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A Collection of Short Poems by Various Poets and Writers |
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This assortment of shorter poems and sonnets includes:
"Abou Ben Butler" by John Paul
"The Beecher Beached" by John B. Tabb
"Composed upon Westminster Bridge, Sept. 3, 1802" by William Wordsworth
"Coyote" by Bret Harte
"A Daniel Come to Judgment" by Edmund Vance Cooke
"Days" by Ralph Waldo Emerson
"Dirge in Woods" by George Meredith
"Enough" by Tom Masson
"Is it I?" by Warwick S. Price
"The Land of Counterpane" by Robert Louis Stevenson
"London, 1802" by William Wordsworth
"Maxioms" by Carolyn Wells
"My Shadow" by Robert Louis Stevenson
"The Octopussycat" by Kenyon Cox
"On the Sea-shore near Calais" by William Wordsworth
"September, 1802, near Dover" by William Wordsworth
"Shakespeare" by Matthew Arnold
"Stage Whispers" by Carolyn Wells
"To Sleep" by William Wordsworth
"Song of the Songless" by George Meredith
"The Turnings of a Bookworm" by Carolyn Wells
"Vive La Bagatelle" by Gelett Burgess
"When the Sirup's on the Flapjack" by Bert Leston Taylor
"The World Is Too Much With Us" by William Wordsworth
The various books, short stories and poems we
offer are presented free of charge with absolutely
no advertising as a public service from Internet
Accuracy Project.
Be sure and visit these other collections of short poems:
A Collection of Short Poems by Oliver Wendell Holmes
A Collection of Short Poems by James Whitcomb Riley
A Collection of Short Poems by Walt Whitman
A Collection of Short Poems by John Greenleaf Whittier
A Collection of Short Poems by African-American Poets
To see all available titles by other authors, drop
by our index of free books alphabetized by author
or arranged alphabetically by title.
Potential uses for the free books, stories and poetry we offer
· Rediscovering an old favorite book, poem or story.
· Bibliophiles expanding their collection of
public domain ebooks at no cost.
· Teachers trying to locate the complete text of
a poem or story for use in the classroom.
NOTE: These classic literary works are presented as they originally
appeared in print. As such, they sometimes contain
typographical errors, and often utilize unconventional,
older, obsolete or intentionally incorrect spelling and/or punctuation
conventions.
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"Abou Ben Butler" by John Paul |
ABOU BEN BUTLER
by JOHN PAUL
Abou, Ben Butler (may his tribe be less!)
Awoke one night from a deep bottledness,
And saw, by the rich radiance of the moon,
Which shone and shimmered like a silver spoon,
A stranger writing on a golden slate
(Exceeding store had Ben of spoons and plate),
And to the stranger in his tent he said:
"Your little game?" The stranger turned his head,
And, with a look made all of innocence,
Replied: "I write the name of Presidents."
"And is mine one?" "Not if this court doth know
Itself," replied the stranger. Ben said, "Oh!"
And "Ah!" but spoke again: "Just name your price
To write me up as one that may be Vice."
The stranger up and vanished. The next night
He came again, and showed a wondrous sight
Of names that haply yet might fill the chair--
But, lo! the name of Butler was not there!
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"The Beecher Beached" by John B. Tabb |
THE BEECHER BEACHED
by JOHN B. TABB
Were Harriet Beecher well aware
Of what was done in Delaware,
Of that unwholesome smell aware,
She'd make all heaven and hell aware,
And ask John Brown to tell her where
Henceforth she best might sell her ware.
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"Composed upon Westminster Bridge, Sept. 3, 1802" |
COMPOSED UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE, SEPT. 3, 1802
by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
Earth has not anything to show more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty:
This City now doth, like a garment, wear
The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
Open unto the fields, and to the sky;
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
Never did sun more beautifully steep
In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill;
Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!
The river glideth at his own sweet will:
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still!
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"Coyote" by Bret Harte |
COYOTE
by BRET HARTE
Blown out of the prairie in twilight and dew,
Half bold and half timid, yet lazy all through;
Loath ever to leave, and yet fearful to stay,
He limps in the clearing,--an outcast in gray.
