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 Rudyard Kipling
14 Sylvia Plath
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 Billy Collins
24 Christina Rossetti
25 Alice Walker
26 Sandra Cisneros
27 Ogden Nash
28 Carol Ann Duffy
29 John Donne
30 Edgar Allan Poe
31 Ralph Waldo Emerson
32 Raymond Carver
33 Nikki Giovanni
34 John Keats
35 Lewis Carroll
36 Spike Milligan
37 Thomas Hardy
38 Thunchaththu Ramanujan Ezhuthachan
39 Mark Twain
40 Carl Sandburg
41 Percy Bysshe Shelley
42 Anne Sexton
43 Alexander Pushkin
44 Henry David Thoreau
45 Roger McGough
46 Wendell Berry
47 Sara Teasdale
48 Victor Hugo
49 Elizabeth Barrett Browning
50 George (Lord) Byron

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Famous Short Work Poems

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

Other Short Poem Pages


Poems are below...


Work | Short Famous Poems and Poets

 
by Carl Sandburg

Happiness

 I ASKED the professors who teach the meaning of life to tell
me what is happiness.
And I went to famous executives who boss the work of thousands of men.
They all shook their heads and gave me a smile as though I was trying to fool with them And then one Sunday afternoon I wandered out along the Desplaines river And I saw a crowd of Hungarians under the trees with their women and children and a keg of beer and an accordion.


by Lewis Carroll

Acrostic

 Little maidens, when you look 
On this little story-book, 
Reading with attentive eye 
Its enticing history, 
Never think that hours of play 
Are your only HOLIDAY, 
And that in a HOUSE of joy 
Lessons serve but to annoy: 
If in any HOUSE you find 
Children of a gentle mind, 
Each the others pleasing ever-- 
Each the others vexing never-- 
Daily work and pastime daily 
In their order taking gaily-- 
Then be very sure that they 
Have a life of HOLIDAY.


by Tupac Shakur

When Ure Hero Falls

when your hero falls from grace
all fairy tales r uncovered
myths exposed and pain magnified
the greatest pain discovered
u taught me 2 be strong
but im confused 2 c u so weak
u said never 2 give up
and it hurts 2 c u welcome defeat

when ure hero falls so do the stars
and so does the perception of tomorrow
without my hero there is only
me alone 2 deal with my sorrow
your heart ceases 2 work
and your soul is not happy at all
what r u expected 2 do
when ure only hero falls


by Wendell Berry

The Real Work

 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 Raymond Carver

The Best Time Of The Day

 Cool summer nights.
Windows open.
Lamps burning.
Fruit in the bowl.
And your head on my shoulder.
These the happiest moments in the day.
Next to the early morning hours, of course.
And the time just before lunch.
And the afternoon, and early evening hours.
But I do love these summer nights.
Even more, I think, than those other times.
The work finished for the day.
And no one who can reach us now.
Or ever.


by Carl Sandburg

Choices

 They offer you many things,
I a few.
Moonlight on the play of fountains at night With water sparkling a drowsy monotone, Bare-shouldered, smiling women and talk And a cross-play of loves and adulteries And a fear of death and a remembering of regrets: All this they offer you.
I come with: salt and bread a terrible job of work and tireless war; Come and have now: hunger.
danger and hate.


by James A Emanuel

For A Depressed Woman

 I
My friends do not know.
But what could my friends not know? About what? What friends? II She sleeps late each day, stifling each reason to rise, choked into the quilt.
III "I'll never find work.
" She swallows this thought with pills, finds tears in the glass.


by Ogden Nash

Oh To Be Odd!

 Hypochondriacs
Spend the winter at the bottom of Florida and the summer on top of
the Adirondriacs.
You go to Paris and live on champagne wine and cognac If you're dipsomognac.
If you're a manic-depressive You don't go anywhere where you won't be cheered up, and people say "There, there!" if your bills are excessive.
But you stick around and work day and night and night and day with your nose to the sawmill.
If you're nawmill.
Note: Dipsomaniac -- alcoholic


by Rabindranath Tagore

Lost Time

 On many an idle day have I grieved over lost time.
But it is never lost, my lord.
Thou hast taken every moment of my life in thine own hands.
Hidden in the heart of things thou art nourishing seeds into sprouts, buds into blossoms, and ripening flowers into fruitfulness.
I was tired and sleeping on my idle bed and imagined all work had ceased.
In the morning I woke up and found my garden full with wonders of flowers.


by John Betjeman

The Last Laugh

 I made hay while the sun shone.
My work sold.
Now, if the harvest is over And the world cold, Give me the bonus of laughter As I lose hold.


by Sara Teasdale

After Love

 There is no magic any more,
 We meet as other people do,
You work no miracle for me
 Nor I for you.
You were the wind and I the sea -- There is no splendor any more, I have grown listless as the pool Beside the shore.
But though the pool is safe from storm And from the tide has found surcease, It grows more bitter than the sea, For all its peace.


by Gary Snyder

There Are Those Who Love To Get Dirty

 There are those who love to get dirty
 and fix things.
They drink coffee at dawn, beer after work, And those who stay clean, just appreciate things, At breakfast they have milk and juice at night.
There are those who do both, they drink tea.


by Emily Dickinson

A Dew sufficed itself --

 A Dew sufficed itself --
And satisfied a Leaf
And felt "how vast a destiny" --
"How trivial is Life!"

