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 Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
23 Alice Walker
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 Poets Poems

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

Other Short Poem Pages


Poems are below...


Poets | Short Famous Poems and Poets

 
by Dorothy Parker

Lines On Reading Too Many Poets

 Roses, rooted warm in earth,
Bud in rhyme, another age;
Lilies know a ghostly birth
Strewn along a patterned page;
Golden lad and chimbley sweep
Die; and so their song shall keep.
Wind that in Arcadia starts In and out a couplet plays; And the drums of bitter hearts Beat the measure of a phrase.
Sweets and woes but come to print Quae cum ita sint.


by Percy Bysshe Shelley

The Poets Dream

ON a Poet's lips I slept  
Dreaming like a love-adept 
In the sound his breathing kept; 
Nor seeks nor finds he mortal blisses  
But feeds on the aerial kisses 5 
Of shapes that haunt Thought's wildernesses.
He will watch from dawn to gloom The lake-reflected sun illume The blue bees in the ivy-bloom Nor heed nor see what things they be¡ª 10 But from these create he can Forms more real than living man Nurslings of Immortality!


by Dorothy Parker

Bohemia

 Authors and actors and artists and such
Never know nothing, and never know much.
Sculptors and singers and those of their kidney Tell their affairs from Seattle to Sydney.
Playwrights and poets and such horses' necks Start off from anywhere, end up at sex.
Diarists, critics, and similar roe Never say nothing, and never say no.
People Who Do Things exceed my endurance; God, for a man that solicits insurance!


by Andrei Voznesensky

ABUSES AND AWARDS

 A poet can't be in disfavour, 
 he needs no awards, no fame.
A star has no setting whatever, no black nor a golden frame.
A star can't be killed with a stone, or award, or that kind of stuff.
He'll bear the blow of a fawner lamenting he's not big enough.
What matters is music and fervour, not fame, nor abuse, anyway.
World powers are out of favour when poets turn them away.
© Copyright Alec Vagapov's translation


by Sarojini Naidu

The Poets Love-Song

 In noon-tide hours, O Love, secure and strong, 
I need thee not; mad dreams are mine to bind
The world to my desire, and hold the wind
A voiceless captive to my conquering song.
I need thee not, I am content with these: Keep silence in thy soul, beyond the seas! But in the desolate hour of midnight, when An ectasy of starry silence sleeps And my soul hungers for thy voice, O then, Love, like the magic of wild melodies, Let thy soul answer mine across the seas.


by Robert Herrick

ORPHEUS

 Orpheus he went, as poets tell,
To fetch Eurydice from hell;
And had her, but it was upon
This short, but strict condition;
Backward he should not look, while he
Led her through hell's obscurity.
But ah! it happen'd, as he made His passage through that dreadful shade, Revolve he did his loving eye, For gentle fear or jealousy; And looking back, that look did sever Him and Eurydice for ever.


by Richard Wilbur

To the Etruscan Poets

 Dream fluently, still brothers, who when young
Took with your mother's milk the mother tongue,

In which pure matrix, joining world and mind,
You strove to leave some line of verse behind

Like still fresh tracks across a field of snow,
Not reckoning that all could melt and go.


by William Butler Yeats

He Tells Of The Perfect Beauty

 O cloud-pale eyelids, dream-dimmed eyes,
The poets labouring all their days
To build a perfect beauty in rhyme
Are overthrown by a woman's gaze
And by the unlabouring brood of the skies:
And therefore my heart will bow, when dew
Is dropping sleep, until God burn time,
Before the unlabouring stars and you.


by William Butler Yeats

To A Poet Who Would Have Me Praise Certain Bad Poets Imitators Of His And Mine

 You say, as I have often given tongue
In praise of what another's said or sung,
'Twere politic to do the like by these;
But was there ever dog that praised his fleas?


by Emily Dickinson

The Poets light but Lamps --

 The Poets light but Lamps --
Themselves -- go out --
The Wicks they stimulate --
If vital Light

Inhere as do the Suns --
Each Age a Lens
Disseminating their
Circumference --


by Robert William Service

What Kisses Had John Keats?

