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 Rudyard Kipling
14 Sylvia Plath
15 Alfred Lord Tennyson
16 William Butler Yeats
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 Ogden Nash
28 Carol Ann Duffy
29 John Donne
30 Edgar Allan Poe
31 Ralph Waldo Emerson
32 Raymond Carver
33 Nikki Giovanni
34 John Keats
35 Lewis Carroll
36 Spike Milligan
37 Thunchaththu Ramanujan Ezhuthachan
38 Thomas Hardy
39 Mark Twain
40 Carl Sandburg
41 Percy Bysshe Shelley
42 Anne Sexton
43 Alexander Pushkin
44 Roger McGough
45 Henry David Thoreau
46 Wendell Berry
47 Sara Teasdale
48 Victor Hugo
49 Elizabeth Barrett Browning
50 George (Lord) Byron

Famous Short Son Poems

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

Other Short Poem Pages


Poems are below...


Son | Short Famous Poems and Poets

 
by William Shakespeare

Carpe Diem

 O mistress mine, where are you roaming? 
O stay and hear! your true-love's coming 
That can sing both high and low; 
Trip no further, pretty sweeting, 
Journey's end in lovers' meeting-- 
Every wise man's son doth know.
What is love? 'tis not hereafter; Present mirth hath present laughter; What's to come is still unsure: In delay there lies no plenty,-- Then come kiss me, Sweet and twenty, Youth's a stuff will not endure.


by Dorothy Parker

For A Favorite Granddaughter

 Never love a simple lad,
Guard against a wise,
Shun a timid youth and sad,
Hide from haunted eyes.
Never hold your heart in pain For an evil-doer; Never flip it down the lane To a gifted wooer.
Never love a loving son, Nor a sheep astray; Gather up your skirts and run From a tender way.
Never give away a tear, Never toss a pine; Should you heed my words, my dear, You're no blood of mine!


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 Waldman

Number Song

 I've multiplied, I'm 2.
He was part of me he came out of me, he took a part of me He took me apart.
I'm 2, he's my art, no, he's separate.
He art one.
I'm not done & I'm still one.
I sing of my son.
I've multiplied.
My heart's in 2, half to him & half to you, who are also a part of him, & you & he & I make trio of kind congruity.


by Emily Dickinson

Given in Marriage unto Thee

 Given in Marriage unto Thee
Oh thou Celestial Host --
Bride of the Father and the Son
Bride of the Holy Ghost.
Other Betrothal shall dissolve -- Wedlock of Will, decay -- Only the Keeper of this Ring Conquer Mortality --


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 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 Elizabeth Bishop

Casabianca

 Love's the boy stood on the burning deck
trying to recite "The boy stood on
the burning deck.
" Love's the son stood stammering elocution while the poor ship in flames went down.
Love's the obstinate boy, the ship, even the swimming sailors, who would like a schoolroom platform, too, or an excuse to stay on deck.
And love's the burning boy.


by Patrick Kavanagh

Memory Of My Father

 Every old man I see
Reminds me of my father
When he had fallen in love with death
One time when sheaves were gathered.
That man I saw in Gardner Street Stumbled on the kerb was one, He stared at me half-eyed, I might have been his son.
And I remember the musician Faltering over his fiddle In Bayswater, London, He too set me the riddle.
Every old man I see In October-coloured weather Seems to say to me: "I was once your father.
"


by Dorothy Parker

Alfred Lord Tennyson

 Should Heaven send me any son,
I hope he's not like Tennyson.
I'd rather have him play a fiddle Than rise and bow and speak an idyll.


by Hilaire Belloc

Algernon

 Who played with a Loaded Gun, and, on missing his Sister was reprimanded by his Father.
Young Algernon, the Doctor's Son, Was playing with a Loaded Gun.
He pointed it towards his Sister, Aimed very carefully, but Missed her! His Father, who was standing near, The Loud Explosion chanced to Hear, And reprimanded Algernon For playing with a Loaded Gun.


by William Shakespeare

Sweet-and-Twenty

 O MISTRESS mine, where are you roaming? 
O, stay and hear! your true love 's coming, 
 That can sing both high and low: 
Trip no further, pretty sweeting; 
Journeys end in lovers meeting, 
 Every wise man's son doth know.
What is love? 'tis not hereafter; Present mirth hath present laughter; What 's to come is still unsure: In delay there lies no plenty; Then come kiss me, sweet-and-twenty! Youth 's a stuff will not endure.


by Siegfried Sassoon

Reconciliation

 When you are standing at your hero’s grave,
Or near some homeless village where he died,
Remember, through your heart’s rekindling pride,
The German soldiers who were loyal and brave.
Men fought like brutes; and hideous things were done; And you have nourished hatred, harsh and blind.
But in that Golgotha perhaps you’ll find The mothers of the men who killed your son.