A shade on the stubble, a ghost by the wall,
Now leaping, now limping, now risking a fall,
Lop-eared and large-jointed, but ever alway
A thoroughly vagabond outcast in gray.
Here, Carlo, old fellow,--he's one of your kind,--
Go, seek him, and bring him in out of the wind.
What! snarling, my Carlo! So--even dogs may
Deny their own kin in the outcast in gray.
Well, take what you will,--though it be on the sly,
Marauding or begging,--I shall not ask why,
But will call it a dole, just to help on his way
A four-footed friar in orders of gray!
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"A Daniel Come to Judgment" by Edmund Vance Cooke |
A DANIEL COME TO JUDGMENT
by EDMUND VANCE COOKE
Now, everything that Russell did, he did his best to hasten,
And one day he decided that he'd like to be a Mason;
But nothing else would suit him, and nothing less would please,
But he must take, and all at once, the thirty-three degrees.
So he rode the--ah, that is, he crossed the--I can't tell;
You either must not know at all, or else know very well.
He dived in--well, well, never mind! It only need be said
That somewhere in the last degree poor Russell dropped down dead.
They arrested all the Masons, and they stayed in durance vile
Till the jury found them guilty, when the Judge said, with a smile,
"I'm forced to let the prisoners go, for I can find," said he,
"No penalty for murder in the thirty-third degree!"
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"Days" by Ralph Waldo Emerson |
DAYS
by RALPH WALDO EMERSON
Daughters of Time, the hypocritic Days,
Muffled and dumb like barefoot dervishes,
And marching single in an endless file,
Bring diadems and fagots in their hands.
To each they offer gifts after his will,
Bread, kingdoms, stars, and sky that holds them all.
I, in my pleached garden, watched the pomp,
Forgot my morning wishes, hastily
Took a few herbs and apples, and the Day
Turned and departed silent. I, too late,
Under her solemn fillet saw the scorn.
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"Dirge in Woods" by George Meredith |
DIRGE IN WOODS
by GEORGE MEREDITH
A wind sways the pines,
And below
Not a breath of wild air;
Still as the mosses that glow
On the flooring and over the lines
Of the roots here and there.
The pine-tree drops its dead;
They are quiet, as under the sea.
Overhead, overhead
Rushes life in a race,
As the clouds the clouds chase:
And we go,
And we drop like the fruits of the tree,
Even we,
Even so.
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"Enough" by Tom Masson |
ENOUGH
by TOM MASSON
I shot a rocket in the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where
Until next day, with rage profound,
The man it fell on came around.
In less time than it takes to tell,
He showed me where that rocket fell;
And now I do not greatly care
To shoot more rockets in the air.
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"Is it I?" by Warwick S. Price |
IS IT I?
by WARWICK S. PRICE
Where is the man who has not said
At evening, when he went to bed,
"I'll waken with the crowing cock,
And get to work by six o'clock?"
Where is the man who, rather late,
Crawls out of bed at half-past eight,
That has not thought, with fond regard,
"It's better not to work too hard?"
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"The Land of Counterpane" by Robert Louis Stevenson |
THE LAND OF COUNTERPANE
by ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
When I was sick and lay a-bed,
I had two pillows at my head,
And all my toys beside me lay,
To keep me happy all the day.
And sometimes for an hour or so
I watched my leaden soldiers go,
With different uniforms and drills,
Among the bed-clothes, through the hills;
And sometimes sent my ships in fleets
All up and down among the sheets;
Or brought my trees and houses out,
And planted cities all about.
I was the giant great and still
That sits upon the pillow-hill,
And sees before him, dale and plain,
The pleasant land of counterpane.
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"London, 1802" by William Wordsworth |
LONDON, 1802
by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
Milton! thou should'st be living at this hour:
England hath need of thee: she is a fen
Of stagnant waters: altar, sword and pen,
Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower,
Have forfeited their ancient English dower
Of inward happiness. We are selfish men;
Oh! raise us up, return to us again;
And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power.
Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart:
Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea:
Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free,
So didst thou travel on life's common way,
In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart
The lowliest duties on herself did lay.
