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Singing has a unique power to stir the soul and evoke powerful emotions within us.
Whether it’s a joyous celebration or a melancholic lament, the beauty of a well-crafted song has the ability to transcend time and place, transporting us to another realm entirely.
Through the art of poetry, we can capture the essence of singing and the transformative impact it has on our lives.
These poems about singing celebrate the power of music and the human voice, reminding us of the deep connection between our innermost emotions and the melodies that resonate within us.
Get ready to be inspired, uplifted, and moved as we explore the beauty of singing through the medium of poetry in these singing poems.
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Famous Poems about Singing
Throughout history, poets have been captivated by the power of singing. From celebratory odes to mournful elegies, these famous poems about singing explore the transformative magic of music and human voice.
1. 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.
2. My Lute Awake
by Sir Thomas Wyatt
My lute awake! Perform the last
Labor that thou and I shall waste,
And end that I have now begun;
For when this song is sung and past,
My lute be still, for I have done.
As to be heard where ear is none,
As lead to grave in marble stone,
My song may pierce her heart as soon;
Should we then sigh or sing or moan?
No, no, my lute, for I have done.
The rocks do not so cruelly
Repulse the waves continually,
As she my suit and affection;
So that I am past remedy,
Whereby my lute and I have done.
Proud of the spoil that thou hast got
Of simple hearts thorough Love’s shot,
By whom, unkind, thou hast them won,
Think not he hath his bow forgot,
Although my lute and I have done.
Vengeance shall fall on thy disdain
That makest but game on earnest pain.
Think not alone under the sun
Unquit to cause thy lovers plain,
Although my lute and I have done.
Perchance thee lie wethered and old
The winter nights that are so cold,
Plaining in vain unto the moon;
Thy wishes then dare not be told;
Care then who list, for I have done.
And then may chance thee to repent
The time that thou hast lost and spent
To cause thy lovers sigh and swoon;
Then shalt thou know beauty but lent,
And wish and want as I have done.
Now cease, my lute; this is the last
Labour that thou and I shall waste,
And ended is that we begun.
Now is this song both sung and past:
My lute be still, for I have done.
3. Am in Need of Music
by Elizabeth Bishop
I am in need of music that would flow
Over my fretful, feeling fingertips,
Over my bitter-tainted, trembling lips,
With melody, deep, clear, and liquid-slow.
Oh, for the healing swaying, old and low,
Of some song sung to rest the tired dead,
A song to fall like water on my head,
And over quivering limbs, dream flushed to glow!
There is a magic made by melody:
A spell of rest, and quiet breath, and cool
Heart, that sinks through fading colors deep
To the subaqueous stillness of the sea,
And floats forever in a moon-green pool,
Held in the arms of rhythm and of sleep.
4. The Myth of Music
by Rachel M. Harper
If music can be passed on
Like brown eyes or a strong
Left hook, this melody
Is my inheritance, lineage traced.
Through a title track,
Displayed on an album cover
That you pin to the wall
As art, oral history taught
On a record player, the lessons
Sealed into the grooves like fact.
This is the only myth I know.
I sit on the hardwood
Floors of a damp November,
My brother dealing cards
From an incomplete deck,
And I don’t realize that this
Moment is the definition
Of family, collective memory
Cut in rough-textured tones,
The voice of a horn so familiar
I don’t know I’m listening,
Don’t know I’m singing,
A child’s improvisation
Songs without lyrics
Can still be sung.
In six months, when my mother
Is 2,000 miles away, deciding
If she wants to come home,
I will have forgotten
This moment, the security
Of her footsteps, the warmth
Of a radiator on my back and you
Present in the sound of typing
Your own accompaniment,
Multi phonics disguised as chords
In a distant room, speakers set
On high to fill the whole house
With your spirit, your call
As a declaration of love.
But the music will remain.
The timeless notes of jazz
Too personal to play out loud,
Stay locked in the rhythm
Of my childhood, memories fading
Like the words of a lullaby,
Come to life in a saxophone’s blow.
They lie when they say
Music is universal—this is my song,
The notes like fingerprints
As delicate as breath.
I will not share this air
With anyone
But you.
5. Music to Hear, Why Hear’st Thou Music Sadly?
by William Shakespeare
Music to hear, why hear’st thou music sadly?
Sweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy:
Why lov’st thou that which thou receiv’st not gladly,
Or else receiv’st with pleasure thine annoy?
If the true concord of well-tuned sounds,
By unions married, do offend thine ear,
They do but sweetly chide thee, who confounds
In singleness the parts that thou shouldst bear.
Mark how one string, sweet husband to another,
Strikes each in each by mutual ordering;
Resembling sire and child and happy mother,
Who, all in one, one pleasing note do sing:
Whose speechless song being many, seeming one,
Sings this to thee: ‘Thou single wilt prove none.’
6. Ode to A Nightingale
by John Keats
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
‘Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
But being too happy in thine happiness,
That thou, light-wingèd Dryad of the trees,
In some melodious plot
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,
Singest of summer in full-throated ease.
O for a draught of vintage! that hath been
Cool’d a long age in the deep-delvèd earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country-green,
Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!
O for a beaker full of the warm South!
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
And purple-stainèd mouth;
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
And with thee fade away into the forest dim:
Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
What thou among the leaves hast never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret
Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last grey hairs,
Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
And leaden-eyed despairs;
Where beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes
Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.
7. I Hear America Singing
by Walt Whitman
I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear,
Those of mechanics, each one singing his as it should be blithe and strong,
The carpenter singing his as he measures his plank or beam,
The mason singing his as he makes ready for work, or leaves off work,
The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat, the deckhand singing on the steamboat deck,
The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench, the hatter singing as he stands,
The wood-cutter’s song, the ploughboy’s on his way in the morning, or at noon intermission or at sundown,
The delicious singing of the mother, or of the young wife at work, or of the girl sewing or washing,
Each singing what belongs to him or her and to none else,
The day what belongs to the day—at night the party of young fellows, robust, friendly,Singing with open mouths their strong melodious songs.
8. Music of My Life
by Kelsey Storz
The music takes my soul,
Takes it through the wind and around the autumn trees,
As the earth turns slowly.
Each song makes me wonder what really goes on while I’m asleep.
The music takes my soul,
Takes it through the wind and around the autumn trees,
As the earth turns slowly.
Each song makes me wonder what really goes on while I’m asleep.
As a disco ball shines through my dreams.
I wish I were awake, as the music plays.
And wish instead of school, I’d get to party and dance all day.
As one song makes you move and be happy,
The other makes you cry and be sappy.
Each song with its own act,
Life reacts back.
As each tune makes you
The way you are
That’s why I’m kind of bizarre.
It’s hard to believe your song,
is more than just a song
Or a bell is more than a bell.
And a voice, could be as bad as hell.
You could lose your soul,
Regain it again, each feeling fills you full
As each tune tells you what to do.
Nothing is better than the feeling of the music’s ‘tude.
9. The Protest
by Charles
I have this deep melodious voice,
with which I like to sing.
A nursery rhyme, an opera score,
sometimes to jazz I’ll swing.
I do not know which key I’m in.
I’ll belt out anything.
To help me get the volume up,
I practice every day.
