Sad poems
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The Last Rose Of Summer
© Charles Wolfe
That strain again? It seems to tell
Of something like a joy departed;
I love its mourning accents well,
Like voice of one, ah! broken-hearted.
Song Of The Broad-Axe
© Walt Whitman
Strong shapes, and attributes of strong shapes-masculine trades,
sights and sounds;
Long varied train of an emblem, dabs of music;
Fingers of the organist skipping staccato over the keys of the great
organ.
The Old Garden
© George MacDonald
I stood in an ancient garden
With high red walls around;
Over them grey and green lichens
In shadowy arabesque wound.
James Whitcomb Riley
© Edgar Albert Guest
There must be great rejoicin'
on the Golden Shore to-day,
An' the big an' little angels
November
© Robert Nichols
Oozed from the bracken's desolate track,
By dark rains havocked and drenched black.
A fog about the coppice drifts,
Or slowly thickens up and lifts
Into the moist, despondent air.
Sunk in melancholy
© Saigyo
Sunk in melancholy, and
Gazing
Upon the moon: its hue:
Why is it so deeply
Stained with sadness, I wonder
Aurora Leigh: Book Eighth
© Elizabeth Barrett Browning
In my ears
The sound of waters. There he stood, my king!
Sonnet 49: I On My Horse
© Sir Philip Sidney
I on my horse, and Love on me doth try
Our horsemanships, while by strange work I prove
A horseman to my horse, a horse to Love;
And now man's wrongs in me, poor beast, descry.
From Euripides
© Samuel Rogers
There is a streamlet issuing from a rock.
The village-girls singing wild madrigals,
Dip their white vestments in its waters clear,
And hang them to the sun. There first I saw her;
Signal Service
© Franklin Pierce Adams
Time-table! Terrible and hard
To figure! At some station lonely
We see this sign upon the card:
[Footnote Asterisk: Train 20: Stops on signal only.]
A Basket of Flowers
© Adam Lindsay Gordon
Dawn
On skies still and starlit
White lustres take hold,
And grey flushes scarlet,
Enoch Arden
© Alfred Tennyson
At length she spoke `O Enoch, you are wise;
And yet for all your wisdom well know I
That I shall look upon your face no more.'
A Day's Ride
© Anonymous
Bold are the mounted robbers who on stolen horses ride
And bold the mounted troopers who patrol the Sydney side;
But few of them, though flash they be, can ride, and few can fight
As Walker did, for life and death, with Ward the other night.
The Flood of Years
© William Cullen Bryant
A MIGHTY Hand, from an exhaustless Urn,
Pours forth the never-ending Flood of Years,
By occasion of the Young Prince his happy birth
© Henry King
At this glad Triumph, when most Poets use
Their quill, I did not bridle up my Muse
For sloth or less devotion. I am one
That can well keep my Holy-dayes at home;
The House Of Dust: Part 03: 10:
© Conrad Aiken
From time to time, lifting his eyes, he sees
The soft blue starlight through the one small window,
The moon above black trees, and clouds, and Venus,
And turns to write . . . The clock, behind ticks softly.