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 Emily Dickinson

God is a distant -- stately Lover

 God is a distant -- stately Lover --
Woos, as He states us -- by His Son --
Verily, a Vicarious Courtship --
"Miles", and "Priscilla", were such an One --

But, lest the Soul -- like fair "Priscilla"
Choose the Envoy -- and spurn the Groom --
Vouches, with hyperbolic archness --
"Miles", and "John Alden" were Synonym --


by Emily Dickinson

A Sloop of Amber slips away

 A Sloop of Amber slips away
Upon an Ether Sea,
And wrecks in Peace a Purple Tar,
The Son of Ecstasy --


by James Joyce

Ecce Puer

 Of the dark past
A child is born;
With joy and grief
My heart is torn.
Calm in his cradle The living lies.
May love and mercy Unclose his eyes! Young life is breathed On the glass; The world that was not Comes to pass.
A child is sleeping: An old man gone.
O, father forsaken, Forgive your son!


by Ellis Parker Butler

The Hunter

 A full-fledged gun cannot endure
The trifling of an amateur;
Poor marksmanship its temper spoils
And this is why the gun recoils.
A self-respecting gun I’m sure Delights to jar the amateur And thinks that it is no disgrace To kick his shoulder out of place.
Moral When you go out to hunt, my son Prepare to circumvent your gun And on your shoulder firmly bind A pillow of the largest kind.


by Ogden Nash

Old Dr. Valentine To His Son

 Your hopeless patients will live,
Your healthy patients will die.
I have only this word to give: Wonder, and find out why


by Dorothy Parker

Alexandre Dumas And His Son

 Although I work, and seldom cease,
At Dumas pere and Dumas fils,
Alas, I cannot make me care
For Dumas fils and Dumas pere.


by William Blake

To The Accuser Who is The God of This World

 Truly My Satan thou art but a Dunce
And dost not know the Garment from the Man
Every Harlot was a Virgin once
Nor canst thou ever change Kate into Nan

Tho thou art Worship'd by the Names Divine 
Of Jesus & Jehovah thou art still
The Son of Morn in weary Nights decline
The lost Travellers Dream under the Hill


by Emily Dickinson

Youll know it -- as you know tis Noon

 You'll know it -- as you know 'tis Noon --
By Glory --
As you do the Sun --
By Glory --
As you will in Heaven --
Know God the Father -- and the Son.
By intuition, Mightiest Things Assert themselves -- and not by terms -- "I'm Midnight" -- need the Midnight say -- "I'm Sunrise" -- Need the Majesty? Omnipotence -- had not a Tongue -- His listp -- is Lightning -- and the Sun -- His Conversation -- with the Sea -- "How shall you know"? Consult your Eye!


by Dorothy Parker

The Veteran

 When I was young and bold and strong,
Oh, right was right, and wrong was wrong!
My plume on high, my flag unfurled,
I rode away to right the world.
"Come out, you dogs, and fight!" said I, And wept there was but once to die.
But I am old; and good and bad Are woven in a crazy plaid.
I sit and say, "The world is so; And he is wise who lets it go.
A battle lost, a battle won- The difference is small, my son.
" Inertia rides and riddles me; The which is called Philosophy.


by Vachel Lindsay

At Mass

 No doubt to-morrow I will hide
My face from you, my King.
Let me rejoice this Sunday noon, And kneel while gray priests sing.
It is not wisdom to forget.
But since it is my fate Fill thou my soul with hidden wine To make this white hour great.
My God, my God, this marvelous hour I am your son I know.
Once in a thousand days your voice Has laid temptation low.


by Richard Aldington

Epilogue

 Che son contenti nel fuoco

We are of those that Dante saw
Glad, for love's sake, among the flames of hell,
Outdaring with a kiss all-powerful wrath;
For we have passed athwart a fiercer hell,
Through gloomier, more desperate circles
Than ever Dante dreamed:
And yet love kept us glad.