Short Poetry by Popular Famous Poets

 Poet
1 William Wordsworth
2 Oscar Wilde
3 William Shakespeare
4 Emily Dickinson
5 Maya Angelou
6 Rabindranath Tagore
7 Robert Frost
8 Langston Hughes
9 Walt Whitman
10 Shel Silverstein
11 William Blake
12 Sylvia Plath
13 Pablo Neruda
14 William Butler Yeats
15 Alfred Lord Tennyson
16 Rudyard Kipling
17 Tupac Shakur
18 Edward Estlin (E E) Cummings
19 Charles Bukowski
20 Sandra Cisneros
21 Muhammad Ali
22 Alice Walker
23 Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
24 Billy Collins
25 Sarojini Naidu
26 Christina Rossetti
27 Carol Ann Duffy
28 Edgar Allan Poe
29 John Donne
30 Ralph Waldo Emerson
31 Nikki Giovanni
32 John Keats
33 Raymond Carver
34 Ogden Nash
35 Lewis Carroll
36 Thomas Hardy
37 Mark Twain
38 Spike Milligan
39 Anne Sexton
40 Carl Sandburg
41 Alexander Pushkin
42 Elizabeth Barrett Browning
43 Percy Bysshe Shelley
44 Henry David Thoreau
45 Victor Hugo
46 Roger McGough
47 Sara Teasdale
48 George (Lord) Byron
49 Gary Soto
50 Gwendolyn Brooks

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Famous Short Lust Poems

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

Other Short Poem Pages


Poems are below...


Lust | Short Famous Poems and Poets

 
by Ben Jonson

On Gut


CXVIII.
 ? ON GUT.
  
GUT eats all day and letchers all the night,
   So all his meat he tasteth over twice ;
And striving so to double his delight,
   He makes himself a thorough-fare of vice.
Thus, in his belly, can he change a sin,
Lust it comes out, that gluttony went in.



by Emily Bronte

The Old Stoic

 Riches I hold in light esteem,
And love I laugh to scorn;
And lust of fame was but a dream
That vanish'd with the morn:

And if I pray, the only prayer
That moves my lips for me
Is, "Leave the heart that now I bear,
And give me liberty!"

Yes, as my swift days near their goal,
'Tis all that I implore:
In life and death a chainless soul,
With courage to endure


by Theodore Roethke

Pickle Belt

 The fruit rolled by all day.
They prayed the cogs would creep; They thought about Saturday pay, And Sunday sleep.
Whatever he smelled was good: The fruit and flesh smells mixed.
There beside him she stood,-- And he, perplexed; He, in his shrunken britches, Eyes rimmed with pickle dust, Prickling with all the itches Of sixteen-year-old lust.


by Robert Graves

A Dead Boche

 To you who’d read my songs of War 
And only hear of blood and fame, 
I’ll say (you’ve heard it said before) 
”War’s Hell!” and if you doubt the same, 
Today I found in Mametz Wood
A certain cure for lust of blood: 

Where, propped against a shattered trunk, 
In a great mess of things unclean, 
Sat a dead Boche; he scowled and stunk 
With clothes and face a sodden green,
Big-bellied, spectacled, crop-haired, 
Dribbling black blood from nose and beard.


by Edgar Lee Masters

Marie Bateson

 You observe the carven hand
With the index finger pointing heavenward.
That is the direction, no doubt.
But how shall one follow it? It is well to abstain from murder and lust, To forgive, do good to others, worship God Without graven images.
But these are external means after all By which you chiefly do good to yourself.
The inner kernel is freedom, It is light, purity -- I can no more, Find the goal or lose it, according to your vision.


by William Butler Yeats

The Spur

 You think it horrible that lust and rage
Should dance attention upon my old age;
They were not such a plague when I was young;
What else have I to spur me into song?


by Sir Thomas Wyatt

Since so Ye Please

 Since so ye please to hear me plain,
And that ye do rejoice my smart,
Me list no lenger to remain
To such as be so overthwart.
But cursed be that cruel heart Which hath procur'd a careless mind For me and mine unfeigned smart, And forceth me such faults to find.
More than too much I am assured Of thine intent, whereto to trust; A speedless proof I have endured, And now I leave it to them that lust.


by Vachel Lindsay

The Cornfields

 The cornfields rise above mankind, 
Lifting white torches to the blue, 
Each season not ashamed to be 
Magnificently decked for you.
What right have you to call them yours, And in brute lust of riches burn Without some radiant penance wrought, Some beautiful, devout return?