Have you ever marveled at the incredible strength and beauty of girls and women?
The journey of girlhood is filled with unique experiences that shape their identities and empower them.
Here are 10 enriching poems about girls, each poem offers a glimpse into their lives, celebrating their resilience, dreams, and challenges.
Let’s get straight to it!
My favorite poem about girls
#1 “A Dream Girl” by Carl Sandburg
You will come one day in a waver of love,
Tender as dew, impetuous as rain,
The tan of the sun will be on your skin,
The purr of the breeze in your murmuring speech,
You will pose with a hill-flower grace.
You will come, with your slim, expressive arms,
A poise of the head no sculptor has caught
And nuances spoken with shoulder and neck,
Your face in a pass-and-repass of moods
As many as skies in delicate change
Of cloud and blue and flimmering sun.
Yet,
You may not come, O girl of a dream,
We may but pass as the world goes by
And take from a look of eyes into eyes,
A film of hope and a memoried day.
“My Little March Girl” is a delightful poem that celebrates the beauty and spirit of a young girl, reflecting the joy of spring.
The speaker describes her as she walks gracefully down the street, comparing her to a queen who remains calm despite the weather.
The image of her “tripping along with impetuous grace” brings a sense of liveliness and happiness to the poem.
9 more poems about girls
#2 “The Girl Of Ke-Mo” by Edward Powys Mathers (As Translator)
I’m a girl of Ke-Mo village
Selling my rice wine on the road.
Mine is the strongest rice wine in the land,
Though my bottle is so patched and dirty.
These silly rags are not my body,
The parts you cannot see are counted pleasant;
But you are just too drunk to drink my wine,
And just too plain to lie down on my mat.
He who would drink the wine of the girl of Ke-Mo
Needs a beautiful body and a lofty wit.
#3 “The Girl Of The U.S.A.” by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Oh! the maidens of France are certainly fine,
And I think every fellow will state
That the ‘what-you-may-call-it’ coiffured way
They put up their hair is great!
And they know how to dress, and they wear their clothes
In a fetching, Frenchy way;
And yet to me, there is just one girl –
The girl of the U.S.A.
I like to listen when French girls talk,
Though I’m weak in the ‘parlez-vous’ game;
But the language of youth in every land
Is somehow about the same,
And I’ve learned a regular code of shrugs,
And they seem to know what I say!
But the girl whose voice goes straight to my heart
Is the girl of the U.S.A.
I haven’t a word but words of praise
For these dear little girls of France;
And I will confess that I’ve felt a thrill
As I faced their line of advance!
But I haven’t been taken a prisoner yet,
And I won’t be, until the day
When I carry my colours to lay at the feet
Of a girl of the U.S.A.
#4 “The Girl That Lost Things” by George MacDonald
There was a girl that lost things–
Nor only from her hand;
She lost, indeed–why, most things,
As if they had been sand!
She said, “But I must use them,
And can’t look after all!
Indeed I did not lose them,
I only let them fall!”
That’s how she lost her thimble,
It fell upon the floor:
Her eyes were very nimble
But she never saw it more.
And then she lost her dolly,
Her very doll of all!
That loss was far from jolly,
But worse things did befall.
She lost a ring of pearls
With a ruby in them set;
But the dearest girl of girls
Cried only, did not fret.
And then she lost her robin;
Ah, that was sorrow dire!
He hopped along, and–bob in–
Hopped bob into the fire!
And once she lost a kiss
As she came down the stair;
But that she did not miss,
For sure it was somewhere!
Just then she lost her heart too,
But did so well without it
She took that in good part too,
And said–not much about it.
But when she lost her health
She did feel rather poor,
Till in came loads of wealth
By quite another door!
And soon she lost a dimple
That was upon her cheek,
But that was very simple–
She was so thin and weak!
And then she lost her mother,
And thought that she was dead;
Sure there was not another
On whom to lay her head!
And then she lost her self–
But that she threw away;
And God upon his shelf
It carefully did lay.
And then she lost her sight,
And lost all hope to find it;
But a fountain-well of light
Came flashing up behind it.
At last she lost the world:
In a black and stormy wind
Away from her it whirled–
But the loss how could she mind?
For with it she lost her losses,
Her aching and her weeping,
Her pains and griefs and crosses,
And all things not worth keeping;
It left her with the lost things
Her heart had still been craving;
‘Mong them she found–why, most things,
And all things worth the saving.
She found her precious mother,
Who not the least had died;
And then she found that other
Whose heart had hers inside.
And next she found the kiss
She lost upon the stair;
‘Twas sweeter far, I guess,
For ripening in that air.
She found her self, all mended,
New-drest, and strong, and white;
She found her health, new-blended
With a radiant delight.
She found her little robin:
He made his wings go flap,
Came fluttering, and went bob in,
Went bob into her lap.
So, girls that cannot keep things,
Be patient till to-morrow;
And mind you don’t beweep things
That are not worth such sorrow;
For the Father great of fathers,
Of mothers, girls, and boys,
In his arms his children gathers,
And sees to all their toys.
#5 “Girls” by Alfred Lichtenstein
They cannot stand their rooms in the evening.
They creep out into deep starry streets.
How gentle is the world in the streetlights’ wind!
How strangely buzzing life melts away…
They go by gardens and houses,
As though very far off there might be a light,
And they look upon every horny man
As a sweet gentleman savior
#6 “The Girls We Might Have Wed” by Rose Hawthorne Lathrop
Come, brothers, let us sing a dirge, –
A dirge for myriad chances dead;
In grief your mournful accents merge:
Sing, sing the girls we might have wed!