But some do not appreciate
my vocal cabaret.
They gather in my watering hole,
“Oh do shut up” they say.
Funny Poems about Singing
Laughter is the best medicine, and these funny poems about singing are sure to tickle your funny bone. From off-key renditions to silly lyrics, these interesting poems about singing celebrate the joy of making music and having a good laugh.
1. Chicken Singing Turkey in the Straw
by Jessica Amanda Salmonson
Buck buck buh-buck-buck
Buck buck buh-buck
Buck buck, buck buck, buck buck buck
Bucka buck bucka bucka buck
A’buck buck buck.
Buh-Kaw k’buck buck
Buh-Kaw k’buck Buh-Kaw k’buck buck
Buh-Kaw k’buck
Buck buck buck buck Buck buck buck
Bucka buck bucka bucka buck
A’buck buck buck.
2. Singing in the Shower
by Anonymous
I’d love to sing proud and sing loud
But I’m embarrassed I might draw a crowd
So in public I’m dour
Though I sing in the shower
It’s the only time singing loud is allowed
3. Angel Singing
by Anonymous
Is it an angel that I hear singing?
Or is it tinnitus in my ears ringing?
The voice is so high
It’s making me cry
It’s my underwear, it’s tight and wringing
4. Singing Fool
by Anonymous
Once there was a man called Jacob Pool.
Nightingale singing in the distance is Pool.
Sing all babes to sleep by night.
Drug to all depressed hearts. Might!
Bloody what a great sense from this fool!
5. Dressed in Pink Singing A Song of Harmony
by Anonymous
Singing a song of harmony
Cheerfully sung eternally
Covered in pink so perfectly
My silly desire of tenacity
Cheerfully sung eternally
From just drinking herbal tea
My silly desire of tenacity
Pink is all I wore for certainty
From just drinking herbal tea
Rushed to the emergency
Pink is all I wore for certainty
Embarrassed I’ll be for eternity
Rushed to the emergency
Covered in pink so perfectly
Embarrassed I’ll be for eternity
Singing a song of harmony
6. Singing
by Elizabeth Kinch
Today I feel like singing
At the top of my voice,
Singing up loud and clear
Songs of rejoice.
Happy songs, cheerful songs,
The ones that make you dance.
Loud songs, quiet ones
And songs of romance.
I’m really NOT a singer
But I do like to perform.
To sing and open up my lungs
Makes me feel reborn.
There is only one problem
That causes me heartbreak,
My family all shout at me
That they’ve got a headache!
7. Slick Singing Sally
by James Horn
She was called slick singing Sally
In a big rally down in the valley
Where she swiftly started to sing
And she gave it her everything.
You ought to hear her voice vibrate
Was so great we could hardly wait
She sure seemed so tall and thin
We wanted her to come back again.
Her eyes with mine would entwine
She was not Sally but Patsy Cline
Every time she sang her number
Said she was quite a cute cucumber.
Guess what next thing we planned
Was being in Grand Old Opera land
And said that she’d do some teaching
So we would stop all our screeching.
8. Singing the Blues
by Sidney Hall Mad Poet
Have you ever, met a woman before?
Yes have you ever, loved a woman before?
You wake up and see her, and run out the door
That’s my woman, that’s my strife, that’s my wife
I met my woman in a pub
Yes, met my woman in a pub
Only woman kicked out the ugly club
That’s my woman, that’s my strife, that’s my wife
She’s never been kissed by a boy
Yes never been kissed by a boy
You’ll feel compassion for her abused sex toy
That’s my woman, that’s my strife, that’s my wife
That’s my woman, that’s my strife, that’s my wife
You know marrying her has ruined my life
But I love her, I love her so
9. Singing Circles
by Gerald Dillenbeck
We meet within and without Earth
In singing circles
Round songs
Proposing this day’s square cubed marches in 4/4
Not not spatial seasoned time
Within and without
Singing interdependently ratioed Zero Soul circles
Webs between life’s right conservative feeling
Without emotional intelligent walls
Against left’s liberal loving win/win boundaried thoughts
Singing Zero Circles
Meeting within cellular walls
Without Earth-bound webs
Of interdependently woven information
Ex-forming previously well-sung re-creational circles.
10. Singing the Blues
by Robert L. Hinshaw
From his pulpit the parson railed ‘gainst booze
For some in his pews this wasn’t good news
For so many, you see
Bootlegged on the qui vive
They all harmonized in singing the blues
Short Poems about Singing
Sometimes a few well-chosen words can say it all. These short poetries about singing pack a powerful punch, capturing the essence of music and the human voice in just a few lines.
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 un broke;
And the song, from beginning to end,
I found again in the heart of a friend.
2. 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.
3. 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.
4. 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.
5. 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.
6. 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.
7. 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.
8. My Mother’s Music
by Emilie Buchwald
In the evenings of my childhood,
When I went to bed,
Music washed into the cove of my room,
My door open to a slice of light.
I felt a melancholy I couldn’t have named,
A longing for what I couldn’t yet have said
Or understood but still
Knew was longing,
Knew was sadness
Untouched by time.
Sometimes
The music was a rippling stream
Of clear water rushing
Over a bed of river stones
Caught in sunlight.
And many nights
I crept from bed
To watch her
Swaying where she sat
Overtaken by the tide,
Her arms rowing the music
Out of the piano.
9. The Melody
by Elysia
The heart beats in time with the sounds of drums
The hand swaying to the violins chord
Each note is remembered, thought about and adored
As every soul in the room joins to the music and hums
The heart beats in time with the sounds of drums
The hand swaying to the violins chord
Each note is remembered, thought about and adored
As every soul in the room joins to the music and hums
Each sliver of sound buzzing in the brain
The lyrics with a thought about meaning
put together with the guitar as it’s loud screaming
The melody that returns to bring my life back again
10. A Singing Lesson
by Algernon Charles Swinburne
Far-fetched and dear-bought, as the proverb rehearses,
Is good, or was held so, for ladies: but nought
In a song can be good if the turn of the verse is
Far-fetched and dear-bought.
As the turn of a wave should it sound, and the thought
Ring smooth, and as light as the spray that disperses
Be the gleam of the words for the garb thereof wrought.
Let the soul in it shine through the sound as it pierces
Men’s hearts with possession of music unsought;
For the bounties of song are no jealous god’s mercies,
Far-fetched and dear-bought.
Long Poems about Singing
For those people who love to immerse themselves in the beauty of language and music, these long poetries about singing are a true delight.
1. 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.
2. Alexander’s Feast
by John Dryden
‘Twas at the royal feast for Persia won
By Philip’s warlike son—
Aloft in awful state
The godlike hero sate
On his imperial throne;
His valiant peers were placed around,
Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound
(So should desert in arms be crown’d);
The lovely Thais by his side
Sate like a blooming Eastern bride
In flower of youth and beauty’s pride:—
Happy, happy, happy pair!
None but the brave
None but the brave
None but the brave deserves the fair!
Timotheus placed on high
Amid the tuneful quire
With flying fingers touch’d the lyre:
The trembling notes ascend the sky
And heavenly joys inspire.
The song began from Jove
Who left his blissful seats above
Such is the power of mighty love!
