Short Poetry by Popular Famous Poets

 Poet
1 William Wordsworth
2 William Shakespeare
3 Oscar Wilde
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 Alfred Lord Tennyson
15 William Butler Yeats
16 Rudyard Kipling
17 Tupac Shakur
18 Edward Estlin (E E) Cummings
19 Charles Bukowski
20 Muhammad Ali
21 Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
22 Sandra Cisneros
23 Sarojini Naidu
24 Alice Walker
25 Billy Collins
26 Christina Rossetti
27 Carol Ann Duffy
28 Edgar Allan Poe
29 John Donne
30 Ralph Waldo Emerson
31 Nikki Giovanni
32 Raymond Carver
33 John Keats
34 Ogden Nash
35 Lewis Carroll
36 Thomas Hardy
37 Mark Twain
38 Spike Milligan
39 Carl Sandburg
40 Anne Sexton
41 Alexander Pushkin
42 Percy Bysshe Shelley
43 Henry David Thoreau
44 Thunchaththu Ramanujan Ezhuthachan
45 Elizabeth Barrett Browning
46 Roger McGough
47 Sara Teasdale
48 Victor Hugo
49 George (Lord) Byron
50 Gary Soto

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Famous Short March Poems

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

Other Short Poem Pages


Poems are below...


March | Short Famous Poems and Poets

 
by Emily Dickinson

Spring is the Period

 Spring is the Period
Express from God.
Among the other seasons Himself abide, But during March and April None stir abroad Without a cordial interview With God.


by A E Housman

Twice a Week the Winter Thorough

 Twice a week the winter thorough 
Here stood I to keep the goal: 
Football then was fighting sorrow 
For the young man's soul.
Now in Maytime to the wicket Out I march with bat and pad: See the son of grief at cricket Trying to be glad.
Try I will; no harm in trying: Wonder 'tis how little mirth Keeps the bones of man from lying On the bed of earth.


by Emily Dickinson

After all Birds have been investigated and laid aside --

 After all Birds have been investigated and laid aside --
Nature imparts the little Blue-Bird -- assured
Her conscientious Voice will soar unmoved
Above ostensible Vicissitude.
First at the March -- competing with the Wind -- Her panting note exalts us -- like a friend -- Last to adhere when Summer cleaves away -- Elegy of Integrity.


by Sir Walter Raleigh

Life

 What is our life? A play of passion, 
Our mirth the music of division, 
Our mother's wombs the tiring-houses be, 
Where we are dressed for this short comedy.
Heaven the judicious sharp spectator is, That sits and marks still who doth act amiss.
Our graves that hide us from the setting sun Are like drawn curtains when the play is done.
Thus march we, playing, to our latest rest, Only we die in earnest, that's no jest.


by Walt Whitman

Race of Veterans

 RACE of veterans! Race of victors! 
Race of the soil, ready for conflict! race of the conquering march! 
(No more credulity’s race, abiding-temper’d race;) 
Race henceforth owning no law but the law of itself; 
Race of passion and the storm.
5


by Gerard Manley Hopkins

At The Wedding March

 God with honour hang your head,
Groom, and grace you, bride, your bed
With lissome scions, sweet scions,
Out of hallowed bodies bred.
Each be other's comfort kind: Déep, déeper than divined, Divine charity, dear charity, Fast you ever, fast bind.
Then let the March tread our ears: I to him turn with tears Who to wedlock, his wonder wedlock, Déals tríumph and immortal years.


by Gary Snyder

For Lew Welch In A Snowfall

 Snowfall in March:
I sit in the white glow reading a thesis
About you.
Your poems, your life.
The author's my student, He even quotes me.
Forty years since we joked in a kitchen in Portland Twenty since you disappeared.
All those years and their moments— Crackling bacon, slamming car doors, Poems tried out on friends, Will be one more archive, One more shaky text.
But life continues in the kitchen Where we still laugh and cook, Watching snow.


by Siegfried Sassoon

Suicide In The Trenches

 I knew a simple soldier boy 
Who grinned at life in empty joy, 
Slept soundly through the lonesome dark, 
And whistled early with the lark.
In winter trenches, cowed and glum, With crumps and lice and lack of rum, He put a bullet through his brain.
No one spoke of him again.
You smug-faced crowds with kindling eye Who cheer when soldier lads march by, Sneak home and pray you'll never know The hell where youth and laughter go.


by Federico García Lorca

Serenata

 The night soaks itself
along the shore of the river
and in Lolita's breasts
the branches die of love.
The branches die of love.
Naked the night sings above the bridges of March.
Lolita bathes her body with salt water and roses.
The branches die of love.
The night of anise and silver shines over the rooftops.
Silver of streams and mirrors Anise of your white thighs.
The branches die of love.


by Emily Dickinson

March is the Month of Expectation

 March is the Month of Expectation.
The things we do not know -- The Persons of prognostication Are coming now -- We try to show becoming firmness -- But pompous Joy Betrays us, as his first Betrothal Betrays a Boy.


by Walt Whitman

An Army Corps on the March

 WITH its cloud of skirmishers in advance, 
With now the sound of a single shot, snapping like a whip, and now an irregular volley, 
The swarming ranks press on and on, the dense brigades press on; 
Glittering dimly, toiling under the sun—the dust-cover’d men, 
In columns rise and fall to the undulations of the ground,
With artillery interspers’d—the wheels rumble, the horses sweat, 
As the army corps advances.


