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SHORT-QUOTES-AND-POEMS.COM
 

Some of the best short poems and rhymes from our collection . . . funny poems, sad poems, love poems, famous poems . . . and everyone contains less than 1000 characters . . . Yes - we have kept them SHORT.

Funny Short Poems - 968

Dark Poems : The Darkling Thrush by Thomas Hardy

I leant upon a coppice gate
When Frost was spectre-gray,
And Winter's dregs made desolate
The weakening eye of day.
The tangled bine-stems scored the sky
Like strings of broken lyres,
And all mankind that haunted nigh
Had sought their household fires.

The land's sharp features seemed to be
The Century's corpse outleant,
His crypt the cloudy canopy,
The wind his death-lament.
The ancient pulse of germ and birth
Was shrunken hard and dry,
And every spirit upon earth
Seemed fevourless as I.

At once a voice arose among
The bleak twigs overhead
In a full-hearted evensong
Of joy illimited;
An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small,
In blast-beruffled plume,
Had chosen thus to fling his soul
Upon the growing gloom.

So little cause for carolings
Of such ecstatic sound
Was written on terrestrial things
Afar or nigh around,
That I could think there trembled through
His happy good-night air
Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew
And I was unaware.


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Nonsense Poems : Cossimbazar by Henry S Leigh

Come fleetly, come fleetly, my hookabadar,
For the sound of the tam-tam is heard from afar.
'Banoolah! Banoolah!' The Brahmins are nigh,
And the depths of the jungle re-echo their cry.
Pestonjee Bomanjee!
Smite the guitar;

Join in the chorus, my hookabadar.
Heed not the blast of the deadly monsoon,
Nor the blue Brahmaputra that gleams in the moon
Stick to thy music, and oh, let the sound
Be heard with distinctness a mile or two round.
Jamsetjee, Jeejeebhoy!
Sweep the guitar.
Join in the chorus, my hookabadar.

Art thou a Buddhist, or dost thou indeed
Put faith in the monstrous Mohammedan creed?
Art thou a Ghebir--a blinded Parsee?
Not that it matters an atom to me.
Cursetjee Bomanjee!
Twang the guitar
Join in the chorus, my hookabadar.


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Poem : Part Four: Time and Eternity, XVIII by Emily Dickinson

GOD permits industrious angels
Afternoons to play.
I met one,—forgot my school-mates,
All, for him, straightway.

God calls home the angels promptly
At the setting sun;
I missed mine. How dreary marbles,
After playing Crown!


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Poem : The Gallant Weaver by Robert Burns

WHERE Cart rins rowin’ to the sea,
By mony a flower and spreading tree,
There lives a lad, the lad for me,
He is a gallant Weaver.
O, I had wooers aught or nine,
They gied me rings and ribbons fine;
And I was fear’d my heart wad tine,
And I gied it to the Weaver.


My daddie sign’d my tocher-band,
To gie the lad that has the land,
But to my heart I’ll add my hand,
And give it to the Weaver.
While birds rejoice in leafy bowers,
While bees delight in opening flowers,
While corn grows green in summer showers,
I love my gallant Weaver.



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