The making of sickles Meet for the harvest.
And now to the wheat-fields Come the weird reapers Armed with their sickles, Whipping them keenly In the fresh-air fields, Wild with the joy of them, Finding them trusty, Hilted with teen.
Swarming like ants, The Idea for captain, No banners, no bugles, Only a terrible Ground-bass of gathering Tempest and fury, Only a tossing Of arms and of garments; Sexless and featureless, (Only the children Different among them, Crawling between their feet, Borne on their shoulders;) Rolling their shaggy heads Wild with the unheard-of Drug of the sunshine; Tears that had eaten The half of their eyelids Dry on their cheeks; Blood in their stiffened hair Clouted and darkened; Down in their cavern hearts Hunger the tiger, Leaping, exulting; Sighs that had choked them Burst into triumphing; On they come, Victory! Up to the wheat-fields, Dreamed of in visions Bred by the hunger, Seen for the first time Splendid and golden; On they come fluctuant, Seething and breaking, Weltering like fire In the pit of the earthquake, Bursting in heaps With the sudden intractable Lust of the hunger: Then when they see them- The miles of the harvest White in the sunshine, Rushing and stumbling, With the mighty and clamorous Cry of a people Starved from creation, Hurl themselves onward, Deep in the wheat-fields, Weeping like children, After ages and ages, Back at the mother the earth.
Night in the valley, Gloom on the mountain, Wind in the wheat, Far to the southward The flutter of lightning, The shudder of thunder; But high at the zenith, A cluster of stars Glimmers and throbs In the gasp of the midnight, Steady and absolute, Ancient and sure

Written by Howard Nemerov | Create an image from this poem

Lion and Honeycomb

 He didn't want to do it with skill,
He'd had enough of skill.
If he never saw Another villanelle, it would be too soon; And the same went for sonnets.
If it had been Hard work learning to rime, it would be much Harder learning not to.
The time came He had to ask himself, what did he want? What did he want when he began That idiot fiddling with the sounds of things.
He asked himself, poor moron, because he had Nobody else to ask.
The others went right on Talking about form, talking about myth And the (so help us) need for a modern idiom; The verseballs among them kept counting syllables.
So there he was, this forty-year-old teen-ager Dreaming preposterous mergers and divisions Of vowels like water, consonants like rock (While everybody kept discussing values And the need for values), for words that would Enter the silence and be there as a light.
So much coffee and so many cigarettes Gone down the drain, gone up in smoke, Just for the sake of getting something right Once in a while, something that could stand On its own flat feet to keep out windy time And the worm, something that might simply be, Not as the monument in the smoky rain Grimly endures, but that would be Only a moment's inviolable presence, The moment before disaster, before the storm, In its peculiar silence, an integer Fixed in the middle of the fall of things, Perfected and casual as to a child's eye Soap bubbles are, and skipping stones.
Written by Bob Kaufman | Create an image from this poem


 On yardbird corners of embryonic hopes, drowned in a heroin tear.
On yardbird corners of parkerflights to sound filled pockets in space.
On neuro-corners of striped brains & desperate electro-surgeons.
On alcohol corners of pointless discussion & historical hangovers.
On television corners of cornflakes & rockwells impotent America.
On university corners of tailored intellect & greek letter openers.
On military corners of megathon deaths & universal anesthesia.
On religious corners of theological limericks and On radio corners of century-long records & static events.
On advertising corners of filter-tipped ice-cream & instant instants On teen-age corners of comic book seduction and corrupted guitars, On political corners of wamted candidates & ritual lies.
On motion picture corners of lassie & other symbols.
On intellectual corners of conversational therapy & analyzed fear.
On newspaper corners of sexy headlines & scholarly comics.
On love divided corners of die now pay later mortuaries.
On philosophical corners of semantic desperadoes & idea-mongers.
On middle class corners of private school puberty & anatomical revolts On ultra-real corners of love on abandoned roller-coasters On lonely poet corners of low lying leaves & moist prophet eyes.
Written by Anne Sexton | Create an image from this poem

