This page is specially prepared for poor poems. You can reach newest and popular poor poems from this page. You can vote and comment on the poor poems you read.
Ah, could I lay me down in this long grass
And close my eyes, and let the quiet wind
Blow over me-I am so tired, so tired
Of passing pleasant places! All my life,
Edna St. Vincent Millay
Sleep, let me sleep, for I am sick of care;
Sleep, let me sleep, for my pain wearies me.
Shut out the light; thicken the heavy air
With drowsy incense; let a distant stream
What Wor It?
What wor it made me love thee, lass?
Aw connot tell;
Aw know it worn't for thi brass; -
Tho' poor misel
It's hard that you keep being underestimated,
People see you as an outsider, or far from their level.
Racism under their state of mind,
They judged at you for being poor,
A Winter Night
When biting Boreas, fell and doure,
Sharp shivers thro' the leafless bow'r;
When Phœbus gies a short-liv'd glow'r,
Far south the lift,
Chained To Inhumanity
Why does it feel am in a cage
Chained to my past can't free from it
Why have this shackles turned to be my doom
Why can't I get free why are the chain painful
Down The Lanes Of August
DOWN the lanes of Augustâ??and the bees upon the wing,
All the world's in color now, and all the song birds sing;
Never reds will redder be, more golden be the gold,
Down the lanes of August, and the summer getting old.
Edgar Albert Guest
Why We Fight
This is the thing we fight:
A cry of terror in the night;
A ship on work of mercy bentâ??
A carrier of the sick and maimedâ??
Edgar Albert Guest
Now when the primrose makes a splendid show,
And lilies face the March-winds in full blow,
And humbler growths as moved with one desire
Put on, to welcome spring, their best attire,
The Norman Boy
High on a broad unfertile tract of forest-skirted Down,
Nor kept by Nature for herself, nor made by man his own,
From home and company remote and every playful joy,
Served, tending a few sheep and goats, a ragged Norman Boy.
Michael: A Pastoral Poem
If from the public way you turn your steps
Up the tumultuous brook of Green-head Ghyll,
You will suppose that with an upright path
Your feet must struggle; in such bold ascent
Among the dwellers in the silent fields
The natural heart is touched, and public way
And crowded street resound with ballad strains,
Inspired by one whose very name bespeaks
The Silent Lover (i)
Passions are liken'd best to floods and streams:
The shallow murmur, but the deep are dumb;
So, when affection yields discourse, it seems
The bottom is but shallow whence they come.
Sir Walter Raleigh
He wears a long and solemn face
And drives the children from his place;
He doesn't like to hear them shout
Or race and run and romp about,
Edgar Albert Guest
Christmas In India
Dim dawn behind the tamerisks-the sky is saffron-yellow-
As the women in the village grind the corn,
And the parrots seek the riverside, each calling to his fellow
That the Day, the staring Easter Day is born.
Lost Ln My Loneliness
Loneliness, oh Loneliness,
There is one word I want to say
But who to listen is my problem.
People say I have nothing important to say
Summer pleasures they are gone like to visions every one
And the cloudy days of autumn and of winter cometh on
I tried to call them back but unbidden they are gone
Far away from heart and eye and for ever far away
You ask me what I call Success-
It is, I wonder, Happiness?
It is not wealth, it is not fame,
The roaring alongside he takes for granted,
and that every so often the world is bound to shake.
He runs, he runs to the south, finical, awkward,
in a state of controlled panic, a student of Blake.
When I'm Killed
When I'm killed, don't think of me
Buried there in Cambrin Wood,
Nor as in Zion think of me
With the Intolerable Good.
Auguries Of Innocence
To see a world in a grain of sand
And a heaven in a wild flower,
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand
And eternity in an hour.
A Pot Of Tea
You make it in your mess-tin by the brazier's rosy gleam;
You watch it cloud, then settle amber clear;
You lift it with your bay'nit, and you sniff the fragrant steam;
The very breath of it is ripe with cheer.
So, the bank has bust it's boiler! And in six or seven year
It will pay me all my money back -- of course!
But the horse will perish waiting while the grass is germinating,
And I reckon I'll be something like the horse.
A raven, while with glossy breast
Her new-laid eggs she fondly press'd,
And, on her wicker-work high mounted,
Her chickens prematurely counted
A Befitting Send-off
Brothers, carry out the autopsy gently
That corpse was a rich man's residence
The carcass was never an ordinary body
To be hacked and dug upon
SWEET are the thoughts that savor of content;
The quiet mind is richer than a crown;
Sweet are the nights in careless slumber spent;
The poor estate scorns Fortune's angry frown.
I ask not that my bed of death
From bands of greedy heirs be free;
For these besiege the latest breath
Of fortune's favoured sons, not me.
After the burial-parties leave
And the baffled kites have fled;
The wise hyaenas come out at eve
To take account of our dead.
A Song Of Suicide
Deeming that I were better dead,
“How shall I kill myself?” I said.
Thus mooning by the river Seine
I sought extinction without pain,
Venus And Adonis
Even as the sun with purple-coloured face
Had ta'en his last leave of the weeping morn,
Rose-cheeked Adonis hied him to the chase;
Hunting he loved, but love he laughed to scorn.
The Trail Of Ninety-eight
Gold! We leapt from our benches. Gold! We sprang from our stools.
Gold! We wheeled in the furrow, fired with the faith of fools.
Fearless, unfound, unfitted, far from the night and the cold,
Heard we the clarion summons, followed the master-lure-Gold!
The red-roofed house of dream design
Looks three ways on the sea;
For fifty years I've made it mine,
And held it part of me.
I welcome you my son on earth
More especially in this continent of Africa
In a village of which her people are only warm to foreigners
Feel free my son, I am here for you
The Waste Land
‘Nam Sibyllam quidem Cumis ego ipse oculis meis
vidi in ampulla pendere, et cum illi pueri dicerent:
Sibylla ti theleis; respondebat illa: apothanein thelo.'
T. S. Eliot