16 Line Poems

Table of Contents

1. Little Things

   by Julia Abigail Fletcher Carney | Total Words: 65, Lines: 16

   
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   Little drops of water,
   Little grains of sand,
   Make the mighty ocean
   And the pleasant land.
   

   Thus the little minutes,
   Humble though they be,
   Make the mighty ages
   Of eternity.
   

   So our little errors
   Lead the soul away
   From the path of virtue
   Far in sin to stray.
   

   Little deeds of kindness,
   Little words of love,
   Help to make earth happy
   Like the heaven above.
   

   “Dost thou love life? Then do not squander time, for that's the stuff life is made of.”

   – Ben Franklin quote on time

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2. The Boy Who Never Told a Lie

   by Anonymous | Total Words: 101, Lines: 16

   
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   Once there was a little boy,
   With curly hair and pleasant eye—
   A boy who always told the truth,
   And never, never told a lie.

   And when he trotted off to school,
   The children all about would cry,
   "There goes the curly-headed boy—
   The boy that never tells a lie."

   And everybody loved him so,
   Because he always told the truth,
   That every day, as he grew up,
   'Twas said, "There goes the honest youth."
   

   And when the people that stood near
   Would turn to ask the reason why,
   The answer would be always this:
   "Because he never tells a lie."
   

3. Saying and Doing

   It isn't the talk that will count, boys,
   But the doing that springs from the talk.
   To what will your walking amount, boys.
   With no goal at the end of your walk?
   

   – Amos R. Wells
   Saying and Doing

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   by Amos R. Wells | Total Words: 125, Lines: 16

   
   

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   It isn't the talk that will count, boys,
   But the doing that springs from the talk.
   To what will your walking amount, boys.
   With no goal at the end of your walk?
   

   What's the use of a ladder set up, boys,
   With the end resting only on air?
   What's the use of a nobly filled cup boys,
   If no one to drink it is there?
   

   What's the use of a capital plan, boys,
   That never is more than a scheme?
   He makes a poor, scatter brained man boys,
   That begins in his boyhood to dream.
   

   No; talk on and plan as you will, boys,
   But remember, if you would succeed.
   It isn't the talk that shows skill, boys,
   But the end of the talking,—the deed!
   

4. My Shadow

   by Robert Louis Stevenson | Total Words: 187, Lines: 16

   
   

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   I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me,
   And what can be the use of him is more than I can see.
   He is very, very like me from the heels up to the head;
   And I see him jump before me, when I jump into my bed.

   The funniest thing about him is the way he likes to grow—
   Not at all like proper children, which is always very slow;
   For he sometimes shoots up taller like an india-rubber ball,
   And he sometimes gets so little that there's none of him at all.

   He hasn't got a notion of how children ought to play,
   And can only make a fool of me in every sort of way.
   He stays so close beside me, he's a coward, you can see;
   I'd think shame to stick to nursie as that shadow sticks to me!

   One morning, very early, before the sun was up,
   I rose and found the shining dew on every buttercup;
   But my lazy little shadow, like an arrant sleepy-head,
   Had stayed at home behind me and was fast asleep in bed.

5. The Carpenter's Shop

   

   by Amos Russel Wells | Total Words: 106, Lines: 16

   
   

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   I am a tool in the Carpenter's hand,
   And obedience only is mine.
   Never a whit may I understand
   The Carpenter's vast design.
   

   Mine to stay if He bids me stay,
   And go if He bids me go;
   Mine to plod in the same dull way
   Steadily to and fro.
   

   Mine to present a handle firm,
   And an edge that is sharp and true;
   Mine to achieve in my destined term,
   Just what He would have me do.
   

   The Nazareth shop in the centuries dead
   Has sunk from the sight of men.
   O joy if my life by the Carpenter led,
   May restore that shop again!
   

6. Crossing the Bar

   by Alfred, Lord Tennyson | Total Words: 102, Lines: 16

   
   

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   Sunset and evening star,
   And one clear call for me!
   And may there be no moaning of the bar,
   When I put out to sea,
   

   But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
   Too full for sound and foam,
   When that which drew from out the boundless deep
   Turns again home.
   

   Twilight and evening bell,
   And after that the dark!
   And may there be no sadness of farewell,
   When I embark;
   

   For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place
   The flood may bear me far,
   I hope to see my Pilot face to face
   When I have crost the bar.
   

7. In Flanders Fields

   

   Poem about soldiers who lost their lives in World War I by Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae on May 3, 1915 | Total Words: 97, Lines: 16

   
   

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   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.

8. A Poison Tree

   

   by William Blake | Total Words: 100, Lines: 16

   
   

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   I was angry with my friend;
   I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
   I was angry with my foe:
   I told it not, my wrath did grow.
   

   And I waterd it in fears,
   Night & morning with my tears:
   And I sunned it with smiles,
   And with soft deceitful wiles.
   

   And it grew both day and night.
   Till it bore an apple bright.
   And my foe beheld it shine,
   And he knew that it was mine.
   

   And into my garden stole,
   When the night had veild the pole;
   In the morning glad I see;
   My foe outstretched beneath the tree.
   

   Unforgiveness is the poison you drink hoping others will die.

   – Original Source Unknown
   

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9. Life Sculpture

   by George Washington Doane | Total Words: 105, Lines: 16

   
   

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   Chisel in hand stood a sculptor boy
   With his marble block before him,
   And his eyes lit up with a smile of joy,
   As an angel-dream passed o’er him.
   

   He carved the dream on that shapeless stone,
   With many a sharp incision;
   With heaven’s own flight the sculpture shone,—
   He’d caught that angel-vision.
   

