Music Poems | Poems About Music for the Classroom


    A Crazed Girl Poem by William Butler Yeats

    THAT crazed girl improvising her music.
    Her poetry, dancing upon the shore,

    Her soul in division from itself
    Climbing, falling She knew not where,
    Hiding amid the cargo of a steamship,
    Her knee-cap broken, that girl I declare
    A beautiful lofty thing, or a thing
    Heroically lost, heroically found.

    No matter what disaster occurred
    She stood in desperate music wound,
    Wound, wound, and she made in her triumph
    Where the bales and the baskets lay
    No common intelligible sound
    But sang, ‘O sea-starved, hungry sea.’



    Come In Poem by Robert Frost

    As I came to the edge of the woods,
    Thrush music – hark!
    Now if it was dusk outside,
    Inside it was dark.

    Too dark in the woods for a bird
    By sleight of wing
    To better its perch for the night,
    Though it still could sing.

    The last of the light of the sun
    That had died in the west
    Still lived for one song more
    In a thrush’s breast.

    Far in the pillared dark
    Thrush music went –
    Almost like a call to come in
    To the dark and lament.

    But no, I was out for stars;
    I would not come in.
    I meant not even if asked;
    And I hadn’t been.



    Wait Poem by Galway Kinnell

    Wait, for now.
    Distrust everything, if you have to.
    But trust the hours. Haven’t they
    carried you everywhere, up to now?
    Personal events will become interesting again.
    Hair will become interesting.
    Pain will become interesting.
    Buds that open out of season will become lovely again.
    Second-hand gloves will become lovely again,
    their memories are what give them
    the need for other hands. And the desolation
    of lovers is the same: that enormous emptiness
    carved out of such tiny beings as we are
    asks to be filled; the need
    for the new love is faithfulness to the old.

    Don’t go too early.
    You’re tired. But everyone’s tired.
    But no one is tired enough.
    Only wait a while and listen.
    Music of hair,
    Music of pain,
    music of looms weaving all our loves again.
    Be there to hear it, it will be the only time,
    most of all to hear,
    the flute of your whole existence,
    rehearsed by the sorrows, play itself into total exhaustion.



    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.



    The Bell Poem by Ralph Waldo Emerson

    I love thy music, mellow bell,
    I love thine iron chime,
    To life or death, to heaven or hell,
    Which calls the sons of Time.

    Thy voice upon the deep
    The home-bound sea-boy hails,
    It charms his cares to sleep,
    It cheers him as he sails.

    To house of God and heavenly joys
    Thy summons called our sires,
    And good men thought thy sacred voice
    Disarmed the thunder’s fires.

    And soon thy music, sad death-bell,
    Shall lift its notes once more,
    And mix my requiem with the wind
    That sweeps my native shore.



    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.



    What Is Music To You? Poem by Sylvia Chidi

    Music is freedom that relentlessly exists
    Freedom of speech
    Freedom of thought
    Freedom of creativity
    Freedom of imagination

    Music is ever soothingly healing
    A bombardment of on-going expression of feelings
    Music is a tool of unity
    Always bringing people together as family
    Hence be described as a mentor of spirituality

    Music is magic
    Performing its tricks
    With sweet instrumental tones and lyrics

    Music is emotionally captivating
    Music is positively distracting
    Music is a form of beautiful art
    Passed on as a message on a public stage

    Music is as powerful as water
    Flowing in and out of generations
    Trapped ever so often only by its own enormous power

    Music is an angel
    Singing out from the skies as she flies
    Music is love
    Music is the food of all moods
    Music is perfect and it is good for you



    I Know The Music Poem by Wilfred Owen

    All sounds have been as music to my listening:
    Pacific lamentations of slow bells,
    The crunch of boots on blue snow rosy-glistening,
    Shuffle of autumn leaves; and all farewells:

    Bugles that sadden all the evening air,
    And country bells clamouring their last appeals
    Before [the] music of the evening prayer;
    Bridges, sonorous under carriage wheels.

    Gurgle of sluicing surge through hollow rocks,
    The gluttonous lapping of the waves on weeds,
    Whisper of grass; the myriad-tinkling flocks,
    The warbling drawl of flutes and shepherds’ reeds.

    The orchestral noises of October nights
    Blowing () symphonetic storms
    Of startled clarions ()
    Drums, rumbling and rolling thunderous and () .

