Sad poems

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The Art Of Poetry

© Jorge Luis Borges

To gaze at a river made of time and water
And remember Time is another river.
To know we stray like a river
and our faces vanish like water.

Pickthorn Manor

© Amy Lowell

I
How fresh the Dartle's little waves that day! A
steely silver, underlined with blue,
And flashing where the round clouds, blown away, Let drop the

The Fool Errant

© Amy Lowell

The Fool Errant sat by the highway of life
And his gaze wandered up and his gaze wandered down,
A vigorous youth, but with no wish to walk,
Yet his longing was great for the distant town.

Nightmare: A Tale for an Autumn Evening

© Amy Lowell

After a Print by George CruikshankIt was a gusty night,
With the wind booming, and swooping,
Looping round corners,
Sliding over the cobble-stones,

The Bour-Tree Den

© Robert Louis Stevenson

CLINKUM-CLANK in the rain they ride,
Down by the braes and the grey sea-side;
Clinkum-clank by stane and cairn,
Weary fa' their horse-shoe-airn!

And yet I cry in anguish, as I hear
The long drawn pageant of your passage roll
Magnificently forth into the night.
To yon fair land ye come from, to yon sphere
Of strength and love where now ye shape your flight,
O even wings of music, bear my soul!

The Medal

© John Dryden

Thus inborn broils the factions would engage,
Or wars of exiled heirs, or foreign rage,
Till halting vengeance overtook our age,
And our wild labours, wearied into rest,
Reclined us on a rightful monarch's breast.

Religio Laici

© John Dryden

Dar'st thou, poor worm, offend Infinity?
And must the terms of peace be given by thee?
Then thou art justice in the last appeal;
Thy easy God instructs thee to rebel:
And, like a king remote, and weak, must take
What satisfaction thou art pleas'd to make.

High Noon

© Wilcox Ella Wheeler

Times finger on the dial of my life
Points to high noon! And yet the half-spent day
Leaves less than half remaining, for the dark,
Bleak shadows of the grave engulf the end.

Not Quite The Same

© Wilcox Ella Wheeler

Not quite the same the springtime seems to me,
Since that sad season when in separate ways
Our paths diverged. There are no more such days
As dawned for us in that last time when we

I Told You

© Wilcox Ella Wheeler

I told you the winter would go, love,
I told you the winter would go,
That he'd flee in shame when the south wind came,
And you smiled when I told you so.

Custer

© Wilcox Ella Wheeler

BOOK FIRST.I.ALL valor died not on the plains of Troy.
Awake, my Muse, awake! be thine the joy
To sing of deeds as dauntless and as brave
As e'er lent luster to a warrior's grave.

Morning Prayer

© Wilcox Ella Wheeler

Let me to-day do something that shall take
A little sadness from the worlds vast store,
And may I be so favoured as to make
Of joys too scanty sum a little more.

Artist's Life

© Wilcox Ella Wheeler

Of all the waltzes the great Strauss wrote,
mad with melody, rhythm--rife
From the very first to the final note,
Give me his "Artist's Life!"

Sorrow's Uses

The uses of sorrow I comprehend
Better and better at each years end.Deeper and deeper I seem to see
Why and wherefore it has to beOnly after the dark, wet days
Do we fully rejoice in the suns bright rays.Sweeter the crust tastes after the fast

Joy

My heart is like a little bird
That sits and sings for very gladness.
Sorrow is some forgotten word,
And so, except in rhyme, is sadness.

Sorry

There is much in life that makes me sorry as I journey
down lifes way.
And I seem to see more pathos in poor human
Lives each day.

The Pack-Saddle

A FAMOUS painter, jealous of his wife;
Whose charms he valued more than fame or life,
When going on a journey used his art,
To paint an ASS upon a certain part,
(Umbilical, 'tis said) and like a seal:
Impressive token, nothing thence to steal.

The Bucking-Tub

THEY curst his coming; trouble o'er them spread;
Naught could be done but hide the lover's head;
Beneath a bucking-tub, in utmost haste,
Within the court, our gay gallant was placed.