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

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Famous Short Voice Poems

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

Other Short Poem Pages


Poems are below...


Voice | Short Famous Poems and Poets

 
by Ralph Waldo Emerson

Sacrifice

THOUGH love repine and reason chafe  
There came a voice without reply ¡ª 
'T is man's perdition to be safe, 
When for the truth he ought to die.


by Emily Dickinson

Tis whiter than an Indian Pipe --

 'Tis whiter than an Indian Pipe --
'Tis dimmer than a Lace --
No stature has it, like a Fog
When you approach the place --
Nor any voice imply it here
Or intimate it there
A spirit -- how doth it accost --
What function hat the Air?
This limitless Hyperbole
Each one of us shall be --
'Tis Drama -- if Hypothesis
It be not Tragedy --


by William Cullen Bryant

November

 There is wind where the rose was, 
Cold rain where sweet grass was, 
And clouds like sheep 
Stream o'er the steep 
Grey skies where the lark was.
Nought warm where your hand was, Nought gold where your hair was, But phantom, forlorn, Beneath the thorn, Your ghost where your face was.
Cold wind where your voice was, Tears, tears where my heart was, And ever with me, Child, ever with me, Silence where hope was.


by Adrian Green

Luna Lake Haiku

 New moon on the lake.
Your voice and the nightingale serenade springtime.
Full moon on the lake.
Your voice and the waterbirds celebrate summer.
Old moon on the lake.
Owls hunting autumnal food - your voice still singing.


by Robert Frost

A Question

 A voice said, Look me in the stars
And tell me truly, men of earth,
If all the soul-and-body scars
Were not too much to pay for birth.


by Friedrich von Schiller

Beauteous Individuality

 Thou in truth shouldst be one, yet not with the whole shouldst thou be so.
'Tis through the reason thou'rt one,--art so with it through the heart.
Voice of the whole is thy reason, but thou thine own heart must be ever; If in thy heart reason dwells evermore, happy art thou.


by David Herbert Lawrence

Discord in Childhood

 Outside the house an ash-tree hung its terrible whips,
And at night when the wind arose, the lash of the tree 
Shrieked and slashed the wind, as a ship’s 
Weird rigging in a storm shrieks hideously.
Within the house two voices arose in anger, a slender lash Whistling delirious rage, and the dreadful sound Of a thick lash booming and bruising, until it drowned The other voice in a silence of blood, ’neath the noise of the ash.


by Sarojini Naidu

Autumn Song

 Like a joy on the heart of a sorrow,
 The sunset hangs on a cloud;
A golden storm of glittering sheaves,
Of fair and frail and fluttering leaves,
 The wild wind blows in a cloud.
Hark to a voice that is calling To my heart in the voice of the wind: My heart is weary and sad and alone, For its dreams like the fluttering leaves have gone, And why should I stay behind?


by Elizabeth Bishop

Conversation

 The tumult in the heart 
keeps asking questions.
And then it stops and undertakes to answer in the same tone of voice.
No one could tell the difference.
Uninnocent, these conversations start, and then engage the senses, only half-meaning to.
And then there is no choice, and then there is no sense; until a name and all its connotation are the same.


by Sara Teasdale

A Cry

 Oh, there are eyes that he can see,
 And hands to make his hands rejoice,
But to my lover I must be
 Only a voice.
Oh, there are breasts to bear his head, And lips whereon his lips can lie, But I must be till I am dead Only a cry.


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 Alexander Pushkin

The Night

 My voice that is for you the languid one, and gentle,
Disturbs the velvet of the dark night's mantle,
By my bedside, a candle, my sad guard,
Burns, and my poems ripple and merge in flood --
And run the streams of love, run, full of you alone,
And in the dark, your eyes shine like the precious stones,
And smile to me, and hear I the voice:
My friend, my sweetest friend.
.
.
I love.
.
.
I'm yours.
.
.
I'm yours!


by Austin Clarke

The Lost Heifer

 When the black herds of the rain were grazing,
In the gap of the pure cold wind
And the watery hazes of the hazel
Brought her into my mind,
I thought of the last honey by the water
That no hive can find.
Brightness was drenching through the branches When she wandered again, Turning sliver out of dark grasses Where the skylark had lain, And her voice coming softly over the meadow Was the mist becoming rain.


by Claude McKay

December 1919

 Last night I heard your voice, mother,
The words you sang to me
When I, a little barefoot boy,
Knelt down against your knee.
And tears gushed from my heart, mother, And passed beyond its wall, But though the fountain reached my throat The drops refused to fall.
'Tis ten years since you died, mother, Just ten dark years of pain, And oh, I only wish that I Could weep just once again.


