101 Famous Poems

By Roy F. Cook

Originally published in 1916, Roy J. Cook's "101 Famous Poems" is one of the finest collections of poetry ever assembled. The book seems to include a poem, word, or even a phrase (e.g. tinnabulation and runcible spoons) for just about everyone. 

There are poems of encouragement (such as Frank Stanton's "Keep a'Goin") and&n

• Language: English
• Publisher: Olahauski Books
• Release date: Jan 24, 2022
• ISBN: 9781956527353

Book preview

1

The Builders

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

(Born February 27, 1807; Died March 24, 1882)

All are architects of Fate,

Working in these walls of Time;

Some with massive deeds and great,

Some with ornaments of rhyme.

Nothing useless is, or low;

Each thing in its place is best;

And what seems but idle show

Strengthens and supports the rest.

For the structure that we raise,

Time is with materials filled;

Our todays and yesterdays

Are the blocks with which we build.

Truly shape and fashion these;

Leave no yawning gaps between;

Think not, because no man sees

Such things will remain unseen.

In the elder days of Art,

Builders wrought with greatest care

Each minute and unseen part;

For the gods see everywhere.

Let us do our work as well,

Both the unseen and the seen;

Make the house where gods may dwell

Beautiful, entire, and clean.

Else our lives, are incomplete

Standing in these walls of Time,

Broken stairways, where the feet

Stumble, as they seek to climb.

Build today, then, strong and sure,

With a firm and ample base;

And ascending and secure

Shall tomorrow find its place.

Thus alone can we attain

To those turrets, where the eye

Sees the world as one vast plain,

And one boundless reach of sky.

2

Opportunity

Edward R. Sill

(Born April 29, 1841; Died February 27, 1887)

This I beheld, or dreamed it in a dream:

There spread a cloud of dust along a plain;

And underneath the cloud, or in it, raged

A furious battle, and men yelled, and swords

Shocked upon swords and shields. A prince’s banner

Wavered, then staggered backward, hemmed by foes.

A craven hung along the battle’s edge,

And thought, "Had I a sword of keener steel—

That blue blade that the king’s son bears—but this

Blunt thing!"—he snapped and flung it from his hand,

And lowering crept away and left the field.

Then came the king’s son, wounded, sore bestead,

And weaponless, and saw the broken sword,

Hilt-buried in the dry and trodden sand,

And ran and snatched it, and with battle-shout

Lifted afresh he hewed his enemy down,

And saved a great cause that heroic day.

3

Out to Old Aunt Mary's

James Whitcomb Riley

(From The Complete Works of James Whitcomb Riley, Bobbs-Merrill Company, in six volumes, a quote: On an early day in a memorable October, Reuben A. Riley and his wife, Elizabeth Marine Riley, rejoiced over the birth of their second son. They called him James Whitcomb. Mr. Riley always replied when asked the direct question as to age, 'I am this side of forty.' October 7, 1853, is the generally accepted date of his birth. Died July 22, 1916)

Wasn’t it pleasant, O brother mine,

In those old days of the lost sunshine

Of youth—when the Saturday’s chores were through

And the Sunday’s wood in the kitchen, too,

And we went visiting, me and you,

Out to Old Aunt Mary’s?

It all comes back so clear today!

Though I am as bald as you are gray—

Out by the barn-lot, and down the lane,

We patter along in the dust again

As light as the tips of the drops of the rain,

Out to Old Aunt Mary’s!

We cross the pasture, and through the wood

Where the old gray snag of the poplar stood

Where the hammering red-heads hopped awry,

And the buzzard raised in the clearing sky

And lolled and circled, as we went by,

Out to Old Aunt Mary’s.

And then in the dust of the road again;

And the teams we met, and the countrymen;

And the long highway, with sunshine spread

As thick as butter on country bread

Our cares behind, and our hearts ahead

Out to Old Aunt Mary’s.

Why, I see her now in the open door

Where the little gourds grew up the sides, and o’er

The clapboard roof! —And her face—ah, me!

Wasn’t it good for a boy to see—

And wasn't it good for a boy to be

Out to Old Aunt Mary’s?

The jelly—the jam and the marmalade,

And the cherry and quince preserves she made!

