Sad poems
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The Missionary - Canto Seventh
© William Lisle Bowles
The watchman on the tower his bugle blew,
And swelling to the morn the streamers flew;
He Has Not Lived In Vain
© Edgar Albert Guest
HE has not lived in vain
If men can say
When he has passed away:
He labored not for gain."
Semper Eadem (Ever The Same)
© Charles Baudelaire
«D'où vous vient, disiez-vous, cette tristesse étrange,
Montant comme la mer sur le roc noir et nu?»
Quand notre coeur a fait une fois sa vendange
Vivre est un mal. C'est un secret de tous connu,
Sunday
© George MacDonald
A dim, vague shrinking haunts my soul,
My spirit bodeth ill-
As some far-off restraining bank
Had burst, and waters, many a rank,
Were marching on my hill;
A Book of Dreams: Part I
© George MacDonald
I lay and dreamed. The master came
In his old woven dress;
I stood in joy, and yet in shame,
Oppressed with earthliness.
Song of the Squatter
© Anonymous
The boss last night in the hut did say
We start to muster at break of day;
So be up first thing, and dont be slow;
Saddle your horses and off you go.
The Anarchist.
© Arthur Henry Adams
THE dawn hangs heavy on the distant hill,
The darkness shudders slowly into light;
And from the weary bosom of the night
The pent winds sigh, then sink with horror still.
Tamar
© Robinson Jeffers
Grass grows where the flame flowered;
A hollowed lawn strewn with a few black stones
And the brick of broken chimneys; all about there
The old trees, some of them scarred with fire, endure the sea
wind.
The Autumn Cyclamen
© Frances Anne Kemble
We are the ghosts of those small flowers,
That in the opening of the year,
Rippling Water
© Adam Lindsay Gordon
The maiden sat by the river side
(The rippling water murmurs by),
The Convalescent Gripster
© Eugene Field
The gods let slip that fiendish grip
Upon me last week Sunday--
St. Simon And St. Jude
© John Keble
Seest thou, how tearful and alone,
And drooping like a wounded dove,
The Cross in sight, but Jesus gone,
The widowed Church is fain to rove?
The Ring And The Book - Chapter XI - Guido
© Robert Browning
YOU ARE the Cardinal Acciaiuoli, and you,
Abate Panciatichitwo good Tuscan names:
First Sunday After Trinity
© John Keble
Where is the land with milk and honey flowing,
The promise of our God, our fancy's theme?
The Bush Fire
© Henry Lawson
Ah, better the thud of the deadly gun, and the crash of the bursting shell,
Than the terrible silence where drought is fought out there in the western hell;
And better the rattle of rifles near, or the thunder on deck at sea,
Than the soundmost hellish of all to hearof a fire where it should not be.
Mrs. Judge Jenkins
© Francis Bret Harte
(BEING THE ONLY GENUINE SEQUEL TO "MAUD MULLER"
Maud Muller all that summer day
On The Death Of President Garfield
© Oliver Wendell Holmes
FALLEN with autumn's falling leaf
Ere yet his summer's noon was past,
Our friend, our guide, our trusted chief,--
What words can match a woe so vast!
Don Juan: Canto The Fourteenth
© George Gordon Byron
If from great nature's or our own abyss
Of thought we could but snatch a certainty,
