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 Elizabeth Barrett Browning
45 Thunchaththu Ramanujan Ezhuthachan
46 Roger McGough
47 Sara Teasdale
48 Victor Hugo
49 George (Lord) Byron
50 Gary Soto

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Famous Short Muse Poems

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

Other Short Poem Pages


Poems are below...


Muse | Short Famous Poems and Poets

 
by Billy Jno Hope

Half Steps

 folly cracked the mirror
a soul gasping wound
voodoo induced vertigo
psychedelic blackouts
in the cracks
between art and blasphemy
paralyzing paranoia of becoming
the vision that heals
cast shadows to douse the flames
starved enlightenment
i betrayed my muse
i wallowed in nostalgic fumes
blood clots from yesteryears insurrection mad dissident desire found wanting a rage dissipating in the twilight of friendship a facade evolved.


by Erica Jong

Autobiographical

 The lover in these poems
is me;
the doctor,
Love.
He appears as husband, lover analyst & muse, as father, son & maybe even God & surely death.
All this is true.
The man you turn to in the dark is many men.
This is an open secret women share & yet agree to hide as if they might then hide it from themselves.
I will not hide.
I write in the nude.
I name names.
I am I.
The doctor's name is Love.


by Anne Bronte

Retirement

 O, let me be alone a while,
No human form is nigh.
And may I sing and muse aloud, No mortal ear is by.
Away! ye dreams of earthly bliss, Ye earthly cares begone: Depart! ye restless wandering thoughts, And let me be alone! One hour, my spirit, stretch thy wings, And quit this joyless sod, Bask in the sunshine of the sky, And be alone with God!


by Ralph Waldo Emerson

Loss And Gain

 Virtue runs before the muse
And defies her skill,
She is rapt, and doth refuse
To wait a painter's will.
Star-adoring, occupied, Virtue cannot bend her, Just to please a poet's pride, To parade her splendor.
The bard must be with good intent No more his, but hers, Throw away his pen and paint, Kneel with worshippers.
Then, perchance, a sunny ray From the heaven of fire, His lost tools may over-pay, And better his desire.


by Barry Tebb

UPON BEING ASKED WHY I AM NOT WRITING

 Too much gone wrong – 

No Muse, no song.


by Walt Whitman

One's-Self I Sing

 ONE’S-SELF I sing—a simple, separate Person; 
Yet utter the word Democratic, the word En-masse.
Of Physiology from top to toe I sing; Not physiognomy alone, nor brain alone, is worthy for the muse—I say the Form complete is worthier far; The Female equally with the male I sing.
Of Life immense in passion, pulse, and power, Cheerful—for freest action form’d, under the laws divine, The Modern Man I sing.


by Mark Van Doren

Farewell and Thanksgiving

 Whatever I have left unsaid
When I am dead
O'muse forgive me.
You were always there, like light, like air.
Those great good things of which the least bird sings, So why not I? Yet thank you even then, Sweet muse, Amen.


by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

EVER AND EVERYWHERE

 FAR explore the mountain hollow,
High in air the clouds then follow!

To each brook and vale the Muse

Thousand times her call renews.
Soon as a flow'ret blooms in spring, It wakens many a strain; And when Time spreads his fleeting wing, The seasons come again.
1820.
*


by Phillis Wheatley

To Captain H-----d of the 65th Regiment

 Say, muse divine, can hostile scenes delight
The warrior's bosom in the fields of fight?
Lo! here the christian and the hero join
With mutual grace to form the man divine.
In H-----D see with pleasure and surprise, Where valour kindles, and where virtue lies: Go, hero brave, still grace the post of fame, And add new glories to thine honour'd name, Still to the field, and still to virtue true: Britannia glories in no son like you.


by Arthur Hugh Clough

In the Depths

 It is not sweet content, be sure,
That moves the nobler Muse to song,
Yet when could truth come whole and pure
From hearts that inly writhe with wrong?

