Sad poems
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Carolan's Prophecy
© Felicia Dorothea Hemans
Of bridal melody, soon dash'd with grief,
As if some wailing spirit in the strings
Met and o'ermaster'd him: but yielding then
To the strong prophet-impulse, mournfully,
Like moaning waters o'er the harp he pour'd
The trouble of his haunted soul, and sangâ
On Revisiting a Scene of Early Life
© Alaric Alexander Watts
It is the same clear dazzling scene,
Perhaps the grass is scarce as green;
Perhaps the river's troubled voice,
Does not so plainly say âRejoice.â ~ W. B. PROCTER.
At The Gate Of The Convent
© Alfred Austin
Beside the Convent Gate I stood,
Lingering to take farewell of those
To whom I owed the simple good
Of three days' peace, three nights' repose.
The Wisdom Of Merlyn
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
These are the time--words of Merlyn, the voice of his age recorded,
All his wisdom of life, the fruit of tears in his youth, of joy in his manhood hoarded,
All the wit of his years unsealed, to the witless alms awarded.
To Thyrza
© George Gordon Byron
Without a stone to mark the spot,
And say, what Truth might well have said,
By all, save one, perchance forgot,
Ah! wherefore art thou lowly laid?
The Wind-Harp
© James Russell Lowell
I treasure in secret some long, fine hair
Of tenderest brown, but so inwardly golden
Art Colours
© Gilbert Keith Chesterton
On must we go: we search dead leaves,
We chase the sunset's saddest flames,
The nameless hues that o'er and o'er
In lawless wedding lost their names.
An April Day
© Robert Laurence Binyon
Breezes strongly rushing, when the North--West stirs,
Prophesying Summer to the shaken firs;
Blowing brows of forest, where soft airs are free,
Crowned with heavenly glimpses of the shining sea;
The Song Of Hiawatha XII: The Son Of The Evening Star
© Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Can it be the sun descending
O'er the level plain of water?
The Water Witch
© Madison Julius Cawein
See! the milk-white doe is wounded.
He will follow as it bounds
Oh say not that my heart is cold
© Charles Wolfe
Oh say not that my heart is cold
To aught that once could warm it -
Elegy On Newstead Abbey
© George Gordon Byron
No mail-clad serfs, obedient to their lord,
In grim array the crimson cross demand;
Or gay assemble round the festive board
Their chief's retainers, an immortal band:
The Pastime of Pleasure: Of dysposycyon the II. parte of rethoryke - (til line 4920)
© Stephen Hawes
The copy of the letter. Ca. xxxi.
3951 Right gentyll herte of grene flourynge age
3952 The sterre of beaute and of famous porte
3953 Consyder well that your lusty courage
Quatrains Of Life
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
What has my youth been that I love it thus,
Sad youth, to all but one grown tedious,
Stale as the news which last week wearied us,
Or a tired actor's tale told to an empty house?
Art
© Alfred Noyes
Yes! Beauty still rebels!
Our dreams like clouds disperse:
She dwells
In agate, marble, verse.
Quatrains
© James Benjamin Kenyon
YON clouds that roam the deserts of the air,
On wind-swift barbs, oer many an azure plain,
Scarce pause to lift to Allah one small prayer,
Ere Ishmaels spirit drives them forth again.
The Great Mercy
© Katharine Tynan
Betwixt the saddle and the ground
Was mercy sought and mercy found.
Yea, in the twinkling of an eye,
He cried; and Thou hast heard his cry.