The Child Bearers

 Jean, death comes close to us all,
flapping its awful wings at us
and the gluey wings crawl up our nose.
Our children tremble in their teen-age cribs, whirling off on a thumb or a motorcycle, mine pushed into gnawing a stilbestrol cancer I passed on like hemophilia, or yours in the seventh grade, with her spleen smacked in by the balance beam.
And we, mothers, crumpled, and flyspotted with bringing them this far can do nothing now but pray.
Let us put your three children and my two children, ages ranging from eleven to twenty-one, and send them in a large air net up to God, with many stamps, real air mail, and huge signs attached: SPECIAL HANDLING.
DO NOT STAPLE, FOLD OR MUTILATE! And perhaps He will notice and pass a psalm over them for keeping safe for a whole, for a whole God-damned life-span.
And not even a muddled angel will peek down at us in our foxhole.
And He will not have time to send down an eyedropper of prayer for us, the mothering thing of us, as we drip into the soup and drown in the worry festering inside us, lest our children go so fast they go.
Written by Rudyard Kipling | Create an image from this poem

The Betrothed

 "You must choose between me and your cigar.
Open the old cigar-box, get me a Cuba stout, For things are running crossways, and Maggie and I are out.
We quarrelled about Havanas -- we fought o'er a good cheroot, And I knew she is exacting, and she says I am a brute.
Open the old cigar-box -- let me consider a space; In the soft blue veil of the vapour musing on Maggie's face.
Maggie is pretty to look at -- Maggie's a loving lass, But the prettiest cheeks must wrinkle, the truest of loves must pass.
There's peace in a Larranaga, there's calm in a Henry Clay; But the best cigar in an hour is finished and thrown away -- Thrown away for another as perfect and ripe and brown -- But I could not throw away Maggie for fear o' the talk o' the town! Maggie, my wife at fifty -- grey and dour and old -- With never another Maggie to purchase for love or gold! And the light of Days that have Been the dark of the Days that Are, And Love's torch stinking and stale, like the butt of a dead cigar -- The butt of a dead cigar you are bound to keep in your pocket -- With never a new one to light tho' it's charred and black to the socket! Open the old cigar-box -- let me consider a while.
Here is a mild Manila -- there is a wifely smile.
Which is the better portion -- bondage bought with a ring, Or a harem of dusky beauties, fifty tied in a string? Counsellors cunning and silent -- comforters true and tried, And never a one of the fifty to sneer at a rival bride? Thought in the early morning, solace in time of woes, Peace in the hush of the twilight, balm ere my eyelids close, This will the fifty give me, asking nought in return, With only a Suttee's passion -- to do their duty and burn.
This will the fifty give me.
When they are spent and dead, Five times other fifties shall be my servants instead.
The furrows of far-off Java, the isles of the Spanish Main, When they hear my harem is empty will send me my brides again.
I will take no heed to their raiment, nor food for their mouths withal, So long as the gulls are nesting, so long as the showers fall.
I will scent 'em with best vanilla, with tea will I temper their hides, And the Moor and the Mormon shall envy who read of the tale of my brides.
For Maggie has written a letter to give me my choice between The wee little whimpering Love and the great god Nick o' Teen.
And I have been servant of Love for barely a twelvemonth clear, But I have been Priest of Cabanas a matter of seven year; And the gloom of my bachelor days is flecked with the cheery light Of stums that I burned to Friendship and Pleasure and Work and Fight.
And I turn my eyes to the future that Maggie and I must prove, But the only light on the marshes is the Will-o'-the-Wisp of Love.
Will it see me safe through my journey or leave me bogged in the mire? Since a puff of tobacco can cloud it, shall I follow the fitful fire? Open the old cigar-box -- let me consider anew -- Old friends, and who is Maggie that I should abandon you? A million surplus Maggies are willing to bear the yoke; And a woman is only a woman, but a good Cigar is a Smoke.
Light me another Cuba -- I hold to my first-sworn vows.
If Maggie will have no rival, I'll have no Maggie for Spouse!

Written by Thomas Hardy | Create an image from this poem

The Dame of Athelhall


"Soul! Shall I see thy face," she said, 
 "In one brief hour? 
And away with thee from a loveless bed 
To a far-off sun, to a vine-wrapt bower, 
And be thine own unseparated, 
 And challenge the world's white glower? 