by Lisa Zaran

The Blues Are All The Same

 ~for Jackson C.
Frank It seems almost too far fetched really, too difficult to believe.
This unassuming moon shining like a copper plate.
These milkcrate blues.
This soft trellis of sound wobbling through the wind as if pouring out from the window of some lonely house on the hill.
How beautiful it is, the ghost of your voice, haunting this empty valley.
Originally published in 2River View 10.
1, 2005 Copyright © Lisa Zaran, 2005


by Donald Hall

White Apples

 when my father had been dead a week
I woke with his voice in my ear 
I sat up in bed

and held my breath
and stared at the pale closed door

white apples and the taste of stone

if he called again
I would put on my coat and galoshes


by Walt Whitman

As the Time Draws Nigh

 1
AS the time draws nigh, glooming, a cloud, 
A dread beyond, of I know not what, darkens me.
I shall go forth, I shall traverse The States awhile—but I cannot tell whither or how long; Perhaps soon, some day or night while I am singing, my voice will suddenly cease.
2 O book, O chants! must all then amount to but this? Must we barely arrive at this beginning of us?.
.
.
And yet it is enough, O soul! O soul! we have positively appear’d—that is enough.


by Alexander Pushkin

Morpheus

 Oh, Morpheus, give me joy till morning
For my forever painful love:
Just blow out candles' burning
And let my dreams in blessing move.
Let from my soul disappear The separation's sharp rebuke! And let me see that dear look, And let me hear voice that dear.
And when will vanish dark of night And you will free my eyes at leaving, Oh, if my heart would have a right To lose its love till dark of evening!


by Federico García Lorca

Weeping

 Weeping,
I go down the street
Grotesque, without solution
With the sadness of Cyrano
And Quixote.
Redeeming Infinite impossiblities With the rhythm of the clock.
(The captive voice, far away.
Put on a cricket' clothes.
)


by Laurence Binyon

A Song

 Persuade me not, there is a Grace 
Proceeds from Silvia's Voice or Lute, 
Against Miranda's charming Face 
To make her hold the least Dispute.
Musick, which tunes the Soul for Love, And stirs up all our soft Desires, Do's but the glowing Flame improve, Which pow'rful Beauty first inspires.
Thus, whilst with Art she plays, and sings I to Miranda, standing by, Impute the Music of the Strings, And all the melting Words apply


by Nick Flynn

Bag Of Mice

 I dreamt your suicide note
was scrawled in pencil on a brown paperbag,
& in the bag were six baby mice.
The bag opened into darkness, smoldering from the top down.
The mice, huddled at the bottom, scurried the bag across a shorn field.
I stood over it & as the burning reached each carbon letter of what you'd written your voice released into the night like a song, & the mice grew wilder.


by Federico García Lorca

Ditty of First Desire

 In the green morning
I wanted to be a heart.
A heart.
And in the ripe evening I wanted to be a nightingale.
A nightingale.
(Soul, turn orange-colored.
Soul, turn the color of love.
) In the vivid morning I wanted to be myself.
A heart.
And at the evening's end I wanted to be my voice.
A nightingale.
Soul, turn orange-colored.
Soul, turn the color of love.


by Robert Burns

117. Song—Farewell to Eliza

 FROM thee, Eliza, I must go,
 And from my native shore;
The cruel fates between us throw
 A boundless ocean’s roar:
But boundless oceans, roaring wide,
 Between my love and me,
They never, never can divide
 My heart and soul from thee.
Farewell, farewell, Eliza dear, The maid that I adore! A boding voice is in mine ear, We part to meet no more! But the latest throb that leaves my heart, While Death stands victor by,— That throb, Eliza, is thy part, And thine that latest sigh!


by Wang Wei

Deer Enclosure

 Empty hill not see person 
Yet hear person voice sound 
Return scene enter deep forest 
Duplicate light green moss on 


Hills are empty, no man is seen, 
Yet the sound of people's voices is heard.
Light is cast into the deep forest, And shines again on green moss.


by James Joyce

Tilly

 He travels after a winter sun,
Urging the cattle along a cold red road,
Calling to them, a voice they know,
He drives his beasts above Cabra.
The voice tells them home is warm.
They moo and make brute music with their hoofs.
He drives them with a flowering branch before him, Smoke pluming their foreheads.
Boor, bond of the herd, Tonight stretch full by the fire! I bleed by the black stream For my torn bough!