A dragon’s fiery form belied the god;
Sublime on radiant spires he rode
When he to fair Olympia prest,
And while he sought her snowy breast,
Then round her slender waist he curl’d,
And stamp’d an image of himself, a sovereign of the world.
The listening crowd admire the lofty sound;
A present deity! they shout around:
A present deity! the vaulted roofs rebound:
With ravish’d ears
The monarch hears,
Assumes the god;
Affects to nod,
And seems to shake the spheres.
The praise of Bacchus then the sweet musician sung,
of Bacchus ever fair and ever young:
The jolly god in triumph comes;
Sound the trumpets, beat the drums!
Flush’d with a purple grace
He shows his honest face:
Now give the hautboys breath; he comes, he comes!
Bacchus, ever fair and young,
Drinking joys did first ordain;
Bacchus’ blessings are a treasure,
Drinking is the soldier’s pleasure:
Rich the treasure,
Sweet the pleasure,
Sweet is pleasure after pain.
Soothed with the sound, the king grew vain;
Fought all his battles o’er again,
And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew the slain!
The master saw the madness rise,
His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes;
And while he Heaven and Earth defied
Changed his hand and check’d his pride.
He chose a mournful Muse
Soft pity to infuse:
He sung Darius great and good,
By too severe a fate
Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen,
Fallen from his high estate.
And weltering in his blood;
Deserted at his utmost need
By those his former bounty fed;
On the bare earth exposed he lies
With not a friend to close his eyes.
With downcast looks the joyless victor sate,
Revolving in his alter’d soul
The various turns of chance below;
And now and then a sigh he stole,
And tears began to flow.
The mighty master smiled to see
That love was in the next degree;
‘Twas but a kindred sound to move,
For pity melts the mind to love.
Softly sweet, in Lydian measures
Soon he soothed his soul to pleasures.
War, he sung, is toil and trouble,
Honour but an empty bubble;
Never ending, still beginning,
Fighting still, and still destroying;
If the world be worth thy winning,
Think, O think, it worth enjoying:
Lovely Thais sits beside thee,
Take the good the gods provide thee!
The many rend the skies with loud applause;
So Love was crown’d, but Music won the cause.
The prince, unable to conceal his pain,
Gazed on the fair
Who caused his care,
And sigh’d and look’d, sigh’d and look’d,
Sigh’d and look’d, and sigh’d again:
At length with love and wine at once opprest
The vanquish’d victor sunk upon her breast.
Now strike the golden lyre again:
A louder yet, and yet a louder strain!
Break his bands of sleep asunder
And rouse him like a rattling peal of thunder.
Hark, hark! the horrid sound
Has raised up his head:
As awaked from the dead
And amazed he stares around.
Revenge, revenge, Timotheus cries,
See the Furies arise!
See the snakes that they rear
How they hiss in their hair,
And the sparkles that flash from their eyes!
Behold a ghastly band,
Each a torch in his hand!
Those are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were slain
And unburied remain
Inglorious on the plain:
Give the vengeance due
To the valiant crew!
Behold how they toss their torches on high,
How they point to the Persian abodes
And glittering temples of their hostile gods.
The princes applaud with a furious joy:
And the king seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy;
Thais led the way
To light him to his prey,
And like another Helen, fired another Troy!
Thus, long ago,
Ere heaving bellows learn’d to blow,
While organs yet were mute,
Timotheus, to his breathing flute
And sounding lyre
Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire.
At last divine Cecilia came.
Inventress of the vocal frame;
The sweet enthusiast from her sacred store
Enlarged the former narrow bounds,
And added length to solemn sounds,
With Nature’s mother-wit, and arts unknown before.
Let old Timotheus yield the prize,
Or both divide the crown;
He raised a mortal to the skies,
She drew an angel down!
3. The Pied Piper of Hamelin
by Robert Browning
Hamelin Town’s in Brunswick,
By famous Hanover city;
The river Weser, deep and wide,
Washes its wall on the southern side;
A pleasanter spot you never spied;
But, when begins my ditty,
Almost five hundred years ago,
To see the townsfolk suffer so
From vermin, was a pity.
They fought the dogs, and killed the cats,
And bit the babies in the cradles,
And eat the cheeses out of the vats,
And licked the soup from the cooks’ own ladles,
Split open the kegs of salted sprats,
Made nests inside men’s Sunday hats,
And even spoiled the women’s chats
By drowning their speaking
With shrieking and squeaking
In fifty different sharps and flats.
At last the people in a body
To the Town Hall came flocking:
‘Tis clear, cried they, our Mayor’s a noddy;
And as for our Corporation — shocking
To think we buy gowns lined with ermine
For dolts that can’t or won’t determine
What’s like to rid us of our vermin!
Rouse up, Sirs! Give your brains a racking
To find the remedy we’re lacking,
Or, sure as fate, we’ll send you packing!
At this the Mayor and Corporation
Quaked with a mighty consternation.
An hour they sate in council,
At length the Mayor broke silence:
For a guilder I’d my ermine gown sell;
I wish I were a mile hence!
It’s easy to bid one rack one’s brain —
I’m sure my poor head aches again
I’ve scratched it so, and all in vain.
Oh for a trap, a trap, a trap!
Just as he said this, what should hap
At the chamber door but a gentle tap?
Bless us, cried the Mayor, what’s that?
(With the Corporation as he sate,
Looking little though wondrous fat);
Only a scraping of shoes on the mat?
Anything like the sound of a rat
Makes my heart go pit-a-pat!
Come in! — the Mayor cried, looking bigger:
And in did come the strangest figure!
His queer long coat from heel to head
Was half of yellow and half of red;
And he himself was tall and thin,
With sharp blue eyes, each like a pin,
And light loose hair, yet swarthy skin,
No tuft on cheek nor beard on chin,
But lips where smiles went out and in —
There was no guessing his kith and kin!
And nobody could enough admire
The tall man and his quaint attire:
Quoth one: It’s as my great-grandsire,
Starting up at the Trump of Doom’s tone,
Had walked this way from his painted tombstone!
He advanced to the council-table:
And, Please your honours, said he, I’m able,
By means of a secret charm, to draw
All creatures living beneath the sun,
That creep, or swim, or fly, or run,
After me so as you never saw!
And I chiefly use my charm
On creatures that do people harm,
The mole, and toad, and newt, and viper;
And people call me the Pied Piper.
(And here they noticed round his neck
A scarf of red and yellow stripe,
To match with his coat of the self-same cheque;
And at the scarf’s end hung a pipe;
And his fingers, they noticed, were ever straying
As if impatient to be playing
Upon this pipe, as low it dangled
Over his vesture so old-fangled.)
Yet, said he, poor piper as I am,
In Tartary I freed the Cham,
Last June, from his huge swarms of gnats;
I eased in Asia the Nizam
Of a monstrous brood of vampyre-bats:
And, as for what your brain bewilders,
If I can rid your town of rats
Will you give me a thousand guilders?
One? fifty thousand! — was the exclamation
Of the astonished Mayor and Corporation.
