Famous Short Robin Poems
Famous Short Robin Poems. Short Robin Poetry by Famous Poets. A collection of the all-time best Robin short poems
by
William Blake
A Robin Redbreast in a cage,
Puts all Heaven in a rage.
A skylark wounded on the wing
Doth make a cherub cease to sing.
He who shall hurt the little wren
Shall never be beloved by men.
by
Emily Dickinson
The Robin is a Gabriel
In humble circumstances --
His Dress denotes him socially,
Of Transport's Working Classes --
He has the punctuality
Of the New England Farmer --
The same oblique integrity,
A Vista vastly warmer --
A small but sturdy Residence
A self denying Household,
The Guests of Perspicacity
Are all that cross his Threshold --
As covert as a Fugitive,
Cajoling Consternation
By Ditties to the Enemy
And Sylvan Punctuation --
by
Walter de la Mare
Clouded with snow
The cold winds blow,
And shrill on leafless bough
The robin with its burning breast
Alone sings now.
The rayless sun,
Day's journey done,
Sheds its last ebbing light
On fields in leagues of beauty spread
Unearthly white.
Thick draws the dark,
And spark by spark,
The frost-fires kindle, and soon
Over that sea of frozen foam
Floats the white moon.
by
Alan Alexander (A A) Milne
Christopher Robin goes
Hoppity, hoppity,
Hoppity, hoppity, hop.
Whenever I tell him
Politely to stop it, he
Says he can't possibly stop.
If he stopped hopping,
He couldn't go anywhere,
Poor little Christopher
Couldn't go anywhere...
That's why he always goes
Hoppity, hoppity,
Hoppity,
Hoppity,
Hop.
by
William Blake
Merry, merry sparrow!
Under leaves so green
A happy blossom
Sees you, swift as arrow,
Seek your cradle narrow,
Near my bosom.
Pretty, pretty robin!
Under leaves so green
A happy blossom
Hears you sobbing, sobbing,
Pretty, pretty robin,
Near my bosom.
by
Emily Dickinson
Quite empty, quite at rest,
The Robin locks her Nest, and tries her Wings.
She does not know a Route
But puts her Craft about
For rumored Springs --
She does not ask for Noon --
She does not ask for Boon,
Crumbless and homeless, of but one request --
The Birds she lost --
by
Mother Goose
Robin Hood, Robin Hood,
Is in the mickle wood!
Little John, Little John,
He to the town is gone.
Robin Hood, Robin Hood,
Telling his beads,
All in the greenwood
Among the green weeds.
Little John, Little John,
If he comes no more,
Robin Hood, Robin Hood,
We shall fret full sore!
by
Emily Dickinson
If I can stop one Heart from breaking
I shall not live in vain
If I can ease one Life the Aching
Or cool one Pain
Or help one fainting Robin
Unto his Nest again
I shall not live in Vain.
by
Emily Dickinson
The Robin is the One
That interrupt the Morn
With hurried -- few -- express Reports
When March is scarcely on --
The Robin is the One
That overflow the Noon
With her cherubic quantity --
An April but begun --
The Robin is the One
That speechless from her Nest
Submit that Home -- and Certainty
And Sanctity, are best
by
Emily Dickinson
Dust is the only Secret --
Death, the only One
You cannot find out all about
In his "native town.
"
Nobody know "his Father" --
Never was a Boy --
Hadn't any playmates,
Or "Early history" --
Industrious! Laconic!
Punctual! Sedate!
Bold as a Brigand!
Stiller than a Fleet!
Builds, like a Bird, too!
Christ robs the Nest --
Robin after Robin
Smuggled to Rest!
by
John Davidson
No breath of wind,
No gleam of sun –
Still the white snow
Whirls softly down
Twig and bough
And blade and thorn
All in an icy
Quiet, forlorn.
Whispering, rustling,
Through the air
On still and stone,
Roof, - everywhere,
It heaps its powdery
Crystal flakes,
Of every tree
A mountain makes;
‘Til pale and faint
At shut of day
Stoops from the West
One wint’ry ray,
And, feathered in fire
Where ghosts the moon,
A robin shrills
His lonely tune.
by
Carolyn Kizer
1
The stout poet tiptoes
On the lawn.
Surprisingly limber
In his thick sweater
Like a middle-age burglar.
Is the young robin injured?
2
She bends to feed the geese
Revealing the neck’s white curve
Below her curled hair.
