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Famous Short May Poems

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


by Emily Bronte
 Love is like the wild rose-briar,
Friendship like the holly-tree --
The holly is dark when the rose-briar blooms
But which will bloom most contantly?
The wild-rose briar is sweet in the spring,
Its summer blossoms scent the air;
Yet wait till winter comes again
And who wil call the wild-briar fair?
Then scorn the silly rose-wreath now
And deck thee with the holly's sheen,
That when December blights thy brow
He may still leave thy garland green.



by Tupac Shakur
Im going in 2 this not knowing what i"ll find
but I've decided 2 follow my heart and abandon my mind
and if there be pain i know that at least i gave my all
and it's better to have loved and lost than 2 not love at all
in the morning i may wake 2 smile or maybe 2 cry
but first to those of my past i must say goodbye 

by Gwendolyn Brooks
 I shall not sing a May song.
A May song should be gay.
I'll wait until November And sing a song of gray.
I'll wait until November That is the time for me.
I'll go out in the frosty dark And sing most terribly.
And all the little people Will stare at me and say, "That is the Crazy Woman Who would not sing in May.
"

by Emily Dickinson
 Never for Society
He shall seek in vain --
Who His own acquaintance
Cultivate -- Of Men
Wiser Men may weary --
But the Man within

Never knew Satiety --
Better entertain
Than could Border Ballad --
Or Biscayan Hymn --
Neither introduction
Need You -- unto Him --

by Dorothy Parker
 In May my heart was breaking-
Oh, wide the wound, and deep!
And bitter it beat at waking,
And sore it split in sleep.
And when it came November, I sought my heart, and sighed, "Poor thing, do you remember?" "What heart was that?" it cried.



by Wendell Berry
 It may be that when we no longer know what to do
we have come our real work,

and that when we no longer know which way to go
we have come to our real journey.
The mind that is not baffled is not employed.
The impeded stream is the one that sings.

by G K Chesterton
 Chattering finch and water-fly 
Are not merrier than I; 
Here among the flowers I lie 
Laughing everlastingly.
No; I may not tell the best; Surely, friends, I might have guessed Death was but the good King's jest, It was hid so carefully.

by A S J Tessimond
 If a man says half himself in the light, adroit
Way a tune shakes into equilibrium,
Or approximates to a note that never comes:

Says half himself in the way two pencil-lines
Flow to each other and softly separate,
In the resolute way plane lifts and leaps from plane:

Who knows what intimacies our eyes may shout,
What evident secrets daily foreheads flaunt,
What panes of glass conceal our beating hearts?

by Shel Silverstein
 I am writing these poems
From inside a lion,
And it's rather dark in here.
So please excuse the handwriting Which may not be too clear.
But this afternoon by the lion's cage I'm afraid I got too near.
And I'm writing these lines From inside a lion, And it's rather dark in here.

by Emily Dickinson
 Summer has two Beginnings --
Beginning once in June --
Beginning in October
Affectingly again --

Without, perhaps, the Riot
But graphicker for Grace --
As finer is a going
Than a remaining Face --

Departing then -- forever --
Forever -- until May --
Forever is deciduous
Except to those who die --

by Gabriela Mistral
 Sleep, sleep, my beloved,
without worry, without fear,
although my soul does not sleep,
although I do not rest.
Sleep, sleep, and in the night may your whispers be softer than a leaf of grass, or the silken fleece of lambs.
May my flesh slumber in you, my worry, my trembling.
In you, may my eyes close and my heart sleep.

by William Blake
 A flower was offered to me;
Such a flower as May never bore.
But I said I've a Pretty Rose-tree.
And I passed the sweet flower o'er.
Then I went to my Pretty Rose-tree: To tend her by day and by night.
But my Rose turnd away with jealousy: And her thorns were my only delight.

by Emily Dickinson
 An honest Tear
Is durabler than Bronze --
This Cenotaph
May each that dies --

Reared by itself --
No Deputy suffice --
Gratitude bears
When Obelisk decays

by Emily Dickinson
 A Lady red -- amid the Hill
Her annual secret keeps!
A Lady white, within the Field
In placid Lily sleeps!