 I scanned two lines with some surmise
As over Keats I chanced to pore:
'And there I shut her wild, wild eyes
 With kisses four.
' Says I: 'Why was it only four, Not five or six or seven? I think I would have made it more,-- Even eleven.
'Gee! If she'd lured a guy like me Into her gelid grot I'd make that Belle Dame sans Merci Sure kiss a lot.
'Them poets have their little tricks; I think John counted kisses for, Not two or three or five or six To rhyme with "sore.
"'


by Emily Dickinson

Besides the Autumn poets sing

 Besides the Autumn poets sing
A few prosaic days
A little this side of the snow
And that side of the Haze --

A few incisive Mornings --
A few Ascetic Eves --
Gone -- Mr.
Bryant's "Golden Rod" -- And Mr.
Thomson's "sheaves.
" Still, is the bustle in the Brook -- Sealed are the spicy valves -- Mesmeric fingers softly touch The Eyes of many Elves -- Perhaps a squirrel may remain -- My sentiments to share -- Grant me, Oh Lord, a sunny mind -- Thy windy will to bear!


by Walter Savage Landor

Lately our poets

 Lately our poets loiter'd in green lanes,
Content to catch the ballads of the plains;
I fancied I had strength enough to climb
A loftier station at no distant time,
And might securely from intrusion doze
Upon the flowers thro' which Ilissus flows.
In those pale olive grounds all voices cease, And from afar dust fills the paths of Greece.
My sluber broken and my doublet torn, I find the laurel also bears a thorn.


by Carolyn Kizer

Poets Household

 1

The stout poet tiptoes
On the lawn.
Surprisingly limber In his thick sweater Like a middle-age burglar.
Is the young robin injured? 2 She bends to feed the geese Revealing the neck’s white curve Below her curled hair.
Her husband seems not to watch, But she shimmers in his poem.
3 A hush is on the house, The only noise, a fern, Rustling in a vase.
On the porch, the fierce poet Is chanting words to himself.


by Li Po

To Tu Fu from Shantung

 You ask how I spend my time--
I nestle against a treetrunk
and listen to autumn winds
in the pines all night and day.
Shantung wine can't get me drunk.
The local poets bore me.
My thoughts remain with you, like the Wen River, endlessly flowing.


by Lucy Maud Montgomery

The Poets Thought

 It came to him in rainbow dreams, 
Blent with the wisdom of the sages, 
Of spirit and of passion born; 
In words as lucent as the morn 
He prisoned it, and now it gleams 
A jewel shining through the ages.


by Joyce Kilmer

Poets

 Vain is the chiming of forgotten bells
That the wind sways above a ruined shrine.
Vainer his voice in whom no longer dwells Hunger that craves immortal Bread and Wine.
Light songs we breathe that perish with our breath Out of our lips that have not kissed the rod.
They shall not live who have not tasted death.
They only sing who are struck dumb by God.


by James Joyce

Though I Thy Mithridates Were

 Though I thy Mithridates were, 
Framed to defy the poison-dart, 
Yet must thou fold me unaware 
To know the rapture of thy heart, 
And I but render and confess 
The malice of thy tenderness.
For elegant and antique phrase, Dearest, my lips wax all too wise; Nor have I known a love whose praise Our piping poets solemnize, Neither a love where may not be Ever so little falsity.


by Vachel Lindsay

The Encyclopaedia

 "If I could set the moon upon
This table," said my friend, 
"Among the standard poets 
And brouchures without end, 
And noble prints of old Japan,
How empty they would seem,
By that encyclopaedia
Of whim and glittering dream.
"


by Constantine P Cavafy

He Came To Read

 He came to read.
Two or three books are open; historians and poets.
But he only read for ten minutes, and gave them up.
He is dozing on the sofa.
He is fully devoted to books -- but he is twenty-three years old, and he's very handsome; and this afternoon love passed through his ideal flesh, his lips.
Through his flesh which is full of beauty the heat of love passed; without any silly shame for the form of the enjoyment.
.
.
.
.


by Robert Herrick

UPON A MAID

 Here she lies, in bed of spice,
Fair as Eve in paradise;
For her beauty, it was such,
Poets could not praise too much.
Virgins come, and in a ring Her supremest REQUIEM sing; Then depart, but see ye tread Lightly, lightly o'er the dead.


by Emily Dickinson

The Martyr Poets -- did not tell --

 The Martyr Poets -- did not tell --
But wrought their Pang in syllable --
That when their mortal name be numb --
Their mortal fate -- encourage Some --

The Martyr Painters -- never spoke --
Bequeathing -- rather -- to their Work --
That when their conscious fingers cease --
Some seek in Art -- the Art of Peace --


by Robert Herrick

UPON THE DETRACTER

 I ask'd thee oft what poets thou hast read,
And lik'st the best? Still thou repli'st, The dead.
--I shall, ere long, with green turfs cover'd be; Then sure thou'lt like, or thou wilt envy, me.