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"Maxioms" by Carolyn Wells |
MAXIOMS
by CAROLYN WELLS
Reward is its own virtue.
The wages of sin is alimony.
Money makes the mayor go.
A penny saved spoils the broth.
Of two evils, choose the prettier.
There's no fool like an old maid.
Make love while the moon shines.
Where there's a won't there's a way.
Nonsense makes the heart grow fonder.
A word to the wise is a dangerous thing.
A living gale is better than a dead calm.
A fool and his money corrupt good manners.
A word in the hand is worth two in the ear.
A man is known by the love-letters he keeps.
A guilty conscience is the mother of invention.
Whosoever thy hands find to do, do with thy might.
It's a wise child who knows less than his own father.
Never put off till to-morrow what you can wear to-night.
He who loves and runs away, may live to love another day.
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"My Shadow" by Robert Louis Stevenson |
MY SHADOW
by ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me,
And what can be the use of him is more than I can see.
He is very, very like me, from the heels up to the head;
And I see him jump before me, when I jump into bed.
The funniest thing about him is the way he likes to grow--
Not at all like proper children, which is always very slow;
For he sometimes shoots up taller, like an india-rubber ball,
And he sometimes goes so little that there's none of him at all.
He hasn't got a notion of how children ought to play,
And can only make a fool of me in every sort of way.
He stays so close behind me, he's a coward you can see;
I'd think shame to stick to nursie as that shadow sticks to me!
One morning, very early, before the sun was up,
I 'rose and found the shining dew on every buttercup;
But my lazy little shadow, like an arrant sleepy head,
Had stayed at home behind me and was fast asleep in bed.
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"The Octopussycat" by Kenyon Cox |
THE OCTOPUSSYCAT
by KENYON COX
I love Octopussy, his arms are so long;
There's nothing in nature so sweet as his song.
'Tis true I'd not touch him--no, not for a farm!
If I keep at a distance he'll do me no harm.
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"On the Sea-shore near Calais" by William Wordsworth |
ON THE SEA-SHORE NEAR CALAIS
by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
It is a beauteous evening, calm and free,
The holy time is quiet as a Nun
Breathless with adoration; the broad sun
Is sinking down in its tranquillity;
The gentleness of heaven broods o'er the Sea:
Listen! the mighty Being is awake,
And doth with his eternal motion make
A sound like thunder--everlastingly.
Dear Child! dear Girl! that walkest with me here,
If thou appear untouched by solemn thought,
Thy nature is not therefore less divine:
Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year;
And worship'st at the temple's inner shrine,
God being with thee when we know it not.
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"September, 1802, near Dover" by William Wordsworth |
SEPTEMBER, 1802, NEAR DOVER
by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
Inland, within a hollow vale, I stood;
And saw, while sea was calm and air was clear,
The coast of France--the coast of France how near!
Drawn almost into frightful neighbourhood.
I shrunk; for verily the barrier flood
Was like a lake, or river bright and fair,
A span of waters; yet what power is there!
What mightiness for evil and for good!
Even so doth God protect us if we be
Virtuous and wise. Winds blow, and waters roll,
Strength to the brave, and Power, and Deity;
Yet in themselves are nothing! One decree
Spake laws to them, and said that by the soul
Only, the nations shall be great and free.
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"Shakespeare" by Matthew Arnold |
SHAKESPEARE
by MATTHEW ARNOLD
Others abide our question. Thou art free.
We ask and ask: Thou smilest and art still,
Out-topping knowledge. For the loftiest hill,
That to the stars uncrowns his majesty,
Planting his steadfast footsteps in the sea,
Making the Heaven of Heavens his dwelling-place,
Spares but the cloudy border of his base
To the foil'd searching of mortality:
And thou, who didst the stars and sunbeams know,
Self-school'd, self-scann'd, self-honour'd, self-secure,
Didst walk on Earth unguess'd at. Better so!
All pains the immortal spirit must endure,
All weakness that impairs, all griefs that bow,
Find their sole speech in that victorious brow.
