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 Mark Twain
39 Thunchaththu Ramanujan Ezhuthachan
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 Passion Poems

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

Other Short Poem Pages


Poems are below...


Passion | Short Famous Poems and Poets

 
by William Butler Yeats

A Poet To His Beloved

 I bring you with reverent hands
The books of my numberless dreams,
White woman that passion has worn
As the tide wears the dove-grey sands,
And with heart more old than the horn
That is brimmed from the pale fire of time:
White woman with numberless dreams,
I bring you my passionate rhyme.


by Sir Walter Raleigh

Life

 What is our life? A play of passion, 
Our mirth the music of division, 
Our mother's wombs the tiring-houses be, 
Where we are dressed for this short comedy.
Heaven the judicious sharp spectator is, That sits and marks still who doth act amiss.
Our graves that hide us from the setting sun Are like drawn curtains when the play is done.
Thus march we, playing, to our latest rest, Only we die in earnest, that's no jest.


by Amy Levy

Oh Is It Love?

 O is it Love or is it Fame,
This thing for which I sigh?
Or has it then no earthly name
For men to call it by?

I know not what can ease my pains,
Nor what it is I wish;
The passion at my heart-strings strains
Like a tiger in a leash.


by Walt Whitman

Race of Veterans

 RACE of veterans! Race of victors! 
Race of the soil, ready for conflict! race of the conquering march! 
(No more credulity’s race, abiding-temper’d race;) 
Race henceforth owning no law but the law of itself; 
Race of passion and the storm.
5


by Walter de la Mare

When the Rose is Faded

 When the rose is faded, 
Memory may still dwell on 
Her beauty shadowed, 
And the sweet smell gone.
That vanishing loveliness, That burdening breath, No bond of life hath then, Nor grief of death.
'Tis the immortal thought Whose passion still Makes the changing The unchangeable.
Oh, thus thy beauty, Loveliest on earth to me, Dark with no sorrow, shines And burns, with thee.


by Walt Whitman

One's-Self I Sing

 ONE’S-SELF I sing—a simple, separate Person; 
Yet utter the word Democratic, the word En-masse.
Of Physiology from top to toe I sing; Not physiognomy alone, nor brain alone, is worthy for the muse—I say the Form complete is worthier far; The Female equally with the male I sing.
Of Life immense in passion, pulse, and power, Cheerful—for freest action form’d, under the laws divine, The Modern Man I sing.


by Sir Walter Raleigh

The Silent Lover ii

 WRONG not, sweet empress of my heart, 
 The merit of true passion, 
With thinking that he feels no smart, 
 That sues for no compassion.
Silence in love bewrays more woe Than words, though ne'er so witty: A beggar that is dumb, you know, May challenge double pity.
Then wrong not, dearest to my heart, My true, though secret passion; He smarteth most that hides his smart, And sues for no compassion.


by George (Lord) Byron

I would to heaven that I were so much clay

 I would to heaven that I were so much clay,
As I am blood, bone, marrow, passion, feeling -
Because at least the past were passed away -
And for the future - (but I write this reeling,
Having got drunk exceedingly today,
So that I seem to stand upon the ceiling)
I say - the future is a serious matter - 
And so - for God's sake - hock and soda water!


by Louise Bogan

Knowledge

 Now that I know
How passion warms little
Of flesh in the mould,
And treasure is brittle,--

I'll lie here and learn
How, over their ground
Trees make a long shadow
And a light sound.


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.
*


by Gustavo Adolfo Becquer

I am black and comely

I am black and comely; my lips are glowing;
I am passion; my heart is hot;
The rapture of life in my veins is flowing.
For me thou callest?—I call thee not.
Pale is my forehead and gold my tresses;
Endless comforts are locked in me,
Treasure of hearthside tendernesses.
’Tis I whom thou seekest?—Nay, not thee.
I am a dream, afar, forbidden.
Vague as the mist on the mountain-brow,
A bodiless glory, haunting, hidden;
I cannot love thee.—Oh, come! come thou!


by Alexander Pope

On a certain Lady at Court

 I know the thing that's most uncommon;
(Envy be silent and attend!)
I know a Reasonable Woman,
Handsome and witty, yet a Friend.
Not warp'd by Passion, aw'd by Rumour, Not grave thro' Pride, or gay thro' Folly, An equal Mixture of good Humour, And sensible soft Melancholy.
`Has she no Faults then (Envy says) Sir?' Yes she has one, I must aver: When all the World comspires to praise her, The Woman's deaf, and does not hear.


