Not Yet A Poet

Aye! many a rhyme my pen has flown,
    In oblivion, all unknown;
Still many more, perchance, I say,
    Float on in one unbroken lay -
But ask me naught of where or when,
    Long as they ring in hearts of men!
Dear friend, I say these words to you,
    Which through the ages will be true:
Though I have power to combine
    These subtle rhymes of each sweet line -
Yet, I shall never live to see,
    The title "POET" given me!

Edward Smyth Jones

Edward Smyth Jones was an African American poet born in Natchez, Mississippi, best known for his poem "A Song of Thanks". He faced significant challenges throughout his life, including racial prejudice and economic hardship. His work often reflects his struggles and aspirations, particularly focusing on themes of resilience, hope, and gratitude. Despite his relatively obscure status in literary circles, Jones's contributions are recognized for their emotional depth and historical significance. He passed away in 1968.

Edward Smyth Jones

An Ode To The Soldiers' And Sailors' Monument

Edward Smyth Jones, Simple Poetry

Woman

Edward Smyth Jones, Simple Poetry

The Bachelor's Song

Edward Smyth Jones, Simple Poetry

Life In A Dream

Edward Smyth Jones, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

To A Poet A Thousand Years Hence

I who am dead a thousand years,
And wrote this sweet archaic song,
Send you my words for messengers
The way I shall not pass along.

I care not if you bridge the seas,
Or ride secure the cruel sky,
Or build consummate palaces
Of metal or of masonry.

But have you wine and music still,
And statues and a bright-eyed love,
And foolish thoughts of good and ill,
And prayers to them who sit above?

How shall we conquer?    Like a wind
That falls at eve our fancies blow,
And old Moeonides the blind
Said it three thousand years ago.

O friend unseen, unborn, unknown,
Student of our sweet English tongue,
Read out my words at night, alone:
I was a poet, I was young.

Since I can never see your face,
And never shake you b...

James Elroy Flecker

A Veteran Poet.

    I knew thee first as one may know the fame
    Of some apostle, as a man may know
    The mid-day sun far-shining o'er the snow.
    I hail'd thee prince of poets! I became
    Vassal of thine, and warm'd me at the flame
    Of thy pure thought, my spirit all aglow
    With dreams of peace, and pomp, and lyric show,
    And all the splendours, Master! of thy name.
    But now, a man reveal'd, a guide for men,
    I see thy face, I clasp thee by the hand;
    And though the Muses in thy presence stand,
    There's room for me to loiter in thy ken.
    O lordly soul! O wizard of the pen!
    What news from God? What word from Fairyland?

Eric Mackay

The Poets

O ye dead Poets, who are living still
    Immortal in your verse, though life be fled,
    And ye, O living Poets, who are dead
    Though ye are living, if neglect can kill,
Tell me if in the darkest hours of ill,
    With drops of anguish falling fast and red
    From the sharp crown of thorns upon your head,
    Ye were not glad your errand to fulfil?
Yes; for the gift and ministry of Song
    Have something in them so divinely sweet,
    It can assuage the bitterness of wrong;
Not in the clamor of the crowded street,
    Not in the shouts and plaudits of the throng,
    But in ourselves, are triumph and defeat.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The Poet And The Critics.

If those who wield the Rod forget,
'Tis truly--Quis custodiet?


A certain Bard (as Bards will do)
Dressed up his Poems for Review.
His Type was plain, his Title clear;
His Frontispiece by FOURDRINIER.
Moreover, he had on the Back
A sort of sheepskin Zodiac;--
A Mask, a Harp, an Owl,--in fine,
A neat and "classical" Design.
But the in-Side?--Well, good or bad,
The Inside was the best he had:
Much Memory,--more Imitation;--
Some Accidents of Inspiration;--
Some Essays in that finer Fashion
Where Fancy takes the place of Passion;--
And some (of course) more roughly wrought
To catch the Advocates of Thought.

In the less-crowded Age of ANNE,
Our Bard had been a favoured Man;
Fortune, more chary with the Sickle,
Had ranked h...

Henry Austin Dobson

The Old Man's Relapse.

        Verses Occasioned by the Foregoing Epistle.


        Sopitos suscita ignes.

                    VIRG.


From man's too curious and impatient sight,
The future, Heaven involves in thickest night.
Credit gray hairs: though freedom much we boast,
Some least perform, what they determine most.
What sudden changes our resolves betray!
To-morrow is the satire on to-day,
And shows its weakness. Whom shall men believe,
When constantly themselves, themselves deceive?

    Long had I bid my once-loved muse adieu;
You warm old age; my passion burns anew.
How sweet your verse! how great your force of mind!
What power of words! what skill in dark mankind!
Polite the conduct; generous the design;
And beauty files, and strength sustains...

Edward Young

To A Poet That Died Young

        Minstrel, what have you to do
        With this man that, after you,
        Sharing not your happy fate,
        Sat as England's Laureate?
        Vainly, in these iron days,
        Strives the poet in your praise,
        Minstrel, by whose singing side
        Beauty walked, until you died.

        Still, though none should hark again,
        Drones the blue-fly in the pane,
        Thickly crusts the blackest moss,
        Blows the rose its musk across,
        Floats the boat that is forgot
        None the less to Camelot.

        Many a bard's untimely death
        Lends unto his verses breath;
        Here's a song was never sung:
        Growing old is dying young.
        Minstrel, what is this to you:
        ...

Edna St. Vincent Millay