Who is Harry Kemp

Harry Hibbard Kemp (December 15, 1883 – August 5, 1960) was an American poet and prose writer of the twentieth century. He was known as (and promoted himself as) the "Vagabond Poet", the "Villon of America", the "Hobo Poet", or the "Tramp Poet", and was a well-known popular literary figure of his era, the "hero of adolescent Americans."

Life and work

Kemp was born in Youngstown, Ohio, the only son of a candymaker. He was raised by his grandmother, in a house by the local train yards. At the age of seventeen he left home to become a common seaman; after returning to the United States he traveled across the country by riding the rails as a hobo. In his early twenties he attended Mount Hermon School, from which he was expelled around December 1906, and later the Uni...
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Harry Kemp Poems

  • Blind
    The Spring blew trumpets of color;
    Her Green sang in my brain-
    I heard a blind man groping
    “Tap-tap” with his cane;...
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Top 10 most used topics by Harry Kemp

Green 1 Spring 1 Brain 1 Mind 1 Spirit 1 Blind 1 Color 1


Harry Kemp Quotes

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Comments about Harry Kemp

Danielanadj: nice to see the daily mail relying on the human rights act for their journalists in the prince harry case. shame they can't do the same for asylum seekers who need safety in the uk.
Bookgoodies: about the book after harry paterson is summoned to london following his father's murder, he finds out that the late lord elliot paterson had discovered hidden information dated all the way back to 1936...
Mostestshady: mahomes completed passes to a receiver core consisting of marcus kemp, mvs and skyy in critical drives in the afc title game. but please continue having a meltdown about juju.
Louis91xwalls: bro roman kemp just said on his live "i cant do a harry styles impression anymore, harrys gonna pull up a lawsuit if i do that. so i cant do that anymore" i am not joking
Sugarduckyyaz: "the poor man is not he who is without a cent, but he who is without a dream" -- harry kemp
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Poem of the day

Andrew Lang Poem
Ballade Of The Midnight Forest
 by Andrew Lang

Still sing the mocking fairies, as of old,
Beneath the shade of thorn and holly-tree;
The west wind breathes upon them, pure and cold,
And wolves still dread Diana roaming free
In secret woodland with her company.
'Tis thought the peasants' hovels know her rite
When now the wolds are bathed in silver light,
And first the moonrise breaks the dusky grey,
...

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