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English Poems

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Join our ever-growing poetry community to read, discuss and rate existing work from thousands of the best poetry on our database. Some of the works are collectively and individually published by authors and contributing editors. Poets, famous and amateur, are to submit their poems freely without obligation. All poems submitted go live after editorial approval and the poet owns the property right.

Poetry Collections

A Song at Sea

Our sails are spread before the wind,
And onward, onward swift we fly;
We’ve left our country far behind,
No prospect now invites the eye,
Save the blue sea, and cloudless sky.

Oh! when I wav’d my last good-bye,
To parents, friends, and Mary dear,
It was not fear that dimm’d mine eye,
This heart ne’er felt a thrill of fear

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A Sudden Storm

The wind howls, the trees sway,
The loose house-top sheets clatter and clang,
The open window shuts with a bang,
And the sky makes night of the day.

Helter-skelter the parents run,
Pressed with a thousand minor cares:
‘Hey, you there! pack the house-wares!
And where on earth’s my son?

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The clanging fire-bells shook the air,
The maddened crowd roared like the sea
And hurled its human waves ‘gainst me —
Then through the smoke a face gleamed fair
A moment brief — and then the crash
As chariot wheels together dash;
Mad horses rear and plunge and scream —
It all comes back, an old, old dream,
The brutal

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With The Sunrise Gun

And why should I be sad?
And why should you be glad?
To-morrow will come
With the sunrise gun,
When I may be glad
While you may be sad —
Ah, should I not wait till then?

What if the skies are gray
And hide the sun away;
To-morrow will come
With the sunrise gun,
The sun will break through,

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Romance, who loves to nod and sing,
With drowsy head and folded wing,
Among the green leaves as they shake
Far down within some shadowy lake,
To me a painted paroquet
Hath been—a most familiar bird—
Taught me my alphabet to say—
To lisp my very earliest word
While in the wild wood I did lie,
A child—with a most

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A Bard’s Epitaph

Is there a whim-inspired fool,
Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule,
Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool,
Let him draw near;
And owre this grassy heap sing dool,
And drap a tear.

Is there a bard of rustic song,
Who, noteless, steals the crowds among,
That weekly this area throng,
O, pass not by!

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