Sun Poems | Best Poems about the Sun Everyone Should Read


    Brown And Agile Child Poem by Pablo Neruda

    Brown and agile child, the sun which forms the fruit
    And ripens the grain and twists the seaweed
    Has made your happy body and your luminous eyes
    And given your mouth the smile of water.

    A black and anguished sun is entangled in the twigs
    Of your black mane when you hold out your arms.
    You play in the sun as in a tidal river
    And it leaves two dark pools in your eyes.

    Brown and agile child, nothing draws me to you,
    Everything pulls away from me here in the noon.
    You are the delirious youth of bee,
    The drunkedness of the wave, the power of the wheat.

    My somber heart seeks you always
    I love your happy body, your rich, soft voice.
    Dusky butterfly, sweet and sure
    Like the wheatfiled, the sun, the poppy, and the water.



    A Good Boy Poem by Robert Louis Stevenson

    I woke before the morning, I was happy all the day,
    I never said an ugly word, but smiled and stuck to play.

    And now at last the sun is going down behind the wood,
    And I am very happy, for I know that I’ve been good.

    My bed is waiting cool and fresh, with linen smooth and fair,
    And I must be off to sleepsin-by, and not forget my prayer.

    I know that, till to-morrow I shall see the sun arise,
    No ugly dream shall fright my mind, no ugly sight my eyes.

    But slumber hold me tightly till I waken in the dawn,
    And hear the thrushes singing in the lilacs round the lawn.



    Eternity Poem by William Blake

    He who binds to himself a joy
    Does the winged life destroy;
    But he who kisses the joy as it flies
    Lives in eternity’s sun rise.



    A Miracle For Breakfast Poem by Elizabeth Bishop

    At six o’clock we were waiting for coffee,
    waiting for coffee and the charitable crumb
    that was going to be served from a certain balcony
    – like kings of old, or like a miracle.
    It was still dark. One foot of the sun
    steadied itself on a long ripple in the river.

    The first ferry of the day had just crossed the river.
    It was so cold we hoped that the coffee
    would be very hot, seeing that the sun
    was not going to warm us; and that the crumb
    would be a loaf each, buttered, by a miracle.
    At seven a man stepped out on the balcony.

    He stood for a minute alone on the balcony
    looking over our heads toward the river.
    A servant handed him the makings of a miracle,
    consisting of one lone cup of coffee
    and one roll, which he proceeded to crumb,
    his head, so to speak, in the clouds- along with the sun.

    Was the man crazy? What under the sun
    was he trying to do, up there on his balcony!
    Each man received one rather hard crumb,
    which some flicked scornfully into the river,
    and, in a cup, one drop of the coffee.
    Some of us stood around, waiting for the miracle.

    I can tell what I saw next; it was not a miracle.
    A beautiful villa stood in the sun
    and from its doors came the smell of hot coffee.
    In front, a baroque white plaster balcony
    added by birds, who nest along the river,
    – I saw it with one eye close to the crumb-

    and galleries and marble chambers. My crumb
    my mansion, made for me by a miracle,
    through ages, by insects, birds, and the river
    working the stone. Every day, in the sun,
    at breakfast time I sit on my balcony
    with my feet up, and drink gallons of coffee.

    We licked up the crumb and swallowed the coffee.
    A window across the river caught the sun
    as if the miracle were working, on the wrong balcony.



    Walkers With The Dawn Poem by Langston Hughes

    Being walkers with the dawn and morning,
    Walkers with the sun and morning,
    We are not afraid of night,
    Nor days of gloom,
    Nor darkness-
    Being walkers with the sun and morning.



    Not Ideas About The Thing But The Thing Itself Poem by Wallace Stevens

    At the earliest ending of winter,
    In March, a scrawny cry from outside
    Seemed like a sound in his mind.

    He knew that he heard it,
    A bird’s cry, at daylight or before,
    In the early March wind.

    The sun was rising at six,
    No longer a battered panache above snow…
    It would have been outside.

    It was not from the vast ventriloquism
    Of sleep’s faded papier-mache…
    The sun was coming from the outside.

    That scrawny cry- It was
    A chorister whose c preceded the choir.
    It was part of the colossal sun,

    Surrounded by its choral rings,
    Still far away. It was like
    A new knowledge of reality.



    A Little Song Poem by Amy Lowell

    When you, my Dear, are away, away,
    How wearily goes the creeping day.
    A year drags after morning, and night
    Starts another year of candle light.
    O Pausing Sun and Lingering Moon!
    Grant me, I beg of you, this boon.

    Whirl round the earth as never sun
    Has his diurnal journey run.
    And, Moon, slip past the ladders of air
    In a single flash, while your streaming hair
    Catches the stars and pulls them down
    To shine on some slumbering Chinese town.
    O Kindly Sun! Understanding Moon!
    Bring evening to crowd the footsteps of noon.

    But when that long awaited day
    Hangs ripe in the heavens, your voyaging stay.
    Be morning, O Sun! with the lark in song,
    Be afternoon for ages long.
    And, Moon, let you and your lesser lights
    Watch over a century of nights.



    The Planet On The Table Poem by Wallace Stevens

    Ariel was glad he had written his poems.
    They were of a remembered time
    Or of something seen that he liked.

    Other makings of the sun
    Were waste and welter
    And the ripe shrub writhed.

    His self and the sun were one
    And his poems, although makings of his self,
    Were no less makings of the sun.

    It was not important that they survive.
    What mattered was that they should bear
    Some lineament or character,

    Some affluence, if only half-perceived,
    In the poverty of their words,
    Of the planet of which they were part.



    A Prayer In Darkness Poem by Gilbert Keith Chesterton

    This much, O heaven—if I should brood or rave,
    Pity me not; but let the world be fed,
    Yea, in my madness if I strike me dead,
    Heed you the grass that grows upon my grave.

    If I dare snarl between this sun and sod,
    Whimper and clamour, give me grace to own,
    In sun and rain and fruit in season shown,
    The shining silence of the scorn of God.

    Thank God the stars are set beyond my power,
    If I must travail in a night of wrath,
    Thank God my tears will never vex a moth,
    Nor any curse of mine cut down a flower.

    Men say the sun was darkened: yet I had
    Thought it beat brightly, even on—Calvary:
    And He that hung upon the Torturing Tree
    Heard all the crickets singing, and was glad.



    My Sunset Poem by Theo Williams

    The sun sets on the horizon from the distant land,
    Where birds chirp and couples lay hand in hand.
    I look at the sun to say goodbye,
    To the beautiful colours that paint the sky.

    Shades of orange, yellow and pink,
    Fluffy white clouds, into my heart they sink.
    And although I hate to see the sun go,
    Its beauty and love has been my show.

    I’ve seen the sunset so many times,
    Yet it’s still the most favourite sight of mine.
    Its exquisiteness strikes warm in the month December,
    Its irreplaceable memory I will always remember.

    There will be no sadness, nor any sorrow,
    Because my sun, you will rise tomorrow.
    I won’t feel hurt, nor feel any pain,
    Because on your way down, your beauty will reign.