by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

FROM THE SORROWS OF YOUNG WERTHER

 [Prefixed to the second edition.
] EV'RY youth for love's sweet portion sighs, Ev'ry maiden sighs to win man's love; Why, alas! should bitter pain arise From the noblest passion that we prove? Thou, kind soul, bewailest, lov'st him well, From disgrace his memory's saved by thee; Lo, his spirit signs from out its cell: BE A MAN, NOR SEEK TO FOLLOW ME.
1775.


by Emily Dickinson

Proud of my broken heart since thou didst break it

 Proud of my broken heart, since thou didst break it,
Proud of the pain I did not feel till thee,

Proud of my night, since thou with moons dost slake it,
Not to partake thy passion, my humility.
Thou can'st not boast, like Jesus, drunken without companion Was the strong cup of anguish brewed for the Nazarene Thou can'st not pierce tradition with the peerless puncture, See! I usurped thy crucifix to honor mine!


by Dorothy Parker

Unfortunate Coincidence

 By the time you swear you're his,
Shivering and sighing,
And he vows his passion is
Infinite, undying -
Lady, make a note of this:
One of you is lying.


by Louise Bogan

The Alchemist

 I burned my life, that I may find
A passion wholly of the mind,
Thought divorced from eye and bone
Ecstasy come to breath alone.
I broke my life, to seek relief From the flawed light of love and grief.
With mounting beat the utter fire Charred existence and desire.
It died low, ceased its sudden thresh.
I had found unmysterious flesh-- Not the mind's avid substance--still Passionate beyond the will.


by William Butler Yeats

The Falling Of The Leaves

 Autumn is over the long leaves that love us,
And over the mice in the barley sheaves;
Yellow the leaves of the rowan above us,
And yellow the wet wild-strawberry leaves.
The hour of the waning of love has beset us, And weary and worn are our sad souls now; Let us patt, ere the season of passion forget us, With a kiss and a tear on thy drooping brow.


by Omar Khayyam

Thy passion, man, resembles in all things a house dog

Thy passion, man, resembles in all things a house dog
which never leaves his kennel. It has the slyness of the
fox, it lies low like a hare, and to the rage of the tiger
adds the voracity of a wolf.


by George William Russell

Light and Dark

 NOT the soul that’s whitest
 Wakens love the sweetest:
When the heart is lightest
 Oft the charm is fleetest.
While the snow-frail maiden, Waits the time of learning, To the passion laden Turn with eager yearning.
While the heart is burning Heaven with earth is banded: To the stars returning Go not empty-handed.
Ah, the snow-frail maiden! Somehow truth has missed her, Left the heart unladen For its burdened sister.


by Ezra Pound

The Bath-Tub

 As a bathtub lined with white porcelain, 
When the hot water gives out or goes tepid, 
So is the slow cooling of our chivalrous passion, 
O my much praised but-not-altogether-satisfactory lady.


by Marianne Moore

He Made This Screen

 not of silver nor of coral, 
but of weatherbeaten laurel.
Here, he introduced a sea uniform like tapestry; here, a fig-tree; there, a face; there, a dragon circling space -- designating here, a bower; there, a pointed passion-flower.


by Omar Khayyam

For union with my love I sigh in vain,

For union with my love I sigh in vain,
The pangs of absence I can scarce sustain,
My grief I dare not tell to any friend;
O trouble strange, sweet passion, bitter pain!


by Emily Dickinson

Said Death to Passion

 Said Death to Passion
"Give of thine an Acre unto me.
" Said Passion, through contracting Breaths "A Thousand Times Thee Nay.
" Bore Death from Passion All His East He -- sovereign as the Sun Resituated in the West And the Debate was done.


by Carl Sandburg

Garden Wireless

 HOW many feet ran with sunlight, water, and air?

What little devils shaken of laughter, cramming their little ribs with chuckles,

Fixed this lone red tulip, a woman’s mouth of passion kisses, a nun’s mouth of sweet thinking, here topping a straight line of green, a pillar stem?

Who hurled this bomb of red caresses?—nodding balloon-film shooting its wireless every fraction of a second these June days:
 Love me before I die;
 Love me—love me now.


by William Strode

On The Life Of Man

 What is our life? a play of passion;
Our mirth the musick of division:
Our mother's wombes the tyring houses bee
Where wee are drest for tyme's short comedy:
The earth's the stage, heaven the spectator is,
Who marketh still whoere doth act amisse:
Our graves that hide us from the burning sunne
Are but drawne curtaynes when the play is done