Into the street the Piper stept,
Smiling first a little smile,
As if he knew what magic slept
in his quiet pipe the while;
Then, like a musical adept,
To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled,
And green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled,
Like a candle-flame where salt is sprinkled;
And ere three shrill notes the pipe uttered,
You heard as if an army muttered;
And the muttering grew to a grumbling;
And the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling;
And out of the houses the rats came tumbling.
Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats,
Brown rats, black rats, grey rats, tawny rats,
Grave old plodders, gay young friskers,
Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins,
Cocking tails and pricking whiskers,
Families by tens and dozens,
Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives —
Followed the Piper for their lives.
From street to street he piped advancing,
And step for step they followed dancing,
Until they came to the river Weser
Wherein all plunged and perished
— Save one who, stout as Julius Caesar,
Swam across and lived to carry
(As he the manuscript he cherished)
To Rat-land home his commentary,
Which was, At the first shrill notes of the pipe,
I heard a sound as of scraping tripe,
And putting apples, wondrous ripe,
Into a cider-press’s gripe:
And a moving away of pickle-tub-boards,
And a leaving ajar of conserve-cupboards,
And a drawing the corks of train-oil-flasks,
And a breaking the hoops of butter-casks;
And it seemed as if a voice
(Sweeter than by harp or by psaltery
Is breathed) called out, Oh rats, rejoice!
The world is grown to one vast drysaltery!
‘So munch on, crunch on, take your nuncheon,
‘Breakfast, supper, dinner, luncheon!
And just as one bulky sugar-puncheon,
Ready staved, like a great sun shone
Glorious scarce an inch before me,
Just as methought it said, Come, bore me!
— I found the Weser rolling o’er me.
You should have heard the Hamelin people
Ringing the bells till they rocked the steeple;
Go, cried the Mayor, and get long poles!
Poke out the nests and block up the holes!
Consult with carpenters and builders,
And leave in our town not even a trace
Of the rats! — when suddenly up the face
Of the Piper perked in the market-place,
With a, First, if you please, my thousand guilders!
A thousand guilders! The Mayor looked blue;
So did the Corporation too.
For council dinners made rare havock
With Claret, Moselle, Vin-de-Grave, Hock;
And half the money would replenish
Their cellar’s biggest butt with Rhenish.
To pay this sum to a wandering fellow
With a gipsy coat of red and yellow!
Beside, quoth the Mayor with a knowing wink,
Our business was done at the river’s brink;
We saw with our eyes the vermin sink,
And what’s dead can’t come to life, I think.
So, friend, we’re not the folks to shrink
From the duty of giving you something for drink,
And a matter of money to put in your poke;
But, as for the guilders, what we spoke
Of them, as you very well know, was in joke.
Beside, our losses have made us thrifty;
A thousand guilders! Come, take fifty!
The Piper’s face fell, and he cried,
No trifling! I can’t wait, beside!
I’ve promised to visit by dinner time
Bagdat, and accept the prime
Of the Head Cook’s pottage, all he’s rich in,
For having left, in the Caliph’s kitchen,
Of a nest of scorpions no survivor —
With him I proved no bargain-driver,
With you, don’t think I’ll bate a stiver!
And folks who put me in a passion
May find me pipe after another fashion.
How? cried the Mayor, d’ye think I’ll brook
Being worse treated than a Cook?
Insulted by a lazy ribald
With idle pipe and vesture piebald?
You threaten us, fellow? Do your worst,
Blow your pipe there till you burst!
Once more he stept into the street;
And to his lips again
Laid his long pipe of smooth straight cane;
And ere he blew three notes (such sweet
Soft notes as yet musician’s cunning
Never gave th’enraptured air)
There was a rustling that seem’d like a bustling
Of merry crowds justling at pitching and hustling,
Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering,
Little hands clapping, and little tongues chattering,
And, like fowls in a farm-yard when barley is scattering,
Out came the children running.
All the little boys and girls,
With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls,
And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls,
Tripping and skipping, ran merrily after
The wonderful music with shouting and laughter.
The Mayor was dumb, and the Council stood
As if they were changed into blocks of wood,
Unable to move a step, or cry
To the children merrily skipping by —
Could only follow with the eye
That joyous crowd at the Piper’s back.
But how the Mayor was on the rack,
And the wretched Council’s bosoms beat,
As the Piper turned from the High Street
To where the Weser rolled its waters
Right in the way of their sons and daughters!
However he turned from South to West,
And to Coppelburg Hill his steps addressed,
And after him the children pressed;
Great was the joy in every breast.
He never can cross that mighty top!
He’s forced to let the piping drop,
And we shall see our children stop!
When, lo, as they reached the mountain’s side,
A wondrous portal opened wide,
As if a cavern was suddenly hollowed;
And the Piper advanced and the children follow’d,
And when all were in to the very last,
The door in the mountain side shut fast.
Did I say, all? No! One was lame,
And could not dance the whole of the way;
And in after years, if you would blame
His sadness, he was used to say, —
It’s dull in our town since my playmates left!
I can’t forget that I’m bereft
Of all the pleasant sights they see,
Which the Piper also promised me;
For he led us, he said, to a joyous land,
Joining the town and just at hand,
Where waters gushed and fruit-trees grew,
And flowers put forth a fairer hue,
And every thing was strange and new;
The sparrows were brighter than peacocks here,
And their dogs outran our fallow deer,
And honey-bees had lost their stings,
And horses were born with eagles’ wings:
And just as I felt assured
My lame foot would be speedily cured,
The music stopped and I stood still,
And found myself outside the Hill,
Left alone against my will,
To go now limping as before,
And never hear of that country more!
Alas, alas for Hamelin!
There came into many a burgher’s pate
A text which says, that Heaven’s Gate
Opes to the Rich at as easy a rate
As the needle’s eye takes a camel in!
The Mayor sent East, West, North, and South,
To offer the Piper, by word of mouth,
Wherever it was men’s lot to find him,
Silver and gold to his heart’s content,
If he’d only return the way he went,
And bring the children behind him.
But when they saw ’twas a lost endeavour,
And Piper and dancers were gone for ever,
They made a decree that lawyers never
Should think their records dated duly
If, after the day of the month and year,
These words did not as well appear,
“And so long after what happened here
“On the Twenty-second of July,
“Thirteen hundred and Seventy-six:”
And the better in memory to fix
The place of the Children’s last retreat,
They called it, The Pied Piper’s Street —
Where any one playing on pipe or tabor
Was sure for the future to lose his labour.
Nor suffered they Hostelry or Tavern
To shock with mirth a street so solemn;
But opposite the place of the cavern
They wrote the story on a column,
And on the Great Church Window painted
The same, to make the world acquainted
How their children were stolen away;
And there it stands to this very day.
And I must not omit to say
That in Transylvania there’s a tribe
Of alien people who ascribe
The outlandish ways and dress
On which their neighbours lay such stress
To their fathers and mothers having risen
Out of some subterraneous prison
Into which they were trepanned
Long time ago in a mighty band
Out of Hamelin town in Brunswick land,
But how or why, they don’t understand.
So, Willy, let you and me be wipers
Of scores out with all men — especially pipers:
And, whether they pipe us from rats or from mice,
If we’ve promised them aught, let us keep our promise.
4. The Loudest Shadow
by Anthony
It begins as a noise in the background
keeping steady beat as it makes its round.