And the sweet-sour pickles of peach and pear,

With cinnamon in ’em, and all things rare!—

And the more we ate was the more to spare,

Out to Old Aunt Mary’s!

And the old spring-house in the cool green gloom

Of the willow-trees, and the cooler room

Where the swinging-shelves and the crocks were kept-

Where the cream in a golden languor slept

While the waters gurgled and laughed and wept—

Out to Old Aunt Mary’s.

And as many a time have you and I—

Barefoot boys in the days gone by-

Knelt, and in tremulous ecstasies

Dipped our lips into sweets like these,—

Memory now is on her knees

Out to Old Aunt Mary’s!

And O, my brother, so far away

This is to tell you she waits today

To welcome us:—Aunt Mary fell

Asleep this morning, whispering, "Tell

The boys to come!" And all is well

Out to Old Aunt Mary’s.

4

Each and All

Ralph Waldo Emerson

(Born May 25, 1803; Died April 27, 1882)

Little thinks, in the field, yon red-cloaked clown

Of thee from the hill-top looking down;

The heifer that lows in the upland farm,

Far-heard, lows not thine ear to charm;

The sexton, tolling his bell at noon,

Deems not that great Napoleon

Stops his horse, and lists with delight,

Whilst his files sweep round yon Alpine height;

Nor knowest thou what argument

Thy life to thy neighbor’s creed has lent,

All are needed by each one,—

Nothing is fair or good alone.

I thought the sparrow’s note from heaven,

Singing at dawn on the alder bough;

I brought him home, in his nest, at even;

He sings the song, but it cheers not now;

For I did not bring home the river and sky;

He sang to my ear,—they sang to my eye.

The delicate shells lay on the shore;

The bubbles of the latest wave

Fresh pearls to their enamel gave,

And the bellowing of the savage sea

Greeted their safe escape to me.

I wiped away the weeds and foam—

I fetched my sea-born treasures home;

But the poor, unsightly, noisome things

Had left their beauty on the shore

With the sun and the sand and the wild uproar.

The lover watched his graceful maid,

As ’mid the virgin train she strayed,

Nor knew her beauty’s best attire

Was woven still by the snow-white choir,

At last she came to his hermitage,

Like the bird from the woodlands to the cage;

The gay enchantment was undone—

A gentle wife, but fairy none.

Then I said, "I covet truth;

Beauty is unripe childhood’s cheat;

I leave it behind with the games of youth."

As I spoke, beneath my feet

The ground-pine curled its pretty wreath,

Running over the club-moss burrs;

I inhaled the violet’s breath;

Around me stood the oaks and firs;

Pine cones and acorns lay on the ground;

Over me soared the eternal sky,

Full of light and of deity;

Again I saw, again I heard.

The rolling river, the morning bird;

Beauty through my senses stole;

I yielded myself to the perfect whole.

5

The Rhodora

On Being Asked Whence is the Flower

Ralph Waldo Emerson

In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes,

I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods.

Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook,

To please the desert and the sluggish brook.

The purple petals, fallen in the pool,

Made the black water with their beauty gay;

Here might the redbird come his plumes to cool,

And court the flower that cheapens his array.

Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why

This charm is wasted on the earth and sky,

Tell them, dear, that if eyes were made for seeing,

Then Beauty is its own excuse for being:

Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose!

I never thought to ask, I never knew:

But, in my simple ignorance, suppose

The self-same Power that brought me there brought you.

6

Charge of the Light Brigade

Alfred Tennyson

(Born August 6, 1809; Died October 6, 1892)

Half a league, half a league,

Half a league onward,

All in the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred.

"Forward, the Light Brigade!

Charge for the guns!" he said:

Into the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred.

Forward, the Light Brigade!

Was there a man dismayed?

Not tho’ the soldier knew

Someone had blunder’d:

Theirs not to make reply,

Theirs not to reason why,

Theirs but to do and die:

Into the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred

Cannon to right of them,

Cannon to left of them,

Cannon in front of them

Volleyed and thunder’d;

Storm’d at with shot and shell,

Boldly they rode and well,

Into the jaws of Death,

Into the mouth of Hell,

Rode the six hundred.

