Sad poems
/ page 66 of 140 /
Anecdote For Fathers
© William Wordsworth
I HAVE a boy of five years old;
His face is fair and fresh to see;
His limbs are cast in beauty's mold
And dearly he loves me.
The Station-Master Of Lone Prairie
© Francis Bret Harte
An empty bench, a sky of grayest etching,
A bare, bleak shed in blackest silhouette,
Twelve years of platform, and before them stretching
Twelve miles of prairie glimmering through the wet.
The Wood Fairys Well
© Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
Thou hast been to the forest, thou sorrowing maiden,
Where Summer reigns Queen in her fairest array,
Sailor's Harbor
© Henry Reed
My thoughts, like sailors becalmed in Cape Town harbor,
Await your return, like a favorable wind, or like
The Phantom Deer
© Dora Sigerson Shorter
So it is that the magic woods of Toonagh
Are haunted by the spirit of a deer
She wanders by the castle of Red Richard
Within her side the wounding of a spear.
Natalias Resurrection: Sonnet XIII
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
A heritage for ever. Such a sleep
Came upon Adrian and such a dream,
As in the shade he lay a weary heap.
For, while he rested, still it seemed to him
The Ten Lepers
© Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
Neath the olives of Samaria, in far-famed Galilee,
Where dark green vines are mirrored in a placid silver sea,
Mid scenes of tranquil beauty, glowing sun-sets, rosy dawn,
The Master and disciples to the city journeyed on.
"I cant prevent myself from singing"
© Thibaut de Champagne
Mercy, my lady, who knows all things!
All goodness and everything worth having
Are yours: more than any woman living.
Help me, now, it is in your giving!
In Memory Of The Unknown Poet, Robert Boardman Vaughn
© Donald Justice
It was his story. It would always be his story.
It followed him; it overtook him finally
The boredom, and the horror, and the glory.
Thirty-Eight
© Charlotte Turner Smith
ADDRESSED TO MRS. H------Y.
IN early youth's unclouded scene,
The brilliant morning of eighteen,
With health and sprightly joy elate
The Husband
© Leon Gellert
Yes, I have slain, and taken moving life
From bodies. Yea! And laughed upon the taking;
Sisina
© Charles Baudelaire
Imaginez Diane en galant équipage,
Parcourant les forêts ou battant les halliers,
Cheveux et gorge au vent, s'enivrant de tapage,
Superbe et défiant les meilleurs cavaliers!
Autumn Plaint
© Stéphane Mallarme
Since Maria left me to go to another star - which one, Orion, Altair - or
you green Venus? - I have always loved solitude. How many long days I have passed alone with my cat. By alone I mean without a material being, and my cat is a mystic companion, a spirit. I can say then that I have passed long days alone with my cat and alone with one of the last authors of the Roman decadence; for since the white creature is no more I have loved, uniquely and strangely, everything summed up in the word: fall. So, in the year, my favourite season is the last slow part of summer that just precedes autumn, and, in the day, the hour when I walk is when the sun hesitates before vanishing, with rays of yellow bronze over the grey walls, and rays of red copper over the tiles. Literature, also, from which my spirit asks voluptuousness, that will be the agonised poetry of Romes last moments, so long as it does not breathe a breath of the reinvigorated stance of the Barbarians or stammer in childish Latin like Christian prose. I was reading then one of those dear poems (whose flakes of rouge have more charm for me than young flesh), and dipping a hand into the pure animal fur, when a street organ sounded languishingly and sadly under my window. It was playing in the great alley of poplars whose leaves, even in spring, seem mournful to me since Maria passed by them, on her last journey, lying among candles. The instrument of sadnesses, yes, certainly: the piano flashes, the violin gives off light from its torn fibres, but the street organ in memorys half-light made me dream despairingly. Now it murmured a delightfully common song that filled the faubourgs with joy, an old, banal tune: why did its words pierce my soul and make me cry, like any romantic ballad? I savoured it slowly and did not throw a coin through the window for fear of troubling my spirit and discovering that not only the instrument was playing.
Jack Cornstalk as a Poet
© Henry Lawson
Not from the seas does he draw inspiration,
Not from the rivers that croon on their bars;
But a wide, a world-old desolation
On a dead land alone with the stars.
On Resigning A Scholarship Of Trinity College, Oxford
© William Lisle Bowles
AND RETIRING TO A COUNTRY CURACY.
Farewell! a long farewell! O Poverty,
A Lament for the Fairies
© Alaric Alexander Watts
O, ye have lost,
Mountains, and moors, and meads, the radiant throng
Suppose
© Walter de la Mare
Suppose ... and suppose that a wild little Horse of Magic
Came cantering out of the sky,
With bridle of silver, and into the saddle I mounted,
To fly and to fly;
At The Banquet To the Japanese Embassy
© Oliver Wendell Holmes
WE welcome you, Lords of the Land of the Sun!
The voice of the many sounds feebly through one;
Ah! would 't were a voice of more musical tone,
But the dog-star is here, and the song-birds have flown.
