I thought it would be fun to share with readers some of my favorite poems! I have been a fan of poetry since my mom first introduced me to Shel Silverstein many years ago, and over the years I have collected an eclectic variety of favorites that I visit from time to time, like lovely old friends. These are not ALL of my favorite poems (that would take forever!), just a few worth reading. I will add to this list from time to time, and invite you to share your favorite poems and poets in the comments below!

by Gelett Burgess (1866-1951)
I never saw a Purple Cow,
I never hope to see one;
But I can tell you, anyhow,
I'd rather see than be one.

* * * * *

by Shel Silverstein (1930-1999)

If you have to dry the dishes
(Such an awful, boring chore)
If you have to dry the dishes
(‘Stead of going to the store)
If you have to dry the dishes
And you drop one on the floor—
Maybe they won’t let you
Dry the dishes anymore.

* * * * *

by Walter De La Mare (1873-1956)

I know a little cupboard,
With a teeny tiny key,
And there's a jar of Lollypops
For me, me, me.

It has a little shelf, my dear,
As dark as dark can be,
And there's a dish of Banbury Cakes
For me, me, me.

I have a small fat grandmamma,
With a very slippery knee,
And she's the Keeper of the Cupboard
With the key, key, key.

And I'm very good, my dear,
As good as good can be,
There's Branbury Cakes, and Lollypops
For me, me, me.

* * * * *

by Benjamin Malachi Franklin (1882-1965)

My life is but a weaving
between my Lord and me;
I cannot choose the colors
He worketh steadily.

Oft times He weaveth sorrow
And I, in foolish pride,
Forget He sees the upper,
And I the under side.

Not til the loom is silent
And the shuttles cease to fly,
Shall God unroll the canvas
And explain the reasons why.

The dark threads are as needful
In the Weaver's skillful hand,
As the threads of gold and silver
In the patterns He has planned.

* * * * *

by John Masefield (1878-1967)

I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea's face, and a grey dawn breaking.

I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull's way and the whale's way, where the wind's like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.

* * * * *

by Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

* * * * *

by Robert Frost (1874-1963)

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim
Because it was grassy and wanted wear,
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I marked the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

* * * * *

by Joyce Kilmer (1886-1918)

I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the sweet earth's flowing breast;

A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

A tree that may in summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;

Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree


  1. I loved your blog and choice of poems. A couple I hadn't thought of in years and was like a surprise visit with old friends. Thank you for that remembrance!

    My love of poetry comes from both my big sisters, Terri and Rose. Terri taught me the chilly thrill of hauntingly beautiful poetry. Rose taught me Ogden Nash, and it changed my whole way of thinking. How words themselves can take on a life all their own. Words have the power to be whatever you want them to be. They can express whatever your imagination can come up with. And a love affair began long ago.

    I've written stories for my children, nephew and nieces when they were small. Illustrated them too. My poetry and stories have been lost over the years for various reasons. Oddly, I miss them nearly like one would miss a limb. An itch I can't scratch. Bummer.
    I don't write much anymore... mostly from the fear of loss. Now I find myself considering... we shall see what comes of it.

    Again, thank you for your lovely blog!

    Ruby Wilfong (younger sister of Rose Fox)

    1. Ruby, I am so glad you enjoyed my Poetry Page! Thanks so much for your thoughtful response, and for sharing about your love of poetry and writing. I love how you said "Words have the power to be whatever you want them to be." It sounds like your love of words is a wonderful family affair! = ) I hope you pick up your pen again soon and scratch your writing "itch!"

  2. Such a nice selection of words - especially Sea Fever. I feel like I'd like to memorize that one for some strange reason. Your blog is really lovely!

    1. Thank you so much, Jan! Sea Fever comes to mind every time I visit the ocean!


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