by Belinda Subraman

Yin Yang

 At the edge of winter
in crisp early March
a dull thud of numbness
delays joy and sadness
that will make us weep.
In the flow of life every aspect bears its opposite.
Between extremes there’s the balance of peace or peace in the realization of balance.
With the warm blanket of knowledge is the freezing cold of truth.
We are greeted with tears as we come into this world and tears as we go out.


by Paul Muldoon

Why Brownlee Left

 Why Brownlee left, and where he went,
Is a mystery even now.
For if a man should have been content It was him; two acres of barley, One of potatoes, four bullocks, A milker, a slated farmhouse.
He was last seen going out to plough On a March morning, bright and early.
By noon Brownlee was famous; They had found all abandoned, with The last rig unbroken, his pair of black Horses, like man and wife, Shifting their weight from foot to Foot, and gazing into the future.


by William Butler Yeats

Father And Child

 She hears me strike the board and say
That she is under ban
Of all good men and women,
Being mentioned with a man
That has the worst of all bad names;
And thereupon replies
That his hair is beautiful,
Cold as the March wind his eyes.


by Mother Goose

The Merchants Of London


Hey diddle dinkety poppety pet,
The merchants of London they wear scarlet,
Silk in the collar and gold in the hem,
So merrily march the merchant men.


by Li Po

Farewell to Meng Hao-jan

 I took leave of you, old friend, at the 
Yellow Crane Pavilion; 
In the mist and bloom of March, you went 
down to Yang-chou: 
A lonely sail, distant shades, extinguished by blue-- 
There, at the horizon, where river meets sky.


by Stephen Crane

Friend your white beard sweeps the ground

 Friend, your white beard sweeps the ground.
Why do you stand, expectant? Do you hope to see it In one of your withered days? With your old eyes Do you hope to see The triumphal march of justice? Do not wait, friend! Take your white beard And your old eyes To more tender lands.


by Stephen Crane

On the horizon the peaks assembled

 On the horizon the peaks assembled;
And as I looked,
The march of the mountains began.
As they marched, they sang, "Aye! We come! We come!"


by Henry Van Dyke

America

 I love thine inland seas, 
Thy groves of giant trees,
Thy rolling plains;
Thy rivers' mighty sweep, 
Thy mystic canyons deep, 
Thy mountains wild and steep,
All thy domains; 

Thy silver Eastern strands, 
Thy Golden Gate that stands
Wide to the West;
Thy flowery Southland fair, 
Thy sweet and crystal air, --
O land beyond compare,
Thee I love best! 

Additional verses for the 
National Hymn, 
March, 1906.


by Emily Dickinson

The duties of the Wind are few

 The duties of the Wind are few,
To cast the ships, at Sea,
Establish March, the Floods escort,
And usher Liberty.
The pleasures of the Wind are broad, To dwell Extent among, Remain, or wander, Speculate, or Forests entertain.
The kinsmen of the Wind are Peaks Azof -- the Equinox, Also with Bird and Asteroid A bowing intercourse.
The limitations of the Wind Do he exist, or die, Too wise he seems for Wakelessness, However, know not i.


by Duncan Campbell Scott

Stone Breaking

 March wind rough
Clashed the trees,
Flung the snow;
Breaking stones,
In the cold,
Germans slow
Toiled and toiled;
Arrowy sun
Glanced and sprang,
One right blithe
German sang:
Songs of home, 
Fatherland:
Syenite hard,
Weary lot,
Callous hand,
All forgot:
Hammers pound,
Ringing round;
Rise the heaps,
To his voice,
Bounds and leaps
Toise on toise:
Toil is long,
But dear God
Gives us song,
At the end
Gives us test, 
Toil is best.


by Emily Dickinson

A prompt -- executive Bird is the Jay --

 A prompt -- executive Bird is the Jay --
Bold as a Bailiff's Hymn --
Brittle and Brief in quality --
Warrant in every line --

Sitting a Bough like a Brigadier
Confident and straight --
Much is the mien of him in March
As a Magistrate --


by Emily Dickinson

The ones that disappeared are back

 The ones that disappeared are back
The Phoebe and the Crow
Precisely as in March is heard
The curtness of the Jay --
Be this an Autumn or a Spring
My wisdom loses way
One side of me the nuts are ripe
The other side is May.


by Mother Goose

March Winds


March winds and April showers
Bring forth May flowers.

    Hot-cross Buns!
    Hot-cross Buns!
One a penny, two a penny,
    Hot-cross Buns!
    Hot-cross Buns!
    Hot-cross Buns!
If ye have no daughters,
Give them to your sons.


by Walt Whitman

Not the Pilot

 NOT the pilot has charged himself to bring his ship into port, though beaten back, and
 many
 times
 baffled; 
Not the path-finder, penetrating inland, weary and long, 
By deserts parch’d, snows-chill’d, rivers wet, perseveres till he reaches his
 destination,

More than I have charged myself, heeded or unheeded, to compose a free march for These
 States, 
To be exhilarating music to them—a battle-call, rousing to arms, if need
 be—years,
 centuries hence.
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