It can be found at any time of day.
It’s so simple, just push play.
It begins as a noise in the background
keeping steady beat as it makes its round.
It can be found at any time of day.
It’s so simple, just push play.
It creates a story for everyone’s life
as if it understands your struggles and strife.
It’s impossible to stop, its purpose will be served
as if not to judge on whether or not you deserve
to feel absorbed in something bigger than yourself
where there is nobody to ever ring the bell
Of complete reality and worry filled days.
When life gets too real, there’s something that says,
I’ll be with you through the HAPPY and SAD.
the really GREAT days and even the BAD.
It lingers as if ready at any possible time
to lift you off your feet and begin to fly
away from all the grief, sorrow, and pain
to tell your mind that it’s free again.
No judging or casting a nasty glare.
Nope, just to let you know that it’s always there
as the shoulder to cry on when no one else cares
and casts you alone to face all of your scares.
It will give you a feeling that no one else can
and open your eyes to the ever-growing span
of opportunity and dare and even the strength
to end it all or just shoot blanks.
It tends to all of our daily needs,
not for us but with us so we really can see
the magic of you when in a crowd.
Nothing else will sound as loud.
As the beats, bells, and whistles that are in your head
revealing to you a new path to tread
for you will follow no one; your path will be your own
because your are lead by something that can’t be owned.
To be there for whenever you desire
is its one purpose, to light your fire.
It can’t be stopped if the will is steady.
It can be unleashed, it’s always ready.
To light up your day or slow down the time
to yell at the world, or even to cry,
to help you with whatever you may need,
or just to be there for whenever you please.
It will live until the end of time
serving its purpose, to let its light shine
remember family, friends, and even pets
but most of all music never forget
5. Pan With Us
by Robert Frost
Pan came out of the woods one day,—
His skin and his hair and his eyes were gray,
The gray of the moss of walls were they,—
And stood in the sun and looked his fill
At wooded valley and wooded hill.
He stood in the zephyr, pipes in hand,
On a height of naked pasture land;
In all the country he did command
He saw no smoke and he saw no roof.
That was well! And he stamped a hoof.
He heart knew peace, for none came here
To this lean feeding save once a year
Someone to salt the half-wild steer,
Or homespun children with clicking pails
Who see so little they tell no tales.
He tossed his pipes, too hard to teach
A new-world song, far out of reach,
For a sylvan sign that the blue jay’s screech
And the whimper of hawks beside the sun
Were music enough for him, for one.
Times were changed from what they were:
Such pipes kept less of power to stir
The fruited bough of the juniper
And the fragile bluets clustered there
Than the merest aimless breath of air.
They were pipes of pagan mirth,
And the world had found new terms of worth.
He laid him down on the sun-burned earth
And ravelled a flower and looked away—
Play? Play?—what should he play?
6. A Sleepy Song
by Augusta, Lady Gregory
Sleep a little, a little little, for there is nothing at all to fear, Diarmuid grandson of Duibhne; sleep here soundly, Diarmuid to whom I have given my love. It is I will keep watch for you, grandchild of shapely Duibhne; sleep a little, a blessing on you, beside the well of the strong field; my lamb from above the lake, from the banks of the strong streams.
Let your sleep be like the sleep in the North of fair comely Fionnchadh of Ess Ruadh, the time he took Slaine with bravery as we think, in spite of Failbhe of the Hard Head.
Let your sleep be like the sleep in the West of Aine daughter of Galian, the time she went on a journey in the night with Dubhthach from Dorinis, by the light of torches.
Let your sleep be like the sleep in the East of Deaghadh the proud, the brave fighter, the time he took Coin cheann, daughter of Binn, in spite of fierce Decheall of Duibhreann.
O heart of the valour of the world to the west of Greece, my heart will go near to breaking if I do not see you every day. The parting of us two will be the parting of two children of the one house; it will be the parting of life from the body, Diarmuid.
7. Singing the Black Cat Blues
by Sonia Walker
People stop and stare
when I pass them on the street,
some believe it is bad luck
as our paths cross each other
others turn away and do not bother.
Singing the black cat blues.
Superstition follows we wherever I go,
like a black cloud ready to storm,
sunshine days are scarce in my life
I am an orphan looking for a home,
beating the pavement as I roam.
Singing the black cat blues.
One day a person approached me,
catching me with a large net,
pushed into a cage in back of a truck,
I arrived to a building with lots of noise,
my home and shelter with two mouse toys.
Singing the black cat blues.
Visitors came and went and passed me by,
I tried to look loving and purred out my heart,
hoping to be adopted by a special someone,
so I would not live my life as a stray cat,
and enjoy the coziness of my homey habitat.
Singing the black cat blues.
While I was napping in my sheltered cage,
I heard the sweet sound of a woman’s voice,
she stopped and stared at me as I woke up,
an attendant opened up the door and I was free,
my new owner picked me up as I mewed with glee.
No longer singing the black cat blues.
Poems about Singing That Rhyme
Rhyme and rhythm are at the heart of these poems about singing with rhyme, celebrating the musicality of language and the power of poetry to evoke powerful emotions. Get ready to tap your toes and sing along!
1. 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.
2. You Only Need to Look
by Andrew Hanson
When my day is heading down,
With no solution I can see,
I need only look around.
It’s flowing all around me.
When my day is heading down,
With no solution I can see,
I need only look around.
It’s flowing all around me.
It’s gliding on the breeze
And falling with the rain.
It comes with gentle ease,
Relieving all my pain.
And slowly, I feel it starting,
Something from within me.
Then quickly it comes roaring,
Filling every gap and cavity.
It’s welling up inside,
I have to let it out.
It’s like a roaring tide,
Washing away guilt, fear, and doubt.
It’s shooting through my veins
And surging through my mind.
I barely control the reigns.
It’s growing stronger all the time.
It’s taken me away,
A huge smile on my face,
Because today’s my lucky day.
I’m going to a very special place.
Soon it all comes spilling out,
Helping me make wonders.
Things I never knew about,
Things I’d normally think are blunders.
First it takes me fast, then slow,
The sound gliding through air,
Like an arrow from a bow,
Or the flight of a frightened hare.
Alas, it’s now coming to an end,
The final note rings true.
Sending a beautiful message
To me and to you.
That note has built us a bridge
To a place of awesome bliss.
Where the contents of its message
Are always proven to say this:
Music is all around you.
You just have to find it.
And I promise once you do,
Your efforts will be rewarded.
And anyone can sit
And waste their life away,
But the person who finds music
Will never live that way.
3. A Helping Musical
by Sadwick
A blank parchment is lifeless
Until a pen creates a melody.
A song is revered ageless
Because of a sweet harmony.
A blank parchment is lifeless
Until a pen creates a melody.
A song is revered ageless
Because of a sweet harmony.
Musicians are the key to living
Because they understand truth.
It’s not about taking but giving
That makes us feel our youth.
Take the sound of music,
And change it into a life goal.
Maybe you’ll see the magic
When you touch a child’s soul.
Music is the secret mystery
That unlocks something within.
No matter where in history,
Music is where it begins.
4. Music Is Everything
by Jbizzy
Music travels all around my body.
