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William Henry Davies Short Poems

Famous Short William Henry Davies Poems. Short poetry by famous poet William Henry Davies. A collection of the all-time best William Henry Davies short poems


by William Henry Davies
 While joy gave clouds the light of stars, 
That beamed wher'er they looked; 
And calves and lambs had tottering knees, 
Excited, while they sucked; 
While every bird enjoyed his song, 
Without one thought of harm or wrong-- 
I turned my head and saw the wind, 
Not far from where I stood, 
Dragging the corn by her golden hair, 
Into a dark and lonely wood.



by William Henry Davies
 My mind has thunderstorms,
That brood for heavy hours:
Until they rain me words,
My thoughts are drooping flowers
And sulking, silent birds.
Yet come, dark thunderstorms, And brood your heavy hours; For when you rain me words, My thoughts are dancing flowers And joyful singing birds.

by William Henry Davies
  Now shall I walk 
Or shall I ride? 
"Ride", Pleasure said; 
"Walk", Joy replied.
Now what shall I -- Stay home or roam? "Roam", Pleasure said; And Joy -- "stay home.
" Now shall I dance, Or sit for dreams? "Sit," answers Joy; "Dance," Pleasure screams.
Which of ye two Will kindest be? Pleasure laughed sweet, But Joy kissed me.

by William Henry Davies
 Sweet Chance, that led my steps abroad, 
Beyond the town, where wild flowers grow -- 
A rainbow and a cuckoo, Lord, 
How rich and great the times are now! 
Know, all ye sheep 
And cows, that keep 
On staring that I stand so long 
In grass that's wet from heavy rain -- 
A rainbow and a cuckoo's song 
May never come together again; 
May never come 
This side the tomb.

by William Henry Davies
 This night, as I sit here alone,
And brood on what is dead and gone,
The owl that's in this Highgate Wood,
Has found his fellow in my mood;
To every star, as it doth rise -
Oh-o-o! Oh-o-o! he shivering cries.
And, looking at the Moon this night, There's that dark shadow in her light.
Ah! Life and death, my fairest one, Thy lover is a skeleton! "And why is that?" I question - "why?" Oh-o-o! Oh-o-o! the owl doth cry.



by William Henry Davies
 when the body of a woman dissolves
within are the three feared faces

the man who dares to trace them comes
to grief - but nothing personal is meant

waves and particles transvest - vulva
breast and womb are sexless doors 

beyond whose suck a sensual light
swings life round its little finger

by William Henry Davies
 When primroses are out in Spring, 
And small, blue violets come between; 
When merry birds sing on boughs green, 
And rills, as soon as born, must sing; 

When butterflies will make side-leaps, 
As though escaped from Nature's hand 
Ere perfect quite; and bees will stand 
Upon their heads in fragrant deeps; 

When small clouds are so silvery white 
Each seems a broken rimmed moon-- 
When such things are, this world too soon, 
For me, doth wear the veil of night.

by William Henry Davies
 A week ago I had a fire 
To warm my feet, my hands and face; 
Cold winds, that never make a friend, 
Crept in and out of every place.
Today the fields are rich in grass, And buttercups in thousands grow; I'll show the world where I have been-- With gold-dust seen on either shoe.
Till to my garden back I come, Where bumble-bees for hours and hours Sit on their soft, fat, velvet bums, To wriggle out of hollow flowers.

by William Henry Davies
 Here's an example from 
A Butterfly; 
That on a rough, hard rock 
Happy can lie; 
Friendless and all alone 
On this unsweetened stone.
Now let my bed be hard No care take I; I'll make my joy like this Small Butterfly; Whose happy heart has power To make a stone a flower.

by William Henry Davies
 With thy true love I have more wealth
Than Charon's piled-up bank doth hold;
Where he makes kings lay down their crowns
And life-long misers leave their gold.
Without thy love I've no more wealth Than seen upon that other shore; That cold, bare bank he rows them to - Those kings and misers made so poor.

by William Henry Davies
 When on a summer's morn I wake, 
And open my two eyes, 
Out to the clear, born-singing rills 
My bird-like spirit flies.
To hear the Blackbird, Cuckoo, Thrush, Or any bird in song; And common leaves that hum all day Without a throat or tongue.
And when Time strikes the hour for sleep, Back in my room alone, My heart has many a sweet bird's song -- And one that's all my own.

by William Henry Davies
 I saw this day sweet flowers grow thick -- 
But not one like the child did pick.
I heard the packhounds in green park -- But no dog like the child heard bark.
I heard this day bird after bird -- But not one like the child has heard.
A hundred butterflies saw I -- But not one like the child saw fly.
I saw the horses roll in grass -- But no horse like the child saw pass.
My world this day has lovely been -- But not like what the child has seen.

by William Henry Davies
 I hear leaves drinking rain; 
I hear rich leaves on top 
Giving the poor beneath 
Drop after drop; 
'Tis a sweet noise to hear 
These green leaves drinking near.
And when the Sun comes out, After this Rain shall stop, A wondrous Light will fill Each dark, round drop; I hope the Sun shines bright; 'Twill be a lovely sight.

by William Henry Davies
 If I were gusty April now, 
How I would blow at laughing Rose; 
I'd make her ribbons slip their knots, 
And all her hair come loose.
If I were merry April now, How I would pelt her cheeks with showers; I'd make carnations, rich and warm, Of her vermillion flowers.
Since she will laugh in April's face No matter how he rains or blows -- Then O that I wild April were, To play with laughing Rose.

by William Henry Davies
 To think my thoughts are hers, 
Not one of hers is mine; 
She laughs -- while I must sigh; 
She sighs -- while I must whine.
She eats -- while I must fast; She reads -- while I am blind; She sleeps -- while I must wake; Free -- I no freedom find.
To think the world for me Contains but her alone, And that her eyes prefer Some ribbon, scarf, or stone.

by William Henry Davies
 Thy beauty haunts me heart and soul, 
Oh, thou fair Moon, so close and bright; 
Thy beauty makes me like the child 
That cries aloud to own thy light: 
The little child that lifts each arm 
To press thee to her bosom warm.
Though there are birds that sing this night With thy white beams across their throats, Let my deep silence speak for me More than for them their sweetest notes: Who worships thee till music fails, Is greater than thy nightingales.

by William Henry Davies
 Welcome to you rich Autumn days, 
Ere comes the cold, leaf-picking wind; 
When golden stocks are seen in fields, 
All standing arm-in-arm entwined; 
And gallons of sweet cider seen 
On trees in apples red and green.
With mellow pears that cheat our teeth, Which melt that tongues may suck them in; With blue-black damsons, yellow plums, Now sweet and soft from stone to skin; And woodnuts rich, to make us go Into the loneliest lanes we know.

by William Henry Davies
 Go, little boy, 
Fill thee with joy; 
For Time gives thee 
Unlicensed hours, 
To run in fields, 
And roll in flowers.
A little boy Can life enjoy; If but to see The horses pass, When shut indoors Behind the glass.
Go, little boy, Fill thee with joy; Fear not, like man, The kick of wrath, That you do lie In some one's path.
Time is to thee Eternity, As to a bird Or butterfly; And in that faith True joy doth lie.

by William Henry Davies
 When I came forth this morn I saw 
Quite twenty cloudlets in the air; 
And then I saw a flock of sheep, 
Which told me how these clouds came there.
That flock of sheep, on that green grass, Well might it lie so still and proud! Its likeness had been drawn in heaven, On a blue sky, in silvery cloud.
I gazed me up, I gazed me down, And swore, though good the likeness was, 'Twas a long way from justice done To such white wool, such sparkling grass.