Flashed all their sabres bare,

Flashed as they turned in air,

Sab’ring the gunners there,

Charging an army, while

All the world wondered:

Plunged in the battery smoke,

Right through the line they broke;

Cossack and Russian

Reeled from the sabre-stroke

Shattered and sundered.

Then they rode back, but not—

Not the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,

Cannon to left of them,

Cannon behind them

Volleyed and thundered;

Stormed at with shot and shell,

While horse and hero fell,

They that had fought so well

Came thro’ the jaws of Death,

Back from the mouth of Hell,

All that was left of them,

Left of six hundred.

When can their glory fade?

Oh, the wild charge they made!

All the world wondered.

Honor the charge they made!

Honor the Light Brigade,

Noble Six Hundred!

7

The Night Has a Thousand Eyes

Francis William Bourdillon

(Born March 22, 1852; Died January 13, 1921)

The night has a thousand eyes

And the day but one;

Yet the light of the bright world dies

With the dying sun.

The mind has a thousand eyes

And the heart but one;

Yet the light of a whole life dies

When love is done.

8

The House By the Side of the Road

Sam Walter Foss

(Born June 19, 1858; Died February 26, 1911)

There are hermit souls that live withdrawn

In the place of their self content;

There are souls like stars, that dwell apart,

In a fellowless firmament;

There are pioneer souls that blaze their paths

Where highways never ran—

But let me live by the side of the road

And be a friend to man.

Let me live in a house by the side of the road,

Where the race of men go by—

The men who are good and the men who are bad,

As good and as bad as I.

I would not sit in the scorner’s seat,

Or hurl the cynic’s ban—

Let me live in a house by the side of the road

And be a friend to man.

I see from my house by the side of the road,

By the side of the highway of life,

The men who press with the ardor of hope,

The men who are faint with the strife.

But I turn not away from their smiles nor their tears,

Both parts of an infinite plan—

Let me live in a house by the side of the road

And be a friend to man.

I know there are brook-gladdened meadows ahead

And mountains of wearisome height;

That the road passes on through the long afternoon

And stretches away to the night.

But still I rejoice when the travelers rejoice,

And weep with the strangers that moan,

Nor live in my house by the side of the road

Like a man who dwells alone.

Let me live in my house by the side of the road—

It’s here the race of men go by.

They are good, they are bad, they are weak, they are strong,

Wise, foolish—so am I;

Then why should I sit in the scorner’s seat,

Or hurl the cynic’s ban?

Let me live in my house by the side of the road

And be a friend to man.

9

I Have a Rendezvous With Death

Alan Seeger

(Born June 22, 1888; Died July 4, 1916)

I have a rendezvous with Death

At some disputed barricade

When spring comes round with rustling shade

And apple blossoms fill the air.

I have a rendezvous with Death

When spring brings back blue days and fair.

It may be he shall take my hand

And lead me into his dark land

And close my eyes and quench my breath;

It may be I shall pass him, still,

I have a rendezvous with Death

On some scarred slope of battered hill,

When spring comes round again this year

And the first meadow flowers appear.

God knows ’twere better to be deep

Pillowed in silk and scented down,

Where love throbs out in blissful sleep,

Pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath,

Where hushed awakenings are dear . . .

But I’ve a rendezvous with Death

At midnight in some flaming town,

When spring trips north again this year,

And I to my pledged word am true,

I shall not fail that rendezvous.

10

In Flander's Fields

Lieutenant-Colonel John McCrae

(The author of this poem, a member of the first Canadian contingent, died in France on January 28, 1918, after four years of service on the western front. Born November 30, 1872; Died January 28, 1918)

In Flanders fields the poppies blow

Between the crosses, row on row,

That mark our place; and in the sky

The larks, still bravely singing, fly

Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,

Loved and were loved, and now we lie

In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe;

To you from failing hands we throw

The torch; be yours to hold it high.

If ye break faith with us who die

We shall not sleep, though poppies grow

In Flanders fields.

11

Moonlight

William Shakespeare

(Born April 26, 1564; Died April 23, 1616)

How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank!

Here will we sit, and let the sound of music

Creep in our ears: soft stillness, and the night,

Become the touches of sweet harmony.

Sit, Jessica: look, how the floor of heaven

Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold:

There’s not the smallest orb which thou