Now I can say it’s living right through me.
Listening to music puts me in a good mood;
It makes me want to stand up and start to groove.
Music travels all around my body.
Now I can say it’s living right through me.
Listening to music puts me in a good mood;
It makes me want to stand up and start to groove.
Music can make me forget all of my pain.
It brings out the sun when I can only see the rain.
I put on my headphones and play all of my songs.
I could listen to it all day long.
Music takes me to another place,
Higher than the sky and far away from the space.
There’s nothing to compare to it in the whole world.
It wouldn’t even be better than my favorite girl.
Music can teach you many lessons,
Like stand up for your rights and all the good reasons.
I know there are people who think the same way
Because they know music lives in us every day.
5. Music Is Poetry
by Kristine Black
Music is poetry,
An expression of the heart.
I can feel it in me when the music starts.
My blood is flowing,
Music is poetry,
An expression of the heart.
I can feel it in me when the music starts.
My blood is flowing,
My mind is free.
It’s beautiful when someone
Is feeling the same as me.
Words are the pristine way to uplift
An emotion.
My words are my heart.
My paper is my sleeve.
I wonder if someone feels the same as me.
6. Music Understands Me
by Anonymous
I feel alone and scared,
My past haunts me every day,
But the music understands me.
I feel alone and scared,
My past haunts me every day,
But the music understands me.
I cry when I’m alone,
Because I want to die,
But the music understands me.
I may be smiling on the outside,
But I’m crying on the inside,
And the music understands me.
With all that I have been through,
I’m surprised that I’m still sane,
And the music understands me.
Nothing seems to ease my pain,
So I’m forced to cover it,
But the music understands me.
Sometimes I can’t,
And I get overcome,
But the music understands me.
I like the pain that I can control,
And I love the rain,
Because it’s good to cry in,
But I never have to cry with music,
Because the music understands me.
7. Sing
by Brittany
Sing until your heart gives out;
that’s what they all say,
but what is left after that
if the music takes it all away?
Sing until your heart gives out;
that’s what they all say,
but what is left after that
if the music takes it all away?
If you sing until your lungs give out
what breath is left to tell anyone
just how you feel about them?
You’re finished before you’ve even begun.
All I’m trying to say
is that when you sing
let the music take you high above the clouds
until you’ve forgotten everything.
Music is equal to love;
that’s what they tell me,
but what if you love someone greatly
and there is no way to sing them down onto one knee?
Your heart will break,
your lungs will start crying,
for air and all you will know to say
is not to worry, you will still be flying.
8. Music
by Bella
Music is a privilege to all who hear her sing.
Joy, heart and happiness is mostly what she’ll bring.
Her mood is your shadow: anger, love and irritation,
Her mood reflects your own in a way of imitation.
Music is a privilege to all who hear her sing.
Joy, heart and happiness is mostly what she’ll bring.
Her mood is your shadow: anger, love and irritation,
Her mood reflects your own in a way of imitation.
If you’re sad, so she shall be.
If happiness is what you feel,
In her that’s what you’ll see.
If your mood is colourful, which is what is best to be,
Then colourful will be the tone of her sweet melody.
Music is something that we all take for granted,
But if you take the time to listen, you’ll find yourself enchanted!
Music is for a baby, a baby oh so small,
To make her a fragile lullaby so into sleep the child may fall.
Music is for an old grandpa, we all know that jolly old man.
Though he may never seem sad, there are times when he is down.
Music is for everyone, the young, the old, and those in between,
But if you could take some time to listen, you may find what music means…
9. Love for The Music
by Waldo Garcia
The rhythm, and of course the beat.
Moving side to side and dancing the floor.
Feel the music flowing all through your feet.
The beat’s so good, it makes you want some more.
The rhythm, and of course the beat.
Moving side to side and dancing the floor.
Feel the music flowing all through your feet.
The beat’s so good, it makes you want some more.
Get lost in the music, carried away.
Feel the deep passion coming from your heart.
Warm like the sun on the beach on mid-day.
It’s been a part of my life from the start.
Made from things happening in real life.
If you listen closely, there is a song.
Some are love and some are blunt as a knife.
I can listen to music all day long.
Music’s love or whatever it can be.
Music’s the life that is inside of me
10. Blue Warbler
by Anonymous
Of course, you do not sing for me,
still I attend your soloing,
your conscientious serenade
originating past the pine
and echoing beyond my yard
To whom or where, I do not know,
although your song—your aria—
flows fierce and fast upon this wind
with trills and crisp soprano notes.
I hope the one you sing to finds
this bright recital thrilled with life,
its undertones of solitude
emphatic lyrics, subtle pleas
or promises, perhaps a love.
Whatever spurs these urgent bursts
of crucial music through the noon,
may all your calls and warbling
be heard, sweet songbird, clear and soon.
11. Hi Ho Hill Bill Sings the Hillbilly Blues
by Caren Krutsinger
High ho Hill Bill is wailing the hillbilly blues
not a bad life, yet, not one that I’d choose
wailing like a tomcat with a pinched big toe
singing the blues up and down in summer and snow.
Folks found me under a spoiled red delicious apple tree
was never a good boy, no one aproned wanted me.
Daddy ran off with the housewife next door.
i looked just like him, so my pocket holder was always sore!
Bible-thumping ma took his discretions out of my little hide.
i was never welcome in the house, or in her Ford to ride
haymow bed was in the barn, I slept with a mouse and a cow.
With gas-passing horse and a worse passing sow.
not a bad life, yet not one that any moron would choose.
Why I am forever singing the hillbilly blues.
Want to get on TV, or at least the afternoon news.
No one wants me except for liquor and booze.
12. A Song of Singing
by James Whitcomb Riley
Sing! Gangling lad, along the brink
Of wild brook-ways of shoal and deep,
Where killdees dip, and cattle drink,
And glinting little minnows leap!
Sing! slimpsy lass who trips above
And sets the foot-long quivering!
Sing! Bittern, bumble-bee, and dove–
Sing! Sing! Sing!
Sing as you will, O singers all
who sing because you _want_ to sing!
Sing! Peacock on the orchard wall,
Or tree-toad by the trickling spring!
Sing! Every bird on every bough–
Sing! Every living, loving thing–
Sing any song, and anyhow,
But Sing! Sing! Sing!
Poems about Singing in a Choir
Singing in a choir is a transformative experience, bringing people together in harmony and creating something truly beautiful. These poems capture the joy and camaraderie of choral singing.