   Children of life are we, as we stand
   With our lives uncarved before us,
   Waiting the hour when, at God’s command,
   Our life-dream shall pass o’er us.
   

   If we carve it then on the yielding stone,
   With many a sharp incision,
   Its heavenly beauty shall be our own,—
   Our lives, that angel-vision.
   

   Yet you, LORD, are our Father. We are the clay, you are the potter; we are all the work of your hand.

   – Isaiah 64:8
   The Bible, NIV

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10. Concord Hymn

    

    by Ralph Waldo Emerson. Sung at the Completion of the Battle Monument, July 4, 1837 | Total Words: 109, Lines: 16

    
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    By the rude bridge that arched the flood,
    Their flag to April’s breeze unfurled,
    Here once the embattled farmers stood
    And fired the shot heard round the world.
    

    The foe long since in silence slept;
    Alike the conqueror silent sleeps;
    And Time the ruined bridge has swept
    Down the dark stream which seaward creeps.
    

    On this green bank, by this soft stream,
    We set today a votive stone;
    That memory may their deed redeem,
    When, like our sires, our sons are gone.
    

    Spirit, that made those heroes dare
    To die, and leave their children free,
    Bid Time and Nature gently spare
    The shaft we raise to them and thee.
    

11. How doth the little busy bee

    by Isaac Watts | Total Words: 92, Lines: 16

    
    

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    How doth the little busy bee
    Improve each shining hour,
    And gather honey all the day
    From every opening flower!
    

    How skilfully she builds her cell!
    How neat she spreads the wax!
    And labors hard to storeit well
    With the sweet food she makes.
    

    In works of labor or of skill,
    I would be busy too;
    For Satan finds some mischief still
    For idle hands to do.
    

    In books, or work, or healthful play,
    Let my first years be passed,
    That I may give for every day
    Some good account at last.
    

12. Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

    by Robert Frost | Total Words: 108, Lines: 16

    
    

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    Whose woods these are I think I know.
    His house is in the village though;
    He will not see me stopping here
    To watch his woods fill up with snow.

    My little horse must think it queer
    To stop without a farmhouse near
    Between the woods and frozen lake
    The darkest evening of the year.

    He gives his harness bells a shake
    To ask if there is some mistake.
    The only other sound’s the sweep
    Of easy wind and downy flake.

    The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
    But I have promises to keep,
    And miles to go before I sleep,
    And miles to go before I sleep.

13. The Hayloft

    by Robert Louis Stevenson | Total Words: 95, Lines: 16

    
    

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    Through all the pleasant meadow-side
    The grass grew shoulder-high,
    Till the shining scythes went far and wide
    And cut it down to dry.
    

    Those green and sweetly smelling crops
    They led in waggons home;
    And they piled them here in mountain tops
    For mountaineers to roam.
    

    Here is Mount Clear, Mount Rusty-Nail,
    Mount Eagle and Mount High;—
    The mice that in these mountains dwell,
    No happier are than I!
    

    Oh, what a joy to clamber there,
    Oh, what a place for play,
    With the sweet, the dim, the dusty air,
    The happy hills of hay!
    

14. Count That Day Lost

    by George Eliot

    
    

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    If you sit down at set of sun
    And count the acts that you have done,
    And, counting, find
    One self-denying deed, one word
    That eased the heart of him who heard,
    One glance most kind
    That fell like sunshine where it went—
    Then you may count that day well spent.
    

    But if, through all the livelong day,
    You've cheered no heart, by yea or nay—
    If, through it all
    You've nothing done that you can trace
    That brought the sunshine to one face—
    No act most small
    That helped some soul and nothing cost—
    Then count that day as worse than lost.
    

15. O eyes that open

    by Anonymous

    
    

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    O eyes that open to the light,
    Look straight to Heav'n with glances bright
    And beam out thanks to God above
    That He has blessed us with His love.
    

    O little hands be quick to share
    The praise, and fold yourselves in prayer.
    An infant’s prayer must ever rise,
    A grateful incense to the skies.
    

    O little mind, so weak, distraught,
    Choose thou for subjoct of thy thought
    The loving God, who through the night
    Has kept His little child in sight.
    

    Open, O little lips, proclaim
    The Father’s love, and bless His name,
    And then a glad “good morning” sound
    To all the dear companions round.
    

16. Guide Thou My Steps

    by William Henry Dawson

    I do not ask to have revealed today
    Each step that in tomorrow's pathway lies;
    But 'tis for this, O Lord, I humbly pray:
    Guide Thou my steps aright from day to day.
    If Thou wilt only let me feel Thy hand
    At each new step, while traveling toward the skies,
    Firm as a rock, in fiercest storm, I'll stand;
    Guide Thou my steps aright to Heaven's land.
    If through deep Sorrow's vale I m called to tread,
    And darkest clouds from me Thy face doth hide,
    Let me remember that my Lord hath said,
    "I'll never leave thee, though all friends have fled."
    If but Thy touch, dear Savior, I may know,
    Then Trouble's sea, how rough, how deep, how wide,
    It matters not, can ne'er me overflow;
    Guide Thou my steps and I aright shall go.
    

17. "How Doth the Little Busy Bee"

    by Isaac Watts

    
    

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    How doth the little busy bee
    Improve each shining hour,
    And gather honey all the day
    From every opening flower!
    

    How skilfully she builds her cell!
    How neat she spreads the wax!
    And labors hard to storeit well
    With the sweet food she makes.
    

    In works of labor or of skill,
    I would be busy too;
    For Satan finds some mischief still
    For idle hands to do.
    

    In books, or work, or healthful play,
    Let my first years be passed,
    That I may give for every day
    Some good account at last.
    

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