Top 11 Famous Poems about Music

Famous Poems about Music

Top 11 Famous Poems about Music | Beautiful Music Poems | Poems about Music and Love | Enjoy & Share with your Friends

I Am In Need Of Music - Poem by Elizabeth Bishop

I am in need of music that would flow

Over my fretful, feeling fingertips,

Over my bitter-tainted, trembling lips,

With melody, deep, clear, and liquid-slow.

Oh, for the healing swaying, old and low,

Of some song sung to rest the tired dead,

A song to fall like water on my head,

And over quivering limbs, dream flushed to glow!


There is a magic made by melody:

A spell of rest, and quiet breath, and cool

Heart, that sinks through fading colors deep

To the subaqueous stillness of the sea,

And floats forever in a moon-green pool,

Held in the arms of rhythm and of sleep.


Music - Poem by Walter de la Mare

When music sounds, gone is the earth I know,

And all her lovely things even lovelier grow;

Her flowers in vision flame, her forest trees

Lift burdened branches, stilled with ecstasies.


When music sounds, out of the water rise

Naiads whose beauty dims my waking eyes,

Rapt in strange dreams burns each enchanted face,

With solemn echoing stirs their dwelling-place.


When music sounds, all that I was I am

Ere to this haunt of brooding dust I came;

And from Time's woods break into distant song

The swift-winged hours, as I hasten along.


Broken Music - Poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti

The mother will not turn, who thinks she hears

Her nursling's speech first grow articulate;

But breathless with averted eyes elate

She sits, with open lips and open ears,

That it may call her twice. 'Mid doubts and fears

Thus oft my soul has hearkened; till the song,

A central moan for days, at length found tongue,

And the sweet music welled and the sweet tears.


But now, whatever while the soul is fain

To list that wonted murmur, as it were

The speech-bound sea-shell's low importunate strain, -

No breath of song, thy voice alone is there,

O bitterly beloved! and all her gain

Is but the pang of unpermitted prayer.


Music, When Soft Voices Die - Poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley

Music, when soft voices die,

Vibrates in the memory;

Odours, when sweet violets sicken,

Live within the sense they quicken.


Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,

Are heaped for the beloved's bed;

And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,

Love itself shall slumber on.


We Are The Music-Makers - Poem by Arthur William Edgar O'Shaughnessy

We are the music-makers,

And we are the dreamers of dreams,

Wandering by lone sea-breakers,

And sitting by desolate streams.

World-losers and world-forsakers,

Upon whom the pale moon gleams;

Yet we are the movers and shakers,

Of the world forever, it seems.


With wonderful deathless ditties

We build up the world's great cities,

And out of a fabulous story

We fashion an empire's glory:

One man with a dream, at pleasure,

Shall go forth and conquer a crown;

And three with a new song's measure

Can trample an empire down.


We, in the ages lying

In the buried past of the earth,

Built Nineveh with our sighing,

And Babel itself with our mirth;

And o'erthrew them with prophesying

To the old of the new world's worth;

For each age is a dream that is dying,

Or one that is coming to birth.


Music Swims Back To Me - Poem by Anne Sexton

Wait Mister. Which way is home?

They turned the light out

and the dark is moving in the corner.

There are no sign posts in this room,

four ladies, over eighty,

in diapers every one of them.

La la la, Oh music swims back to me

and I can feel the tune they played

the night they left me

in this private institution on a hill.


Imagine it. A radio playing

and everyone here was crazy.

I liked it and danced in a circle.

Music pours over the sense

and in a funny way

music sees more than I.

I mean it remembers better;

remembers the first night here.

It was the strangled cold of November;

even the stars were strapped in the sky

and that moon too bright

forking through the bars to stick me

with a singing in the head.

I have forgotten all the rest.


They lock me in this chair at eight a.m.

and there are no signs to tell the way,

just the radio beating to itself

and the song that remembers

more than I. Oh, la la la,

this music swims back to me.

The night I came I danced a circle

and was not afraid.