1. I Heard A Choir Singing
by Bobbi Bernard
I heard a choir singing
Upon a stormy Sabbath morn
And oh, the beauty of their voice’s
Made me feel sad and so forlorn
For I knew that I was bound for hell
There was no hope for me
For I was just an old and worn out drunk
Not fit for God to see
A teardrop fell from neath my eye
As I stood there in the street
As I heard the glad refrains of God
So mellow and so sweet
I thought that I might go inside
And sit awhile and rest
But I had on such a shabby shirt
And my shoes were not the best
But I wished to go inside that church
I just wanted to go in
And have a quiet talk with God
And tell of my sins
I wanted so to tell him
How the wine had brought me down
And how I lived inside a cardboard box
On the ragged side of town
And that choir just kept on singing
About the Holy One
How long ago He died for us
Gods on and precious son
Thy sang of God and glory
And heaven up above
How He waited for us up there
And of His precious love
And I wondered if He’d love me too
If I’d confess my sin
But I was just too dirty
And to ragged to go in
But my heart was beating fast and hard
Deep down in my chest and so loud
I thought it might jump out
And I couldn’t keep from dancing
And I started in to shout
Oh, I shouted for my master
As the choir kept singing on
This time a light and happy tune
A bright melodious song
Then I was flying up the steps
Almost running down the isle
And I knew that church folks were staring
But I didn’t care
As I headed for the alter
To kneel and pray awhile
And then I felt a touch upon my brow
And a kindly man stood there
And he gently held
These old and worn out hands
As we talked to God in prayer
Well he said God didn’t look upon the outside
At the rags upon my back
He didn’t look for beauty
Or possessions I might lack
He doesn’t look for riches
Just your heart deep down within
And if you’ll confess and really mean it
He’ll forgive you of your sins
So that day with patches on my knees
And stale wine upon my breathe
I gave my pledge and love to Him
Who had saved me with His death
Then as the choir kept singing
That sweet song, ‘Amazing Grace’
I thought I saw Him standing there
A smile upon His face
And as great tears streamed down my face
He said He loved me too
And I crept deep
Into His outstretched arms
To begin my life anew
2. A Cappella
by Anonymous
A pyramid of pasty skull bones,
heaped high as trash in garbage bin,
awoke from graveyard cobble stones
with jamming jaws and granny grins.
They’re deathbed blues from buried crypts
as a cappela choral chant
is shriek and sounds from skinless lips
like cacophony, claptrap, rant!
On ‘all saint’s eve’ they blow sealed gaskets
and blister, bluff and ballyhoo
to send a chilly wind from caskets,
3. Choir
by Anonymous
The sound of voices
the ones that make beautiful noises
following the beat
sweating by the heat
as they are standing outside
in the sun’s torturous rays
still sweating, yet singing
to make the audiences day
working so hard that sweat drips down their head
wishing they would lay in a cold freezing bed
but knowing they still have a little more to go
until one faints and they all say “Oh no!”
the audience scatters back to their cars
leaving the band shell and not helping at all
what ruthless people who don’t care at all
for the choir has done this for you and worked so hard
4. Bull Dog
by Joyce Lancaster
I play in this concert I haven’t played before.
No worry Zane.
Don’t be insane.
I’m glad you came.
You’re old mom is sitting just to hear you play.
Even the cat is going to stay and bop to the music.
So play.
Joe all be in harmony.
Let’s be ok.
It’ll be ok.
I’m gonna pray.
I”ll say to all have a lovely day.
5. The Fair of Netherworld
by Max Neumann
See the sweet in the core of the seed!
come closer and watch in order to feel
milk my brain and try to see, old friend
our fair is open for everybody and for you
rainbow goon is dancing in rainbows
ecstasy-like, loaded with moves of hope
goon is swallowing all the words you speak
his eyes are glowing wildly, in a waking dream
the naked gipsy women of longing appear
their bodies are covered with venomous snakes
as they are touching each other’s genitals
spectators are shattered and wolfish, similarly
a choir of kid’s voices is singing of broken dreams
they are reborn adults of past generations, despaired
all of ’em are suicidal who once took their own life
now they are doomed to sing as long as an eternity lasts
mask man is approaching the scenery, in darkness
his entire face is covered by a bunnie’s mask, purple
mask man is introverted and while he is looking at the kids,
he is taking notes on a neon green sheet of paper, eagerly
6. The Birds Are Singing My Song
by Tisha Y. Winkler
The birds are singing my favorite tune.
Imagine them taking the flight soon.
Their wings are flapping with ease.
As I look to the sky, and feel the summer breeze.
This is what I enjoy the most about the music of the birds, as the heavenly host.
Listen closely and you will hear.
My favorite song playing in my ear.
Mr. Piano man can you play this song? T
His is the day, play all day long.
Poems about Singing and Music
Music has the power to move us in ways we can’t even imagine. These poems about singing and music explore the transformative impact of melody, harmony, and the human voice.
1. One Word Is Too Often Profaned
by Percy Bysshe Shelley
One word is too often profaned
For me to profane it,
One feeling too falsely disdain’d
For thee to disdain it.
One hope is too like despair
For prudence to smother,
And pity from thee more dear
Than that from another.
I can give not what men call love;
But wilt thou accept not
The worship the heart lifts above
And the Heavens reject not:
The desire of the moth for the star,
Of the night for the morrow,
The devotion to something afar
From the sphere of our sorrow?
2. Music, When Soft Voices Die
by Percy Shelley’s ‘To
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 belovèd’s bed;
And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,
Love itself shall slumber on.
3. A Singing Instrument
by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
What was he doing, the great god Pan,
Down in the reeds by the river?
Spreading ruin and scattering ban,
Splashing and paddling with hoofs of a goat,
And breaking the golden lilies afloat
With the dragon-fly on the river.
He tore out a reed, the great god Pan,
From the deep cool bed of the river.
The limpid water turbidly ran,
And the broken lilies a-dying lay,
And the dragon-fly had fled away,
Ere he brought it out of the river.
High on the shore sate the great god Pan,
While turbidly flowed the river
And hacked and hewed as a great god can,
With his hard bleak steel at the patient reed,
Till there was not a sign of a leaf indeed
To prove it fresh from the river.
He cut it short, did the great god Pan,
(How tall it stood in the river
Then drew the pith, like the heart of a man,
Steadily from the outside ring,
And notched the poor dry empty thing
in holes, as he sat by the river.
This is the way,’ laughed the great god Pan,
Laughed while he sate by the river,)
The only way, since gods began
To make sweet music, they could succeed.’
Then, dropping his mouth to a hole in the reed,
He blew in power by the river.
Sweet, sweet, sweet, O Pan
Piercing sweet by the river
Blinding sweet, O great god Pan
The sun on the hill forgot to die,
And the lilies revived, and the dragon-fly
Came back to dream on the river.
Yet half a beast is the great god Pan,
To laugh as he sits by the river,
Making a poet out of a man
The true gods sigh for the cost and pain, —
For the reed which grows nevermore again
As a reed with the reeds in the river.
4. A Friend Found in Music
by Bryanna T. Perkins
Music is the ocean
That pulls me to the shore.
Music is the rhythm
That moves me to the core.
Music is the ocean
that pulls me to the shore.
Music is the rhythm
that moves me to the core.
Music is the therapy
I need when I feel blue.
Music lifts my spirits
to make sure I pull through.
The times when I’m most cheerful,
It’s clear music was there.
Music is the needed friend
when no one seems to care.
5. Where Words Fail, Music Speaks
by Lucy Rudman
Where words fail,
music speaks.
It speaks of the pain,
of the sorrow,
Where words fail,
music speaks.
It speaks of the pain,
of the sorrow,
of the lost,
of the life we live.
It shares emotions.
It’s a way to connect,
to understand
what others feel.
Where words fail,
music speaks.
It tells the truth
whether you want it to or not.
Music shares the souls
of those we’re around,
of those in the world
that we’re living.
