Short Poetry by Popular Famous Poets

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

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Famous Short River Poems

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

Other Short Poem Pages


Poems are below...


River | Short Famous Poems and Poets

 
by Emily Dickinson

How far is it to Heaven?

 How far is it to Heaven?
As far as Death this way --
Of River or of Ridge beyond
Was no discovery.
How far is it to Hell? As far as Death this way -- How far left hand the Sepulchre Defies Topography.


by Rabindranath Tagore

Friend

 Art thou abroad on this stormy night 
on thy journey of love, my friend? 
The sky groans like one in despair.
I have no sleep tonight.
Ever and again I open my door and look out on the darkness, my friend! I can see nothing before me.
I wonder where lies thy path! By what dim shore of the ink-black river, by what far edge of the frowning forest, through what mazy depth of gloom art thou threading thy course to come to me, my friend?


by Pablo Neruda

Always

 I am not jealous
of what came before me.
Come with a man on your shoulders, come with a hundred men in your hair, come with a thousand men between your breasts and your feet, come like a river full of drowned men which flows down to the wild sea, to the eternal surf, to Time! Bring them all to where I am waiting for you; we shall always be alone, we shall always be you and I alone on earth to start our life!


by Carl Sandburg

Happiness

 I ASKED the professors who teach the meaning of life to tell
me what is happiness.
And I went to famous executives who boss the work of thousands of men.
They all shook their heads and gave me a smile as though I was trying to fool with them And then one Sunday afternoon I wandered out along the Desplaines river And I saw a crowd of Hungarians under the trees with their women and children and a keg of beer and an accordion.


by Yosa Buson

Early summer rain

 Early summer rain--
houses facing the river,
 two of them


by Walter de la Mare

Why?

 Ever, ever
Stir and shiver
The reeds and rushes
By the river:
Ever, ever,
As if in dream,
The lone moon's silver
Sleeks the stream.
What old sorrow, What lost love, Moon, reeds, rushes, Dream you of?


by Paul Eluard

The River

 The river I have under my tongue,
Unimaginable water, my little boat,
And curtains lowered, let's speak.


by Antonio Machado

Passageways

 Who set, between those rocks like cinder,
to show the honey of dream,
that golden broom,
those blue rosemaries?
Who painted the purple mountains
and the saffron, sunset sky?
The hermitage, the beehives,
the cleft of the river
the endless rolling water deep in rocks,
the pale-green of new fields,
all of it, even the white and pink
under the almond trees!


by Spike Milligan

Summer Dawn

 My sleeping children are still flying dreams 
in their goose-down heads.
The lush of the river singing morning songs Fish watch their ceilings turn sun-white.
The grey-green pike lances upstream Kale, like mermaid's hair points the water's drift.
All is morning hush and bird beautiful.
I only, I didn't have flu.


by Rabindranath Tagore

Lovers Gifts IV: She Is Near to My Heart

 She is near to my heart as the meadow-flower to the earth; she is
sweet to me as sleep is to tired limbs.
My love for her is my life flowing in its fullness, like a river in autumn flood, running with serene abandonment.
My songs are one with my love, like the murmur of a stream, that sings with all its waves and current.


by Ezra Pound

Ancient Music

 Winter is icummen in, 
Lhude sing Goddamm.
Raineth drop and staineth slop, And how the wind doth ramm! Sing: Goddamm.
Skiddeth bus and sloppeth us, An ague hath my ham.
Freezeth river, turneth liver, Damn you, sing: Goddamm.
Goddamm, Goddamm, 'tis why I am, Goddamm, So 'gainst the winter's balm.
Sing goddamm, damm, sing Goddamm.
Sing goddamm, sing goddamm, DAMM.
A parody of the Anglo-Saxon poem, Cuckoo Song


by Wang Wei

A FARM-HOUSE ON THE WEI RIVER

In the slant of the sun on the country-side, 
Cattle and sheep trail home along the lane; 
And a rugged old man in a thatch door 
Leans on a staff and thinks of his son, the herdboy.
There are whirring pheasants? full wheat-ears, Silk-worms asleep, pared mulberry-leaves.
And the farmers, returning with hoes on their shoulders, Hail one another familiarly.
.
.
.
No wonder I long for the simple life And am sighing the old song, Oh, to go Back Again!