Before The Music Ends - Poem by Sandra Fowler

Words paint a fragile picture of the dusk.

I think them to a poet far away.

The light shines dim upon my windowpane.

A few tears fall like blue rain in the mind.


Our time has been short listed by sunset,

No matter that the weather has its way,

The stresses live within their measurement,

And distance is a gift we give ourselves.


This moment is designed to be as spare

And elegant as winter's old, gnarled trees.

I trust you to translate my whispers, Friend

And send them back before the music ends.


Bagpipe Music - Poem by Louis Macneice

It's no go the merrygoround, it's no go the rickshaw,

All we want is a limousine and a ticket for the peepshow.

Their knickers are made of crepe-de-chine, their shoes are made of python,

Their halls are lined with tiger rugs and their walls with head of bison.


John MacDonald found a corpse, put it under the sofa,

Waited till it came to life and hit it with a poker,

Sold its eyes for souvenirs, sold its blood for whiskey,

Kept its bones for dumbbells to use when he was fifty.


It's no go the Yogi-man, it's no go Blavatsky,

All we want is a bank balance and a bit of skirt in a taxi.


Annie MacDougall went to milk, caught her foot in the heather,

Woke to hear a dance record playing of Old Vienna.

It's no go your maidenheads, it's no go your culture,

All we want is a Dunlop tire and the devil mend the puncture.


The Laird o' Phelps spent Hogmanay declaring he was sober,

Counted his feet to prove the fact and found he had one foot over.

Mrs. Carmichael had her fifth, looked at the job with repulsion,

Said to the midwife "Take it away; I'm through with overproduction."


It's no go the gossip column, it's no go the Ceilidh,

All we want is a mother's help and a sugar-stick for the baby.


Willie Murray cut his thumb, couldn't count the damage,

Took the hide of an Ayrshire cow and used it for a bandage.

His brother caught three hundred cran when the seas were lavish,

Threw the bleeders back in the sea and went upon the parish.


It's no go the Herring Board, it's no go the Bible,

All we want is a packet of fags when our hands are idle.


It's no go the picture palace, it's no go the stadium,

It's no go the country cot with a pot of pink geraniums,

It's no go the Government grants, it's no go the elections,

Sit on your arse for fifty years and hang your hat on a pension.


It's no go my honey love, it's no go my poppet;

Work your hands from day to day, the winds will blow the profit.

The glass is falling hour by hour, the glass will fall forever,

But if you break the bloody glass you won't hold up the weather.


April Music - Poem by s./j. goldner

I'd like to spend

April, sitting on a hill,

With a mushroom for

a parasol and violets

for a frill. And the

wind for a violin, To

play spring tunes,

And the blossoms in

the treetops, For gay

balloons. I'd like to spend

April sitting on a

mound, Watching for

the flowers to pop out

of the ground. With

their green silk stockings,

And new spring clothes,

Trying to look taller

by dancing on their toes!


The Music - Poem by Kathryn Thompson

I hear the music

The music is playing

The music is soft

The music is now fading

The music is gone

Which means so is my life

No music means no life

The music is gone

Come back to me music

The Music is begining

I have a life

The music is pretty

The Music is wonderful

Oh no

The music is fading again

I love the music

The music is gone

Good bye music


From Spring Days To Winter (For Music) - Poem by Oscar Wilde

In the glad springtime when leaves were green,

O merrily the throstle sings!

I sought, amid the tangled sheen,

Love whom mine eyes had never seen,

O the glad dove has golden wings!


Between the blossoms red and white,

O merrily the throstle sings!

My love first came into my sight,

O perfect vision of delight,

O the glad dove has golden wings!


The yellow apples glowed like fire,

O merrily the throstle sings!

O Love too great for lip or lyre,

Blown rose of love and of desire,

O the glad dove has golden wings!


But now with snow the tree is grey,

Ah, sadly now the throstle sings!

My love is dead: ah! well-a-day,

See at her silent feet I lay

A dove with broken wings!

Ah, Love! ah, Love! that thou wert slain -

Fond Dove, fond Dove return again!

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