Famous Short Mountains Poems
Famous Short Mountains Poems. Short Mountains Poetry by Famous Poets. A collection of the all-time best Mountains short poems
by
Nikki Giovanni
I always like summer
Best
you can eat fresh corn
From daddy's garden
And okra
And greens
And cabbage
And lots of
Barbeque
And buttermilk
And homemade ice-cream
At the church picnic
And listen to
Gospel music
Outside
At the church
Homecoming
And go to the mountains with
Your grandmother
And go barefooted
And be warm
All the time
Not only when you go to bed
And sleep
by
Antonio Machado
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
Antonio Machado
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
Charles Bukowski
in the winter on my
ceiling my eyes the size of street-
lamps.
I have 4 feet like a mouse but
wash my own underwear-bearded and
hungover and a hard-on and no lawyer.
I
have a face like a washrag.
I sing
love songs and carry steel.
I would rather die than cry.
I can't
stand hounds can't live without them.
I hang my head against the white
refrigerator and want to scream like
the last weeping of life forever but
I am bigger then the mountains.
by
Sara Teasdale
If you have forgotten water lilies floating
On a dark lake among mountains in the afternoon shade,
If you have forgotten their wet, sleepy fragrance,
Then you can return and not be afraid.
But if you remember, then turn away forever
To the plains and the prairies where pools are far apart,
There you will not come at dusk on closing water lilies,
And the shadow of mountains will not fall on your heart.
by
J R R Tolkien
Gil-galad was an Elven-king.
Of him the harpers sadly sing:
The last whose realm was fair and free
Between the mountains and the sea.
His sword was long, his lance was keen.
His shining helm afar was seen.
The countless stars of heaven's field
Were mirrored in his silver shield.
But long ago he rode away,
And where he dwelleth none can say.
For into darkness fell his star;
In Mordor, where the shadows are.
by
Antonio Machado
Guadarrama, is it you, old friend,
mountains white and gray
that I used to see painted against the blue
those afternoons of the old days in Madrid?
Up your deep ravines
and past your bristling peaks
a thousand Guadarramas and a thousand suns
come riding with me, riding to your heart.
by
Edgar Lee Masters
In youth my wings were strong and tireless,
But I did not know the mountains.
In age I knew the mountains
But my weary wings could not follow my vision --
Genius is wisdom and youth.
by
Jack Gilbert
Suddenly this defeat.
This rain.
The blues gone gray
And the browns gone gray
And yellow
A terrible amber.
In the cold streets
Your warm body.
In whatever room
Your warm body.
Among all the people
Your absence
The people who are always
Not you.
I have been easy with trees
Too long.
Too familiar with mountains.
Joy has been a habit.
Now
Suddenly
This rain.
by
Wang Wei
With its three southern branches reaching the Chu border,
And its nine streams touching the gateway of Jing,
This river runs beyond heaven and earth,
Where the colour of mountains both is and is not.
The dwellings of men seem floating along
On ripples of the distant sky --
These beautiful days here in Xiangyang
Make drunken my old mountain heart!
by
Li Po
As the two of us drink
together, while mountain
flowers blossom beside, we
down one cup after the other
until I am drunk and sleepy
so that you better go!
Tomorrow if you feel like it
do come and bring your lute
along with you!
by
J R R Tolkien
The King beneath the mountains,
The King of carven stone,
The lord of silver fountains,
Shall come into his own!
His crown shall be upholden,
His harp shall be restrung,
His halls shall echo golden,
To songs of yore re-sung.
The woods shall wave on mountains,
And grass beneath the sun;
His wealth shall flow in fountains,
And the rivers golden run.
The streams shall run in gladness,
The lakes shall shine and burn,
All sorrow fail and sadness,
At the Mountain-king's return.
by
Emily Dickinson
I like to see it lap the miles,
And lick the valleys up,
And stop to feed itself at tanks;
And then, prodigious, step
Around a pile of mountains,
And, supercilious, peer
In shanties by the sides of roads;
And then a quarry pare
To fit its sides, and crawl between,
Complaining all the while
In horrid, hooting stanza;
Then chase itself down hill
And neigh like Boanerges;
Then, punctual as a star,
Stop--docile and omnipotent--
At its own stable door.
by
Antonio Machado
Soria, in blue mountains,
on the fields of violet,
how often I’ve dreamed of you
on the plain of flowers,
where the Guadalquivir runs
past golden orange-trees
to the sea.
by
Anonymous
Morn amid the mountains,
Lovely solitude,
Gushing streams and fountains,
Murmur, “God is good.
”Now the glad sun, breaking,
Pours a golden flood;
Deepest vales awaking,
Echo, “God is good.
”Wake and join the chorus,
Man with soul endued!
He, whose smile is o’er us,
God,—our God,—is good.
by
Emily Dickinson
The Mountains -- grow unnoticed --
Their Purple figures rise
Without attempt -- Exhaustion --
Assistance -- or Applause --
In Their Eternal Faces
The Sun -- with just delight
Looks long -- and last -- and golden --
For fellowship -- at night --
by
Dimitris P Kraniotis
Snow-covered mountains,
ancient monuments,
a north wind that nods to us,
a thought that flows,
images imbued
with hymns of history,
words on signs
with ideals of geometry.
by
George William Russell
FAR up the dim twilight fluttered
Moth-wings of vapour and flame:
The lights danced over the mountains,
Star after star they came.
The lights grew thicker unheeded,
For silent and still were we;
Our hearts were drunk with a beauty
Our eyes could never see.
by
Henrik Ibsen
TO skies that were brighter
Turned he his prows;
To gods that were lighter
Made he his vows.
The snow-land's mountains
Sank in the deep;
Sunnier fountains
Lulled him to sleep.
He burns his vessels,
The smoke flung forth
On blue cloud-trestles
A bridge to the north.
From the sun-warmed lowland
Each night that betides,
To the huts of the snow-land
A horseman rides.
by
Emily Dickinson
The Truth -- is stirless --
Other force -- may be presumed to move --
This -- then -- is best for confidence --
When oldest Cedars swerve --
And Oaks untwist their fists --
And Mountains -- feeble -- lean --
How excellent a Body, that
Stands without a Bone --
How vigorous a Force
That holds without a Prop --
Truth stays Herself -- and every man
That trusts Her -- boldly up --
by
Wang Wei
Its massive height near the City of Heaven
Joins a thousand mountains to the corner of the sea.
Clouds, when I look back, close behind me,
Mists, when I enter them, are gone.
A central peak divides the wilds
And weather into many valleys.
.
.
.
Needing a place to spend the night,
I call to a wood-cutter over the river
by
Wang Wei
The mountains are cold and blue now
And the autumn waters have run all day.
By my thatch door, leaning on my staff,
I listen to cicadas in the evening wind.
Sunset lingers at the ferry,
Supper-smoke floats up from the houses.
.
.
.
Oh, when shall I pledge the great Hermit again
And sing a wild poem at Five Willows?
by
Wang Wei
After rain the empty mountain
Stands autumnal in the evening,
Moonlight in its groves of pine,
Stones of crystal in its brooks.
Bamboos whisper of washer-girls bound home,
Lotus-leaves yield before a fisher-boat --
And what does it matter that springtime has gone,
While you are here, O Prince of Friends?
by
Li Bai
From the walls of Baidi high in the coloured dawn
To Jiangling by night-fall is three hundred miles,
Yet monkeys are still calling on both banks behind me
To my boat these ten thousand mountains away.
by
Li Po
Gently I stir a white feather fan,
With open shirt sitting in a green wood.
I take off my cap and hang it on a jutting stone;
A wind from the pine-tree trickles on my bare head.