The tidy Breezes, with their Brooms --
Sweep vale -- and hill -- and tree!
Prithee, My pretty Housewives!
Who may expected be?

The Neighbors do not yet suspect!
The Woods exchange a smile!
Orchard, and Buttercup, and Bird --
In such a little while!

And yet, how still the Landscape stands!
How nonchalant the Hedge!
As if the "Resurrection"
Were nothing very strange!

by Phillis Wheatley
 'Twas mercy brought me from my Pagan land,
Taught my benighted soul to understand
That there's a God, that there's a Saviour too:
Once I redemption neither sought nor knew.
Some view our sable race with scornful eye, "Their colour is a diabolic die.
" Remember, Christians, Negro's, black as Cain, May be refin'd, and join th' angelic train.

by Ben Jonson

IX.
 ? TO ALL TO WHOM I WRITE.
  
May none whose scatter'd names honor my book,
For strict degrees of rank or title look :
'Tis 'gainst the manners of an epigram ;
And I a poet here, no herald am.


by Christina Rossetti
 She sat and sang alway
By the green margin of a stream,
Watching the fishes leap and play
Beneath the glad sunbeam.
I sat and wept alway Beneath the moon's most shadowy beam, Watching the blossoms of the May Weep leaves into the stream.
I wept for memory; She sang for hope that is so fair: My tears were swallowed by the sea; Her songs died on the air.

Flower  Create an image from this poem
by Rabindranath Tagore
 Pluck this little flower and take it, delay not! I fear lest it 
droop and drop into the dust.
I may not find a place in thy garland, but honour it with a touch of pain from thy hand and pluck it.
I fear lest the day end before I am aware, and the time of offering go by.
Though its colour be not deep and its smell be faint, use this flower in thy service and pluck it while there is time.

by Langston Hughes
 I worked for a woman,
She wasn't mean--
But she had a twelve-room
House to clean.
Had to get breakfast, Dinner, and supper, too-- Then take care of her children When I got through.
Wash, iron, and scrub, Walk the dog around-- It was too much, Nearly broke me down.
I said, Madam, Can it be You trying to make a Pack-horse out of me? She opened her mouth.
She cried, Oh, no! You know, Alberta, I love you so! I said, Madam, That may be true-- But I'll be dogged If I love you!

by Ogden Nash
 Consider the auk;
Becoming extinct because he forgot how to fly, and could only walk.
Consider man, who may well become extinct Because he forgot how to walk and learned how to fly before he thinked.

by Edgar Allan Poe
 Seraph! thy memory is to me
Like some enchanted far-off isle
In some tumultuous sea -
Some ocean vexed as it may be
With storms; but where, meanwhile,
Serenest skies continually
Just o'er that one bright island smile.
For 'mid the earnest cares and woes That crowd around my earthly path, (Sad path, alas, where grows Not even one lonely rose!) My soul at least a solace hath In dreams of thee; and therein knows An Eden of bland repose.

by Walt Whitman
 A GLIMPSE, through an interstice caught, 
Of a crowd of workmen and drivers in a bar-room, around the stove, late of a winter
 night—And I
 unremark’d seated in a corner; 
Of a youth who loves me, and whom I love, silently approaching, and seating himself near,
 that
 he
 may hold me by the hand; 
A long while, amid the noises of coming and going—of drinking and oath and smutty
 jest, 
There we two, content, happy in being together, speaking little, perhaps not a word.
5

by Siegfried Sassoon
 For Morn, my dome of blue, 
For Meadows, green and gay, 
And Birds who love the twilight of the leaves, 
Let Jesus keep me joyful when I pray.
For the big Bees that hum And hide in bells of flowers; For the winding roads that come To Evening’s holy door, May Jesus bring me grateful to his arms, And guard my innocence for evermore.

by Hilaire Belloc
 May all my enemies go to hell,
Noel, Noel, Noel, Noel

by Ralph Waldo Emerson
 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.