by Antonio Machado

Fields of Soria

 Hills of silver plate,
grey heights, dark red rocks
through which the Duero bends
its crossbow arc
round Soria, shadowed oaks,
stone dry-lands, naked mountains,
white roads and river poplars,
twilights of Soria, warlike and mystical,
today I feel, for you, 
in my hearts depths, sadness,
sadness of love! Fields of Soria,
where it seems the stones have dreams,
you go with me! Hills of silver plate,
grey heights, dark red rocks.


by Li Po

She Spins Silk

 Far up river in Szechuan,
waters rise as spring winds roar.
How can I dare to meet her now, to brave the dangerous gorge? The grass grows green in the valley below where silk worms silently spin.
Her hands work threads that never end, dawn to dusk when the cuckoo sings.


by Dejan Stojanovic

Forgotten Home

My feelings are too loud for words 
And too shy for the world.
Read the light and have a dream In your hidden garden.
No need for words.
The words are but shadows Of stories never said, Shining from distant kingdoms, Reminding you of a forgotten home.
Light rays will tell you the story.
There is another alphabet Whispering from every leaf, Singing from every river, Shimmering from every sky.


by Derek Walcott

Midsummer Tobago

 Broad sun-stoned beaches.
White heat.
A green river.
A bridge, scorched yellow palms from the summer-sleeping house drowsing through August.
Days I have held, days I have lost, days that outgrow, like daughters, my harbouring arms.


by Li Po

Autumn River Song

 The moon shimmers in green water.
White herons fly through the moonlight.
The young man hears a girl gathering water-chestnuts: into the night, singing, they paddle home together.


by Edgar Lee Masters

Hortense Robbins

 My name used to be in the papers daily
As having dined somewhere,
Or traveled somewhere,
Or rented a house in Paris,
Where I entertained the nobility.
I was forever eating or traveling, Or taking the cure at Baden-Baden.
Now I am here to do honor To Spoon River, here beside the family whence I sprang.
No one cares now where I dined, Or lived, or whom I entertained, Or how often I took the cure at Baden-Baden!


by Rainer Maria Rilke

Moving Forward

 The deep parts of my life pour onward,
as if the river shores were opening out.
It seems that things are more like me now, That I can see farther into paintings.
I feel closer to what language can't reach.
With my senses, as with birds, I climb into the windy heaven, out of the oak, in the ponds broken off from the sky my falling sinks, as if standing on fishes.


by Bertolt Brecht

On The Critical Attitude

 The critical attitude
Strikes many people as unfruitful
That is because they find the state
Impervious to their criticism
But what in this case is an unfruitful attitude
Is merely a feeble attitude.
Give criticism arms And states can be demolished by it.
Canalising a river Grafting a fruit tree Educating a person Transforming a state These are instances of fruitful criticism And at the same time instances of art.


by Paul Celan

Cologne

 In Kohln, a town of monks and bones,
And pavements fang'd with murderous stones
And rags, and hags, and hideous wenches;
I counted two and seventy stenches,
All well defined, and several stinks!
Ye Nymphs that reign o'er sewers and sinks,
The river Rhine, it is well known,
Doth wash your city of Cologne;
 But tell me, Nymphs, what power divine
 Shall henceforth wash the river Rhine?


by Carl Sandburg

Broadway

 I SHALL never forget you, Broadway
Your golden and calling lights.
I'll remember you long, Tall-walled river of rush and play.
Hearts that know you hate you And lips that have given you laughter Have gone to their ashes of life and its roses, Cursing the dreams that were lost In the dust of your harsh and trampled stones.


by Carl Sandburg

Omaha

 RED barns and red heifers spot the green
grass circles around Omaha—the farmers
haul tanks of cream and wagon loads of cheese.
Shale hogbacks across the river at Council Bluffs—and shanties hang by an eyelash to the hill slants back around Omaha.
A span of steel ties up the kin of Iowa and Nebraska across the yellow, big-hoofed Missouri River.
Omaha, the roughneck, feeds armies, Eats and swears from a dirty face.
Omaha works to get the world a breakfast.


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 Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

BY THE RIVER

 FLOW on, ye lays so loved, so fair,

On to Oblivion's ocean flow!
May no rapt boy recall you e'er,

No maiden in her beauty's glow!

My love alone was then your theme,

But now she scorns my passion true.
Ye were but written in the stream; As it flows on, then, flow ye too! 1798.
*