I wish to share
my music with you
So you can understand
the pain I feel,
so I can share my soul with you,
so you can understand
What I’m going through.
6. The Chords of My Escape
by Anjanae King
The chords of my escape,
The feeling of a beat,
The vibration of my soul,
It sends me to my peak.
The chords of my escape,
The feeling of a beat,
The vibration of my soul,
It sends me to my peak.
I just love how it makes me feel,
But there’s no way the feeling is real.
I can close my eyes and look up to the ceiling.
It’s the most pleasurable feeling.
The way it makes me move,
Just gracefully on my feet.
In the chords of my escape,
There are no expectations to meet.
I’m free to be myself.
I can dance, I can sing.
I can twirl around on the floor.
That’s how it’s supposed to be.
But of course, all happiness has to come to an end.
I look at the ground,
I sigh and frown.
It’s time to let go of my only true friend.
I lift my hand to my ear
And pull out the plastic.
I suddenly feel blank again.
But soon, I will feel ecstatic
With the chords of my escape.
7. Get Lost in The Music
by Roxane Faulkner
Music is part of my everyday life.
It’s the one thing that makes me feel alive.
No matter what it could be,
all music influences me.
Music is part of my everyday life.
It’s the one thing that makes me feel alive.
No matter what it could be,
all music influences me.
Music teaches me everything I do.
After hearing the words, you know it suits you.
Without music, I don’t know what I would do.
When I’m feeling bad, it’s the only place I can go to.
Music is my life, my desire.
As I listen, it builds me higher.
No matter what kind: rock, country, or rap,
you can’t convince me that any of it is crap.
Whatever you’re feeling, whether it’s happiness, sadness or fear,
just turn it up and listen to what you hear.
To me, music could never go wrong.
I could listen to it all day long.
8. The Gift to Sing
by James Weldon Johnson
Sometimes the mist overhangs my path,
And blackening clouds about me cling;
But, oh, I have a magic way
To turn the gloom to cheerful day—
I softly sing.
And if the way grows darker still,
Shadowed by Sorrow’s somber wing,
With glad defiance in my throat,
I pierce the darkness with a note,
And sing, and sing.
I brood not over the broken past,
Nor dread whatever time may bring;
No nights are dark, no days are long,
While in my heart there swells a song,
And I can sing.
9. Listening
by Amy Lowell
’T is you that are the music, not your song.
The song is but a door which, opening wide,
Lets forth the pent-up melody inside,
Your spirit’s harmony, which clear and strong
Sing but of you. Throughout your whole life long
Your songs, your thoughts, your doings, each divide
This perfect beauty; waves within a tide,
Or single notes amid a glorious throng.
The song of earth has many different chords;
Ocean has many moods and many tones
Yet always ocean. in the damp Spring woods
The painted trillium smiles, while crisp pine cones
Autumn alone can ripen. So is this
One music with a thousand cadences.
Poems about Singing and Caged Bird
The image of a caged bird singing is a poignant symbol of the human spirit’s resilience in the face of oppression. These poems capture the beauty and sadness of a trapped voice yearning to be free.
1. Caged Bird
by Maya Angelou
A free bird leaps
On the back of the wind
And floats downstream
Till the current ends
And dips his wing
In the orange sun rays
And dares to claim the sky.
But a bird that stalks
Down his narrow cage
Can seldom see through
His bars of rage
His wings are clipped and
His feet are tied
So he opens his throat to sing.
The caged bird sings
With a fearful trill
Of things unknown
But longed for still
And his tune is heard
On the distant hill
For the caged bird
Sings of freedom.
The free bird thinks of another breeze
And the trade winds soft through the sighing trees
And the fat worms waiting on a dawn bright lawn
And he names the sky his own.
But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams
His shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
His wings are clipped and his feet are tied
2. A Blackbird Singing
by Anonymous
R S ThomasR S Thomas R S Thomas R S Thomas
It seems wrong that out of this bird,
Black, bold, a suggestion of dark
Places about it, there yet should come
Such rich music, as though the notes’
Ore were changed to a rare metal
At one touch of that bright bill.
You have heard it often, alone at your desk
In a green April, your mind drawn
Away from its work by sweet disturbance
Of the mild evening outside your room.
A slow singer, but loading each phrase
With history’s overtones, love, joy
And grief learned by his dark tribe
In other orchards and passed on
Instinctively as they are now,
But fresh always with new tears.
3. Sympathy
by Paul Laurence Dunbar
I know what the caged bird feels, alas!
When the sun is bright on the upland slopes;
When the wind stirs soft through the springing grass,
And the river flows like a stream of glass;
When the first bird sings and the first bud opes,
And the faint perfume from its chalice steals—
I know what the caged bird feels!
I know why the caged bird beats his wing
Till its blood is red on the cruel bars;
For he must fly back to his perch and cling
When he fain would be on the bough a-swing;
And a pain still throbs in the old, old scars
And they pulse again with a keener sting—
I know why he beats his wing!
I know why the caged bird sings, ah me,
When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore,—
When he beats his bars and he would be free;
It is not a carol of joy or glee,
But a prayer that he sends from his heart’s deep core,
But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings—
I know why the caged bird sings!
4. Hope is the Thing With Feathers
by Emily Dickinson
“Hope” is the thing with feathers –
That perches in the soul –
And sings the tune without the words –
And never stops – at all –
And sweetest – in the Gale – is heard –
And sore must be the storm –
That could abash the little
BirdThat kept so many warm –
I’ve heard it in the chillest land –
And on the strangest Sea –
Yet – never – in Extremity,
It asked a crumb – of me.
5. Caged
by Alfred Lord Tennyson
He clasps the crag with crooked hands;
Close to the sun in lonely lands,
Ring’d with the azure world, he stands.
The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;
He watches from his mountain walls,
And like a thunderbolt he falls.
6. The Nightingale
by Sir Philip Sidney
The nightingale, as soon as April bringeth
Unto her rested sense a perfect waking,
While late bare earth, proud of new clothing, springeth,
Sings out her woes, a thorn her song-book making,
And mournfully bewailing,
Her throat in tunes expresseth
What grief her breast oppresseth
For Tereus’ force on her chaste will prevailing.
O Philomela fair, O take some gladness,
That here is juster cause of plaintful sadness:
Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth;
Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart invadeth.
Alas, she hath no other cause of anguish
But Tereus’ love, on her by strong hand wroken,
Wherein she suffering, all her spirits languish;
Full womanlike complains her will was broken.
But I, who daily craving, Cannot have to content me,
Have more cause to lament me,
Since wanting is more woe than too much having?
O Philomela fair, O take some gladness,
That here is juster cause of painful sadness:
Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth;
Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart invadeth
Final Thoughts
The power of singing is a universal language that has captivated poets throughout history.
Whether we are singing alone, in a choir, or listening to the songs of caged birds, the transformative impact of music on our souls cannot be denied.
Through the medium of poetry, we can capture the essence of melody, harmony, and the human voice, celebrating the beauty and power of singing in all its forms.
Whether funny, short, or long, these poems for singing remind us of the deep emotional connection we share with music and the transformative impact it can have on our lives.
So did you enjoy these singing poetries?