The Sun went out to work --
The Day went out to play
And not again that Dew be seen
By Physiognomy

Whether by Day Abducted
Or emptied by the Sun
Into the Sea in passing
Eternally unknown

Attested to this Day
That awful Tragedy
By Transport's instability
And Doom's celerity.


by Dorothy Parker

Coda

 There's little in taking or giving,
There's little in water or wine;
This living, this living, this living
Was never a project of mine.
Oh, hard is the struggle, and sparse is The gain of the one at the top, For art is a form of catharsis, And love is a permanent flop, And work is the province of cattle, And rest's for a clam in a shell, So I'm thinking of throwing the battle- Would you kindly direct me to hell?


by Li Po

She Spins Silk

 Far up river in Szechuan,
waters rise as spring winds roar.
How can I dare to meet her now, to brave the dangerous gorge? The grass grows green in the valley below where silk worms silently spin.
Her hands work threads that never end, dawn to dusk when the cuckoo sings.


by Ezra Pound

Medallion

 Luini in porcelain! 
The grand piano 
Utters a profane 
Protest with her clear soprano.
The sleek head emerges From the gold-yellow frock As Anadyomene in the opening Pages of Reinach.
Honey-red, closing the face-oval, A basket-work of braids which seem as if they were Spun in King Minos' hall From metal, or intractable amber; The face-oval beneath the glaze, Bright in its suave bounding-line, as, Beneath half-watt rays, The eyes turn topaz.


by William Butler Yeats

The Choice

 The intellect of man is forced to choose
perfection of the life, or of the work,
And if it take the second must refuse
A heavenly mansion, raging in the dark.
When all that story's finished, what's the news? In luck or out the toil has left its mark: That old perplexity an empty purse, Or the day's vanity, the night's remorse.


by Dorothy Parker

Distance

 Were you to cross the world, my dear,
To work or love or fight,
I could be calm and wistful here,
And close my eyes at night.
It were a sweet and gallant pain To be a sea apart; But, oh, to have you down the lane Is bitter to my heart.


by Robert Burns

100. Inscribed on a Work of Hannah More's

 THOU flatt’ring mark of friendship kind,
Still may thy pages call to mind
 The dear, the beauteous donor;
Tho’ sweetly female ev’ry part,
Yet such a head, and more the heart
 Does both the sexes honour:
She show’d her taste refin’d and just,
 When she selected thee;
Yet deviating, own I must,
 For sae approving me:
 But kind still I’ll mind still
 The giver in the gift;
 I’ll bless her, an’ wiss her
 A Friend aboon the lift.


by Emily Dickinson

The Missing All -- prevented Me

 The Missing All -- prevented Me
From missing minor Things.
If nothing larger than a World's Departure from a Hinge -- Or Sun's extinction, be observed -- 'Twas not so large that I Could lift my Forehead from my work For Curiosity.


by William Stafford

The Light By The Barn

 The light by the barn that shines all night
pales at dawn when a little breeze comes.
A little breeze comes breathing the fields from their sleep and waking the slow windmill.
The slow windmill sings the long day about anguish and loss to the chickens at work.
The little breeze follows the slow windmill and the chickens at work till the sun goes down-- Then the light by the barn again.


by Arthur Symons

At Burgos

 Miraculous silver-work in stone 
Against the blue miraculous skies, 
The belfry towers and turrets rise 
Out of the arches that enthrone 
That airy wonder of the skies.
Softly against the burning sun The great cathedral spreads its wings; High up, the lyric belfry sings.
Behold Ascension Day begun Under the shadow of those wings!


by Isaac Watts

Against Idleness and Mischief

 How doth the little busy Bee 
Improve each shining Hour,
And gather Honey all the day
From every opening Flower!

How skilfully she builds her Cell!
How neat she spreads the Wax!
And labours hard to store it well
With the sweet Food she makes.
In Works of Labour or of Skill I would be busy too: For Satan finds some Mischief still For idle Hands to do.
In Books, or Work, or healthful Play Let my first Years be past, That I may give for every Day Some good Account at last.


by Emily Dickinson

All men for Honor hardest work

 All men for Honor hardest work
But are not known to earn --
Paid after they have ceased to work
In Infamy or Urn --


by Richard Brautigan

Love Poem

 There is always something to be made of pain.
Your mother knits.
She turns out scarves in every shade of red.
They were for Christmas, and they kept you warm while she married over and over, taking you along.
How could it work, when all those years she stored her widowed heart as though the dead come back.
No wonder you are the way you are, afraid of blood, your women like one brick wall after another.