Her husband seems not to watch,
But she shimmers in his poem.
3
A hush is on the house,
The only noise, a fern,
Rustling in a vase.
On the porch, the fierce poet
Is chanting words to himself.
by
Robert Burns
Chorus.
—Robin shure in hairst,
I shure wi’ him.
Fient a heuk had I,
Yet I stack by him.
I GAED up to Dunse,
To warp a wab o’ plaiden,
At his daddie’s yett,
Wha met me but Robin:
Robin shure, &c.
Was na Robin bauld,
Tho’ I was a cotter,
Play’d me sic a trick,
An’ me the El’er’s dochter!
Robin shure, &c.
Robin promis’d me
A’ my winter vittle;
Fient haet he had but three
Guse-feathers and a whittle!
Robin shure, &c.
by
Mother Goose
Robin-a-Bobbin
Bent his bow,
Shot at a pigeon,
And killed a crow.
by
Robert Herrick
Laid out for dead, let thy last kindness be
With leaves and moss-work for to cover me;
And while the wood-nymphs my cold corpse inter,
Sing thou my dirge, sweet-warbling chorister!
For epitaph, in foliage, next write this:
HERE, HERE THE TOMB OF ROBIN HERRICK IS!
by
Emily Dickinson
Pink -- small -- and punctual --
Aromatic -- low --
Covert -- in April --
Candid -- in May --
Dear to the Moss --
Known to the Knoll --
Next to the Robin
In every human Soul --
Bold little Beauty
Bedecked with thee
Nature forswears
Antiquity --
by
Emily Dickinson
Make me a picture of the sun --
So I can hang it in my room --
And make believe I'm getting warm
When others call it "Day"!
Draw me a Robin -- on a stem --
So I am hearing him, I'll dream,
And when the Orchards stop their tune --
Put my pretense -- away --
Say if it's really -- warm at noon --
Whether it's Buttercups -- that "skim" --
Or Butterflies -- that "bloom"?
Then -- skip -- the frost -- upon the lea --
And skip the Russet -- on the tree --
Let's play those -- never come!
by
Emily Dickinson
She sights a Bird -- she chuckles --
She flattens -- then she crawls --
She runs without the look of feet --
Her eyes increase to Balls --
Her Jaws stir -- twitching -- hungry --
Her Teeth can hardly stand --
She leaps, but Robin leaped the first --
Ah, Pussy, of the Sand,
The Hopes so juicy ripening --
You almost bathed your Tongue --
When Bliss disclosed a hundred Toes --
And fled with every one --
by
Mother Goose
Robin and Richard were two pretty men,
They lay in bed till the clock struck ten;
Then up starts Robin and looks at the sky,
"Oh, brother Richard, the sun's very high!
You go before, with the bottle and bag,
And I will come after on little Jack Nag.
"
by
Robert Burns
THE ROBIN to the Wren’s nest
Cam keekin’ in, cam keekin’ in;
O weel’s me on your auld pow,
Wad ye be in, wad ye be in?
Thou’s ne’er get leave to lie without,
And I within, and I within,
Sae lang’s I hae an auld clout
To rowe ye in, to rowe ye in.
by
Mother Goose
The north wind doth blow,
And we shall have snow,
And what will poor robin do then,
Poor thing?
He'll sit in a barn,
And keep himself warm,
And hide his head under his wing,
Poor thing!
by
Emily Dickinson
On the World you colored
Morning painted rose --
Idle his Vermillion
Aimlessly crept the Glows
Over Realms of Orchards
I the Day before
Conquered with the Robin --
Misery, how fair
Till your wrinkled Finger
Shored the sun away
Midnight's awful Pattern
In the Goods of Day --
by
Paul Laurence Dunbar
The sky of brightest gray seems dark
To one whose sky was ever white.
To one who never knew a spark,
Thro' all his life, of love or light,
The grayest cloud seems over-bright.
The robin sounds a beggar's note
Where one the nightingale has heard,
But he for whom no silver throat
Its liquid music ever stirred,
Deems robin still the sweetest bird.
by
Mother Goose
A robin and a robin's son
Once went to town to buy a bun.
They couldn't decide on plum or plain,
And so they went back home again.
by
Emily Dickinson
She could not live upon the Past
The Present did not know her
And so she sought this sweet at last
And nature gently owned her
The mother that has not a knell
for either Duke or Robin