She quickened her feet, and met him where 
 They had predesigned: 
And they clasped, and mounted, and cleft the air 
Upon whirling wheels; till the will to bind 
Her life with his made the moments there 
 Efface the years behind.
III Miles slid, and the sight of the port upgrew As they sped on; When slipping its bond the bracelet flew From her fondled arm.
Replaced anon, Its cameo of the abjured one drew Her musings thereupon.
IV The gaud with his image once had been A gift from him: And so it was that its carving keen Refurbished memories wearing dim, Which set in her soul a throe of teen, And a tear on her lashes' brim.
V "I may not go!" she at length upspake, "Thoughts call me back - I would still lose all for your dear, dear sake; My heart is thine, friend! But my track I home to Athelhall must take To hinder household wrack!" VI He appealed.
But they parted, weak and wan: And he left the shore; His ship diminished, was low, was gone; And she heard in the waves as the daytide wore, And read in the leer of the sun that shone, That they parted for evermore.
VII She homed as she came, at the dip of eve On Athel Coomb Regaining the Hall she had sworn to leave .
The house was soundless as a tomb, And she entered her chamber, there to grieve Lone, kneeling, in the gloom.
VIII From the lawn without rose her husband's voice To one his friend: "Another her Love, another my choice, Her going is good.
Our conditions mend; In a change of mates we shall both rejoice; I hoped that it thus might end! IX "A quick divorce; she will make him hers, And I wed mine.
So Time rights all things in long, long years - Or rather she, by her bold design! I admire a woman no balk deters: She has blessed my life, in fine.
X "I shall build new rooms for my new true bride, Let the bygone be: By now, no doubt, she has crossed the tide With the man to her mind.
Far happier she In some warm vineland by his side Than ever she was with me.
Written by Robert Burns | Create an image from this poem

185. The Humble Petition of Bruar Water

 MY lord, I know your noble ear
 Woe ne’er assails in vain;
Embolden’d thus, I beg you’ll hear
 Your humble slave complain,
How saucy Phoebus’ scorching beams,
 In flaming summer-pride,
Dry-withering, waste my foamy streams,
 And drink my crystal tide.
1 The lightly-jumping, glowrin’ trouts, That thro’ my waters play, If, in their random, wanton spouts, They near the margin stray; If, hapless chance! they linger lang, I’m scorching up so shallow, They’re left the whitening stanes amang, In gasping death to wallow.
Last day I grat wi’ spite and teen, As poet Burns came by.
That, to a bard, I should be seen Wi’ half my channel dry; A panegyric rhyme, I ween, Ev’n as I was, he shor’d me; But had I in my glory been, He, kneeling, wad ador’d me.
Here, foaming down the skelvy rocks, In twisting strength I rin; There, high my boiling torrent smokes, Wild-roaring o’er a linn: Enjoying each large spring and well, As Nature gave them me, I am, altho’ I say’t mysel’, Worth gaun a mile to see.
Would then my noble master please To grant my highest wishes, He’ll shade my banks wi’ tow’ring trees, And bonie spreading bushes.
Delighted doubly then, my lord, You’ll wander on my banks, And listen mony a grateful bird Return you tuneful thanks.
The sober lav’rock, warbling wild, Shall to the skies aspire; The gowdspink, Music’s gayest child, Shall sweetly join the choir; The blackbird strong, the lintwhite clear, The mavis mild and mellow; The robin pensive Autumn cheer, In all her locks of yellow.
This, too, a covert shall ensure, To shield them from the storm; And coward maukin sleep secure, Low in her grassy form: Here shall the shepherd make his seat, To weave his crown of flow’rs; Or find a shelt’ring, safe retreat, From prone-descending show’rs.
And here, by sweet, endearing stealth, Shall meet the loving pair, Despising worlds, with all their wealth, As empty idle care; The flow’rs shall vie in all their charms, The hour of heav’n to grace; And birks extend their fragrant arms To screen the dear embrace.
Here haply too, at vernal dawn, Some musing bard may stray, And eye the smoking, dewy lawn, And misty mountain grey; Or, by the reaper’s nightly beam, Mild-chequering thro’ the trees, Rave to my darkly dashing stream, Hoarse-swelling on the breeze.
Let lofty firs, and ashes cool, My lowly banks o’erspread, And view, deep-bending in the pool, Their shadow’s wat’ry bed: Let fragrant birks, in woodbines drest, My craggy cliffs adorn; And, for the little songster’s nest, The close embow’ring thorn.
So may old Scotia’s darling hope, Your little angel band Spring, like their fathers, up to prop Their honour’d native land! So may, thro’ Albion’s farthest ken, To social-flowing glasses, The grace be—“Athole’s honest men, And Athole’s bonie lasses!” Note 1.
Bruar Falls, in Athole, are exceedingly picturesque and beautiful; but their effect is much impaired by the want of trees and shrubs.