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"Song of the Songless" by George Meredith |
SONG OF THE SONGLESS (a.k.a. SONG IN THE SONGLESS)
by GEORGE MEREDITH
They have no song, the sedges dry,
And still they sing.
It is within my breast they sing,
As I pass by.
Within my breast they touch a string,
They wake a sigh.
There is but sound of sedges dry;
In me they sing.
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"Stage Whispers" by Carolyn Wells |
STAGE WHISPERS
by CAROLYN WELLS
Deadheads tell no tales.
Stars are stubborn things.
All's not bold that titters.
Contracts make cowards of us all.
One good turn deserves an encore.
A little actress is a dangerous thing.
It's a long skirt that has no turning.
Stars rush in where angels fear to tread.
Managers never hear any good of themselves.
A manager is known by the company he keeps.
A plot is not without honor save in comic opera.
Take care of the dance and the songs will take care of themselves.
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"To Sleep" by William Wordsworth |
TO SLEEP
by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by,
One after one; the sound of rain, and bees
Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and seas,
Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky:
I have thought of all by turns; and yet do lie
Sleepless! and soon the small birds' melodies
Must hear, first uttered from my orchard trees;
And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry.
Even thus last night, and two nights more, I lay,
And could not win thee, Sleep! by any stealth:
So do not let me wear to-night away:
Without Thee what is all the morning's wealth?
Come, blessed barrier between day and day,
Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!
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"The Turnings of a Bookworm" by Carolyn Wells |
THE TURNINGS OF A BOOKWORM
by CAROLYN WELLS
Love levels all plots.
Dead men sell no tales.
A new boom sweeps clean.
Circumstances alter bookcases.
The more haste the less read.
Too many books spoil the trade.
Many hands make light literature.
Epigrams cover a multitude of sins.
Ye can not serve Art and Mammon.
A little sequel is a dangerous thing.
It's a long page that has no turning.
Don't look a gift-book in the binding.
A gilt-edged volume needs no accuser.
In a multitude of characters there is safety.
Incidents will happen even in the best regulated novels.
One touch of Nature makes the whole book sell.
Where there's a will there's a detective story.
A book in the hand is worth two in the library.
An ounce of invention is worth a pound of style.
A good name is rather to be chosen than great characters.
Where there's so much puff, there must be some buyer.
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"Vive La Bagatelle" by Gelett Burgess |
VIVE LA BAGATELLE
by GELETT BURGESS
Sing a song of foolishness, laughing stocks and cranks!
The more there are the merrier; come join the ranks!
Life is dry and stupid; whoop her up a bit!
Donkeys live in clover; bray and throw a fit!
Take yourself in earnest, never stop to think,
Strut and swagger boldly, dress in red and pink;
Prate of stuff and nonsense, get yourself abused;
Some one's got to play the fool to keep the crowd amused!
Bully for the idiot! Bully for the guy!
You could be a prig yourself, if you would only try!
Altruistic asses keep the fun alive;
Clowns are growing scarcer; hurry and arrive!
I seen a crazy critic a-writin' of a screed;
"Tendencies" and "Unities"--Maeterlinck indeed!
He wore a paper collar, and his tie was up behind;
If that's the test of Culture, then I'm glad I'm not refined!
Let me laugh at you, then you can laugh at me;
Then we'll josh together everything we see;
Every one's a nincompoop to another's view;
Laughter makes the sun shine! Roop-de-doodle-doo!
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"When the Sirup's on the Flapjack" by Bert Leston Taylor |
WHEN THE SIRUP'S ON THE FLAPJACK
by BERT LESTON TAYLOR
When the sirup's on the flapjack and the coffee's in the pot;
When the fly is in the butter--where he'd rather be than not;
When the cloth is on the table, and the plates are on the cloth;
When the salt is in the shaker and the chicken's in the broth;
When the cream is in the pitcher and the pitcher's on the tray,
And the tray is on the sideboard when it isn't on the way;
When the rind is on the bacon, and likewise upon the cheese,
Then I somehow feel inspired to do a lot of rhymes like these.
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"The World Is Too Much With Us" by William Wordsworth |
THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH US
by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
The world is too much with us: late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not.--Great God! I'd rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.
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