Sympathy poems

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On A Watch Made By A Blacksmith

© William Strode

A Vulcan and a Venus seldom part.
A blacksmith never us'd to filinge art
Beyond a lock and key, for Venus' sake
Hath cut a watch soe small that sence will ake

Moonlight

© John Kenyon

Not alway from the lessons of the schools,

Taught evermore by those who trust them not,

Dedication.

© Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

By new-born flow'rs that full of dew-drops hung;
The youthful day awoke with ecstacy,
And all things quicken'd were, to quicken me.

A New John Bull

© Henry Lawson

A tall, slight, English gentleman,

With an eyeglass to his eye;

Ode on Intimations of Immortality

© William Wordsworth

There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,

The earth, and every common sight

From Later Life

© Christina Georgina Rossetti

VI
We lack, yet cannot fix upon the lack:
Not this, nor that; yet somewhat, certainly.
We see the things we do not yearn to see

The Right Honourable Edmund Burke

© William Lisle Bowles

Why mourns the ingenuous Moralist, whose mind

Science has stored, and Piety refined,

Then he stood up on a sudden, with a face as pale as death,
And he gripped my hand a moment, while he seemed to fight for breath:
`Tom, old friend,' he said, `I'm going, and I'm ready to -- to start,
For I know that there is something -- something crooked with my heart.
Tom, my first child died. I loved her even better than the pen --
Tom -- and while the STAR was dying, why, I felt like I did THEN.

My sister Lifes overflowing today

© Boris Pasternak

My sister Lifes overflowing today,

spring rain shattering itself like glass,

The Vagabond

© Henry Lawson

And I had a love -- 'twas a love to prize --
But I never went back again . . .
I have seen the light of her kind brown eyes
In many a face since then.

A Vision of Poesy - Part 02

© Henry Timrod

It is not winter yet, but that sweet time
In autumn when the first cool days are past;
A week ago, the leaves were hoar with rime,
And some have dropped before the North wind's blast;
But the mild hours are back, and at mid-noon,
The day hath all the genial warmth of June.

When Your Pants Begin to Go

© Henry Lawson

When you wear a cloudy collar and a shirt that isn't white,
And you cannot sleep for thinking how you'll reach to-morrow night,
You may be a man of sorrows, and on speaking terms with Care,
And as yet be unacquainted with the Demon of Despair;
For I rather think that nothing heaps the trouble on your mind
Like the knowledge that your trousers badly need a patch behind.

On First Looking Into Bee Palmer's Shoulders

Then felt I like some patient with a pain
When a new surgeon swims into his ken,
Or like stout Brodie, when, with reeling brain,
He jumped into the river. There and then
I swayed and took the morning train
To Norwalk, Naugatuck, and Darien.