Sweet lips were those we never pressed
In love that never lost the dew
In sunlight of a love confessed, –
Kind were the girls we never knew!
Sing low, sing low, while in the glow
Of fancy’s hour those forms we trace,
Hovering around the years that go;
Those years our lives can ne’er replace!
Sweet lips are those that never turn
A cruel word; dear eyes that lead
The heart on in a blithe concern;
White hand of her we did not wed;
Fair hair or dark, that falls along
A form that never shrinks with time;
Bright image of a realm of song,
Standing beside our years of prime; –
When you shall go, then may we know
The heart is dead, the man is old.
Life can no other charm bestow
When girls we might have loved turn cold!
#7 “Leda and the Swan” by W. B. Yeats
A sudden blow: the great wings beating still
Above the staggering girl, her thighs caressed
By the dark webs, her nape caught in his bill,
He holds her helpless breast upon his breast.
How can those terrified vague fingers push
The feathered glory from her loosening thighs?
And how can body, laid in that white rush,
But feel the strange heart beating where it lies?
A shudder in the loins engenders there
The broken wall, the burning roof and tower
And Agamemnon dead.
Being so caught up,
So mastered by the brute blood of the air,
Did she put on his knowledge with his power
Before the indifferent beak could let her drop?
#8 “Little Orphant Annie” by James Whitcomb Riley
Little Orphant Annie’s come to our house to stay,
An’ wash the cups an’ saucers up, an’ brush the crumbs away,
An’ shoo the chickens off the porch, an’ dust the hearth, an’ sweep,
An’ make the fire, an’ bake the bread, an’ earn her board-an’-keep;
An’ all us other childern, when the supper things is done,
We set around the kitchen fire an’ has the mostest fun
A-list’nin’ to the witch-tales ‘at Annie tells about,
An’ the Gobble-uns ‘at gits you
Ef you
Don’t
Watch
Out!
Onc’t they was a little boy wouldn’t say his prayers,—
So when he went to bed at night, away up stairs,
His Mammy heerd him holler, an’ his Daddy heerd him bawl,
An’ when they turn’t the kivvers down, he wasn’t there at all!
An’ they seeked him in the rafter-room, an’ cubby-hole, an’ press,
An’ seeked him up the chimbly-flue, an’ ever’wheres, I guess;
But all they ever found was thist his pants an’ roundabout–
An’ the Gobble-uns’ll git you
Ef you
Don’t
Watch
Out!
An’ one time a little girl ‘ud allus laugh an’ grin,
An’ make fun of ever’one, an’ all her blood an’ kin;
An’ onc’t, when they was “company,” an’ ole folks was there,
She mocked ‘em an’ shocked ‘em, an’ said she didn’t care!
An’ thist as she kicked her heels, an’ turn’t to run an’ hide,
They was two great big Black Things a-standin’ by her side,
An’ they snatched her through the ceilin’ ‘fore she knowed what she’s about!
An’ the Gobble-uns’ll git you
Ef you
Don’t
Watch
Out!
An’ little Orphant Annie says when the blaze is blue,
An’ the lamp-wick sputters, an’ the wind goes woo-oo!
An’ you hear the crickets quit, an’ the moon is gray,
An’ the lightnin’-bugs in dew is all squenched away,–
You better mind yer parents, an’ yer teachers fond an’ dear,
An’ churish them ‘at loves you, an’ dry the orphant’s tear,
An’ he’p the pore an’ needy ones ‘at clusters all about,
Er the Gobble-uns’ll git you
Ef you
Don’t
Watch
Out!
#9 “To Coelia” by Charles Cotton
When, Coelia, must my old day set,
And my young morning rise
In beams of joy so bright as yet
Ne’er bless’d a lover’s eyes?
My state is more advanced than when
I first attempted thee:
I sued to be a servant then,
But now to be made free.
I’ve served my time faithful and true,
Expecting to be placed
In happy freedom, as my due,
To all the joys thou hast:
Ill husbandry in love is such
A scandal to love’s power,
We ought not to misspend so much
As one poor short-lived hour.
Yet think not, sweet! I’m weary grown,
That I pretend such haste;
Since none to surfeit e’er was known
Before he had a taste:
My infant love could humbly wait
When, young, it scarce knew how
To plead; but grown to man’s estate,
He is impatient now.
#10 “My Little March Girl” by Paul Laurence Dunbar
Come to the pane, draw the curtain apart,
There she is passing, the girl of my heart;
See where she walks like a queen in the street,
Weather-defying, calm, placid and sweet.
Tripping along with impetuous grace,
Joy of her life beaming out of her face,
Tresses all truant-like, curl upon curl,
Wind-blown and rosy, my little March girl.
Hint of the violet’s delicate bloom,
Hint of the rose’s pervading perfume!
How can the wind help from kissing her face,–
Wrapping her round in his stormy embrace?
But still serenely she laughs at his rout,
She is the victor who wins in the bout.
So may life’s passions about her soul swirl,
Leaving it placid,–my little March girl.
What self-possession looks out of her eyes!
What are the wild winds, and what are the skies,
Frowning and glooming when, brimming with life,
Cometh the little maid ripe for the strife?
Ah! Wind, and bah! Wind, what might have you now?
What can you do with that innocent brow?
Blow, Wind, and grow, Wind, and eddy and swirl,
But bring her to me, Wind,–my little March girl.