    Thrilling of throstles in the keen blue dawn,
    Bees fumbling and fuming over sainfoin-fields.



    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.



    The Shooting Of Dan Mcgrew Poem by Robert William Service

    A bunch of the boys were whooping it up in the Malamute saloon;
    The kid that handles the music-box was hitting a jag-time tune;
    Back of the bar, in a solo game, sat Dangerous Dan McGrew,
    And watching his luck was his light-o’-love, the lady that’s known as Lou.

    When out of the night, which was fifty below, and into the din and the glare,
    There stumbled a miner fresh from the creeks, dog-dirty, and loaded for bear.
    He looked like a man with a foot in the grave and scarcely the strength of a louse,
    Yet he tilted a poke of dust on the bar, and he called for drinks for the house.
    There was none could place the stranger’s face, though we searched ourselves for a clue;
    But we drank his health, and the last to drink was Dangerous Dan McGrew.

    There’s men that somehow just grip your eyes, and hold them hard like a spell;
    And such was he, and he looked to me like a man who had lived in hell;
    With a face most hair, and the dreary stare of a dog whose day is done,
    As he watered the green stuff in his glass, and the drops fell one by one.
    Then I got to figgering who he was, and wondering what he’d do,
    And I turned my head – and there watching him was the lady that’s known as Lou.

    His eyes went rubbering round the room, and he seemed in a kind of daze,
    Till at last that old piano fell in the way of his wandering gaze.
    The rag-time kid was having a drink; there was no one else on the stool,
    So the stranger stumbles across the room, and flops down there like a fool.
    In a buckskin shirt that was glazed with dirt he sat, and I saw him sway;
    Then he clutched the keys with his talon hands – my God! but that man could play.

    Were you ever out in the Great Alone, when the moon was awful clear,
    And the icy mountains hemmed you in with a silence you most could HEAR;
    With only the howl of a timber wolf, and you camped there in the cold,
    A half-dead thing in a stark, dead world, clean mad for the muck called gold;
    While high overhead, green, yellow and red, the North Lights swept in bars? –
    Then you’ve a haunch what the music meant… hunger and night and the stars.

    And hunger not of the belly kind, that’s banished with bacon and beans,
    But the gnawing hunger of lonely men for a home and all that it means;
    For a fireside far from the cares that are, four walls and a roof above;
    But oh! so cramful of cosy joy, and crowned with a woman’s love –
    A woman dearer than all the world, and true as Heaven is true –
    (God! how ghastly she looks through her rouge, – the lady that’s known as Lou.)

    Then on a sudden the music changed, so soft that you scarce could hear;
    But you felt that your life had been looted clean of all that it once held dear;
    That someone had stolen the woman you loved; that her love was a devil’s lie;
    That your guts were gone, and the best for you was to crawl away and die.
    ‘Twas the crowning cry of a heart’s despair, and it thrilled you through and through –
    ‘I guess I’ll make it a spread misere,’ said Dangerous Dan McGrew.

    The music almost died away… then it burst like a pent-up flood;
    And it seemed to say, ‘Repay, repay,’ and my eyes were blind with blood.
    The thought came back of an ancient wrong, and it stung like a frozen lash,
    And the lust awoke to kill, to kill… then the music stopped with a crash,
    And the stranger turned, and his eyes they burned in a most peculiar way;

    In a buckskin shirt that was glazed with dirt he sat, and I saw him sway;
    Then his lips went in in a kind of grin, and he spoke, and his voice was calm,
    And ‘Boys,’ says he, ‘you don’t know me, and none of you care a damn;
    But I want to state, and my words are straight, and I’ll bet my poke they’re true,
    That one of you is a hound of hell… and that one is Dan McGrew.’

    Then I ducked my head, and the lights went out, and two guns blazed in the dark,
    And a woman screamed, and the lights went up, and two men lay stiff and stark.
    Pitched on his head, and pumped full of lead, was Dangerous Dan McGrew,
    While the man from the creeks lay clutched to the breast of the lady that’s known as Lou.

    These are the simple facts of the case, and I guess I ought to know.
    They say that the stranger was crazed with ‘hooch’, and I’m not denying it’s so.
    I’m not so wise as the lawyer guys, but strictly between us two –
    The woman that kissed him and – pinched his poke – was the lady that’s known as Lou.