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Famous Short Son Poems

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


by William Shakespeare
 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
 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 Wang Wei
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 Erica Jong
 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 A E Housman
 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 Dorothy Parker
 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
 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 Anne Waldman
 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 Elizabeth Bishop
 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 William Shakespeare
 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 Emily Dickinson
 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 Patrick Kavanagh
 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 Edgar Lee Masters
 They got me into the Sunday-school
In Spoon River
And tried to get me to drop Confucius for Jesus.
I could have been no worse off
If I had tried to get them to drop Jesus for Confucius.
For, without any warning, as if it were a prank,
And sneaking up behind me, Harry Wiley,
The minister's son, caved my ribs into my lungs,
With a blow of his fist.
Now I shall never sleep with my ancestors in Pekin,
And no children shall worship at my grave.

by Phillis Wheatley
 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 Siegfried Sassoon
 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 Dorothy Parker
 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 Vachel Lindsay
 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 Isaac Watts
 Joy in heaven for a repenting sinner.

Luke 15:7,10. 

Who can describe the joys that rise
Through all the courts of Paradise,
To see a prodigal return,
To see an heir of glory born?

With joy the Father doth approve
The fruit of his eternal love;
The Son with joy looks down and sees
The purchase of his agonies.

The Spirit takes delight to view
The holy soul he formed anew;
And saints and angels join to sing,
The growing empire of their King.

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

by Emily Dickinson
 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 James Joyce
 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 William Blake
 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 Dorothy Parker
 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 Constantine P Cavafy
 The sea took a sailor to its depths.--
His mother, unsuspecting, goes and lights

a tall candle before the Virgin Mary
for his speedy return and for fine weather --

and always she turns her ear to the wind.
But while she prays and implores,

the icon listens, solemn and sad,
knowing that the son she expects will no longer return.

by Ellis Parker Butler
 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.


Book: Reflection on the Important Things