Sad poems

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Ambition

© Edward Thomas

Unless it was that day I never knew

Ambition. After a night of frost, before

Yonder He Goes!

© William Henry Ogilvie

Always our fathers were hunters, lords of the pitiless spear,

Chasing in English woodlands the wild white ox and the deer,

In The Month When Sings The Cuckoo

But if now I slept, I should sleep to wake
To the sleepless pang and the dreamless ache,
To the wild babe blossom within my heart,
To the darkening terror and swelling smart,
To the searching look and the words apart,
And the hint of the tell-tale cuckoo.

If Only I Had Known

© Aleksey Konstantinovich Tolstoy

If only I had known, had realised,

I would not have looked out of the window

Ghazal 3

© Daagh Dehlvi

na maza hai dushmani main na hai lutf dosti main
koi gair gair hota koi yar yar hota

The Adventures Of Little Bob Bonnyface

© Paul Hamilton Hayne

(Don't you think that his was a wretched plight?
Just picture a boy from a bird in flight!
His heart and his knee-joints weak with fright.)

To------.

© Frances Anne Kemble

Have yet some pity, and forbear to strike
One without power to strive, or fly alike,
Nor trample on a heart, which now must be
Towards all defencelessmost of all towards thee.

The Death Of Adam

© Robert Laurence Binyon

Cedars, that high upon the untrodden slopes
Of Lebanon stretch out their stubborn arms,
Through all the tempests of seven hundred years
Fast in their ancient place, where they look down

Ode To The Moon

© Thomas Hood

I
Mother of light! how fairly dost thou go
Over those hoary crests, divinely led!
Art thou that huntress of the silver bow,

Svanhvit's Colloquy

© Per Daniel Amadeus Atterbom

What countless paths wind down, from divers points,
To yonder city gates!--Oh, wilt not thou,
My star, appear to me on one of them?
Whate'er I said,--thou art my worshiped sun.
Then pardon me;--thou art not cold; oh, no!
Too warm, too glowing warm, art thou for me.

The Golden Legend: III. A Street In Strasburg

© Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

_Crier of the dead (ringing a bell)._ Wake! wake!
All ye that sleep!
Pray for the Dead!
Pray for the Dead!

The Jolly Dead March

© Henry Lawson

If I ever be worthy or famous

Which Im sadly beginning to doubt

The Vintage To The Dungeon. A Song

© Richard Lovelace

I.
Sing out, pent soules, sing cheerefully!
Care shackles you in liberty:
Mirth frees you in captivity.
Would you double fetters adde?
Else why so sadde?

A Book of Dreams: Part II

A great church in an empty square,
A place of echoing tones;
Feet pass not oft enough to wear
The grass between the stones.

Sequel to Grandfather's Clock

Grandfather sleeps in his grave;
Strange steps resound in the hall!
And there's that vain, stuck-up thing
(tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick),
There's that vain, stuck-up thing on the wall.

The Angel In The House. Book I. Canto VII.

Preludes.

I Love's Immortality

Elegy to the Old Man Hokuju

© Yosa Buson

You left in the morning, at evening my heart is in a
thousand pieces.
Why is it so far away?

Radiator by Connie Wanek: American Life in Poetry #52 Ted Kooser, U.S. Poet Laureate 2004-2006

© Ted Kooser

What a marvelous gift is the imagination, and each of us gets one at birth, free of charge and ready to start up, get on, and ride away. Can there be anything quite so homely and ordinary as a steam radiator? And yet, here, Connie Wanek, of Duluth, Minnesota, nudges one into play. Radiator

Mittens are drying on the radiator,
boots nearby, one on its side.
Like some monstrous segmented insect
the radiator elongates under the window.

Alpha and Omega, sadness and mirth,

The springing music, and its wasting breath--

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