'T is not the calm and peaceful breast
That sees or reads the problem true;
They only know, on whom 't has prest
Too hard to hope to solve it too.
Our ills are worse than at their ease These blameless happy souls suspect, They only study the disease, Alas, who live not to detect.


by Dorothy Parker

Renunciation

 It’s a jade branch on the floor, broken in two, love,
or a stain raised on the lapped grains of a suede glove.
It’s the lace, blown by a strong breeze, of an old gown with the cranes crying at night, lost in their long sound.
It’s a vase made from the noon light in a closed place, and it falls, shatters the sharp edge of a jewel case.
It’s the Muse, mute with a shell clenched in her left hand, a refrain deep in its coils, joined to the dead sand.


by William Stafford

When I Met My Muse

 I glanced at her and took my glasses
off--they were still singing.
They buzzed like a locust on the coffee table and then ceased.
Her voice belled forth, and the sunlight bent.
I felt the ceiling arch, and knew that nails up there took a new grip on whatever they touched.
"I am your own way of looking at things," she said.
"When you allow me to live with you, every glance at the world around you will be a sort of salvation.
" And I took her hand.


by Hermann Hesse

The Poet

 O hour of my muse: why do you leave me,
Wounding me by the wingbeats of your flight?
Alone: what shall I use my mouth to utter?

How shall I pass my days? And how my nights?

I have no one to love.
I have no home.
There is no center to sustain my life.
All things to which I give myself grow rich and leave me spent, impoverished, alone.


by James Joyce

When the Shy Star Goes Forth in Heaven

 When the shy star goes forth in heaven 
All maidenly, disconsolate, 
Hear you amid the drowsy even 
One who is singing by your gate.
His song is softer than the dew And he is come to visit you.
O bend no more in revery When he at eventide is calling.
Nor muse: Who may this singer be Whose song about my heart is falling? Know you by this, the lover's chant, 'Tis I that am your visitant.


by

To John Donne

 Donne, the delight of Phoebus and each Muse
Who, to thy one, all other brains refuse;
Whose every work of thy most early wit
Came forth example, and remains so yet;
Longer a-knowing than most wits do live;
And which no affection praise enough can give!
To it, thy language, letters, arts, best life,
Which might with half mankind maintain a strife.
All which I meant to praise, and yet I would; But leave, because I cannot as I should!


by Robert Herrick

TO SIR CLIPSBY CREW

 Since to the country first I came,
I have lost my former flame;
And, methinks, I not inherit,
As I did, my ravish'd spirit.
If I write a verse or two, 'Tis with very much ado; In regard I want that wine Which should conjure up a line.
Yet, though now of Muse bereft, I have still the manners left For to thank you, noble sir, For those gifts you do confer Upon him, who only can Be in prose a grateful man.


by Victor Hugo

TO THE CANNON "VICTOR HUGO."

 {Bought with the proceeds of Readings of "Les Châtiments" during 
 the Siege of Paris.} 
 
 {1872.} 


 Thou deadly crater, moulded by my muse, 
 Cast thou thy bronze into my bowed and wounded heart, 
 And let my soul its vengeance to thy bronze impart! 


 





by Robert Herrick

UPON HIMSELF

 Thou shalt not all die; for while Love's fire shines
Upon his altar, men shall read thy lines;
And learn'd musicians shall, to honour Herrick's
Fame, and his name, both set and sing his lyrics.
To his book's end this last line he'd have placed:-- Jocund his Muse was, but his Life was chaste.


by Friedrich von Schiller

To The Muse

 What I had been without thee, I know not--yet, to my sorrow
See I what, without thee, hundreds and thousands now are.


by Robert Herrick

TO MISTRESS KATHARINE BRADSHAW THE LOVELY THAT CROWNED HIM WITH LAUREL

 My Muse in meads has spent her many hours
Sitting, and sorting several sorts of flowers,
To make for others garlands; and to set
On many a head here, many a coronet.
But amongst all encircled here, not one Gave her a day of coronation; Till you, sweet mistress, came and interwove A laurel for her, ever young as Love.
You first of all crown'd her; she must, of due, Render for that, a crown of life to you.