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Poems About Singing

Table of Contents

  1. The Arrow and the Song by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
  2. The Solitary Reaper by William Wordsworth
  3. Waiting by Emily Dickinson
  4. I'm Saddest When I Sing by William Henry Dawson
  5. Unsung by Jessie Belle Rittenhouse
  6. Singing by Robert Louis Stevenson
  7. The Song Shop by Annette Wynne
  8. Hermit Thrush by Hilda Conkling
  9. Singer and Song by Freeman E. Miller
  10. Common Things by Paul Laurence Dunbar
  11. Song of the Woodchopper by Eugene J. Hall

  1. The Arrow and the Song

    by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

    I shot an arrow into the air,
    It fell to earth, I knew not where;
    For, so swiftly it flew, the sight
    Could not follow it in its flight.

    I breathed a song into the air,
    It fell to earth, I knew not where;
    For who has sight so keen and strong,
    That it can follow the flight of song?

    Long, long afterward, in an oak
    I found the arrow, still unbroke;
    And the song, from beginning to end,
    I found again in the heart of a friend.

  2. The Solitary Reaper

    by William Wordsworth

    Behold her, single in the field,
    Yon solitary Highland Lass!
    Reaping and singing by herself;
    Stop here, or gently pass!
    Alone she cuts and binds the grain,
    And sings a melancholy strain;
    O listen! for the Vale profound
    Is overflowing with the sound.

    No Nightingale did ever chaunt
    More welcome notes to weary bands
    Of Travellers in some shady haunt,
    Among Arabian sands:
    A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard
    In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,
    Breaking the silence of the seas
    Among the farthest Hebrides.

    Will no one tell me what she sings?
    Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
    For old, unhappy, far-off things,
    And battles long ago:
    Or is it some more humble lay,
    Familiar matter of to-day?
    Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
    That has been, and may be again!

    Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang
    As if her song could have no ending;
    I saw her singing at her work,
    And o'er the sickle bending;—
    I listened, motionless and still;
    And, as I mounted up the hill,
    The music in my heart I bore,
    Long after it was heard no more.

  3. Waiting

    by Emily Dickinson

    I sing to use the waiting,
    My bonnet but to tie,
    And shut the door unto my house;
    No more to do have I,

    Till, his best step approaching,
    We journey to the day,
    And tell each other how we sang
    To keep the dark away.

    Sing, and the hills will answer,
    Sigh, it is lost on the air;
    The echoes bound to a joyful sound,
    But shirk from voicing care.

    – Ella Wheeler Wilcox
    Solitude
  4. I'm Saddest When I Sing

    by William Henry Dawson

    It's not because my soul is filled
    With love, or joy, or praise,
    Or, that with sentiment 'tis thrilled,
    That tuneful song I raise:
    It's not that Fortune's hand has dealt
    To me more than my share:
    It does not mean that I've not felt
    The blight of want and care;
    It simply means, I do not want
    My friends to share the sting
    That in my heart is buried,
    So I try to smile and sing.
    I trip about from room to room
    Light as a bird on wing,
    And sing and shout and laugh—but still
    I'm saddest when I sing.

  5. Unsung

    by Jessie Belle Rittenhouse

    The songs I have not sung to you
    Will wake me in the night
    And hover in the dark like birds
    Whose wings are tipped with light.

    Like birds with restless, eager wings
    That quiver for their flight,
    The songs I have not sung to you
    Will wake me in the night.

  6. Singing

    by Robert Louis Stevenson

    Of speckled eggs the birdie sings
    And nests among the trees;
    The sailor sings of ropes and things
    In ships upon the seas.

    The children sing in far Japan,
    The children sing in Spain;
    The organ with the organ man
    Is singing in the rain.

  7. The Song Shop

    by Annette Wynne

    Tink, tink, tink,
    Hear the pretty pieces clink.
    How the busy worker sings
    As his tiny hammer rings.
    Little songs are fashioned so,
    Placed all sweetly in a row.
    Stars and colored bits of glass,
    Look in, children, as you pass;
    See, the songsmith's happy things,
    Bells, and laughs, and fairy wings;
    Silver-dreams and dreams of gold—
    (Songsmith, are you really old?—
    Making pretty songs all day—
    Are you really old and gray?)
    Tink, tink, tink,
    We can hear the chink;
    Pretty songs are fashioned so,
    Placed all sweetly in a row.
    See the songsmith's happy things—
    Bells and laughs and fairy wings,
    Stars, and all-assorted things.

  8. Hermit Thrush

    by Hilda Conkling

    Something that cannot be said in words . . .
    Something sweet and unknown . . .
    The wind . . . the brook . . .
    Something that comes to a trembling fuller tone
    Like a waterfall . . .
    That little brown creature is singing
    A music of water, a music of worlds;
    He will fly away south,
    But his song stays in the heart
    Once it is heard.

  9. Singer and Song

    by Freeman E. Miller

    A singer sang in sorrow long
    And breathed his life into his song.

    Unknown, unheard, the song went wide,
    Until the singer, starving, died.

    Now in their hearts the nations write
    And wear the singer's song of might.

    Ah, singers fail and fall from view,
    But songs are always, always new!

    If garlands none to singers cling,
    Bays wreathe above the songs they sing.

  10. Common Things

    by Paul Laurence Dunbar

    I like to hear of wealth and gold,
    And El Doradoes in their glory;
    I like for silks and satins bold
    To sweep and rustle through a story.

    The nightingale is sweet of song;
    The rare exotic smells divinely;
    And knightly men who stride along,
    The role heroic carry finely.

    But then, upon the other hand,
    Our minds have got a way of running
    To things that aren't quite so grand,
    Which, maybe, we are best in shunning.

    For some of us still like to see
    The poor man in his dwelling narrow,
    The hollyhock, the bumblebee,
    The meadow lark, and chirping sparrow.

    We like the man who soars and sings
    With high and lofty inspiration;
    But he who sings of common things
    Shall always share our admiration.

  11. Song of the Woodchopper

    by Eugene J. Hall

    Out in the bleak, cold woods he stands,
    Swinging his axe with sturdy hands;
    Sharply the blue-jays near him call,
    Softly the snow-flakes round him fall;
    Gayly he sings,
    As his axe he swings,
    "What care I for the ice or snow,—
    Here away, there away, down you go."

    Loud the winds through the tree-tops sigh;
    Far the chips from his keen axe fly;
    Fiercely the tree-trunks, gray and brown,
    Totter, sway, and come tumbling down.
    Gayly he sings,
    As his axe he swings,
    "What care I for the ice or snow,—
    Here away, there away, down you go.

    "There's time to work and time to sleep;
    There's time to laugh and time to weep;
    The chips must fly, the trees must fall
    To feed the fire that warms us all."
    Gayly he sings,
    As his axe he swings,
    "What care I for the ice or snow,—
    Here away, there away, down you go."

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