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The Beauti Of Sorrow
Beauti of sorrow
vast as the sea
eve of the morrow
inner expanse of me
conceptually multiplied
virtually personified
politically religified
perceptually cubified
Beatui of sorrow
vast as the sea
eve of the morrow
inner expanse of me
life is a beauty
living our prize
to share them our duty*
effects all our lives*
Beatui of sorrow
vast as the sea
eve of the morrow
inner expanse of me
running reel of thoughts
projection of the mind
independent performing plots
and a function to define
Beatui of sorrow
vast as the sea
eve of the morrow
inner expanse of me
many a different beauties
shine in a single sorrow
many a different evenings
raise a plethora of tomorrows
Beatui of sorrow
vast as the sea
eve of the morrow
inner expanse of me
contemplation of all thats left
the final mystery announced
a souls a speck of a black hole's death
so evil, and good renounce
Beatui of sorrow
vast as the sea
eve of the morrow
inner expanse of me
sorrow isn't knowing now
knowing hurts so much
hurt is hope that holds you down
ego is a common crutch
Beatui of sorrow
vast as the sea
eve of the morrow
inner expanse of me
*Changed Line From:
[to share it our duty-original-2.26.10]
[the purpose of our lives-original-2.26.10]
poem by Tim caffery
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There's No To-Morrow
Two long had Lov'd, and now the Nymph desir'd,
The Cloak of Wedlock, as the Case requir'd;
Urg'd that, the Day he wrought her to this Sorrow,
He Vow'd, that he wou'd marry her To-Morrow.
Agen he Swears, to shun the present Storm,
That he, To-Morrow, will that Vow perform.
The Morrows in their due Successions came;
Impatient still on Each, the pregnant Dame
Urg'd him to keep his Word, and still he swore the same.
When tir'd at length, and meaning no Redress,
But yet the Lye not caring to confess,
He for his Oath this Salvo chose to borrow,
That he was Free, since there was no To-Morrow;
For when it comes in Place to be employ'd,
'Tis then To-Day; To-Morrow's ne'er enjoy'd.
The Tale's a Jest, the Moral is a Truth;
To-Morrow and To-Morrow, cheat our Youth:
In riper Age, To-Morrow still we cry,
Not thinking, that the present Day we Dye;
Unpractis'd all the Good we had Design'd;
There's No To-Morrow to a Willing Mind.
poem by Anne Kingsmill Finch
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Here For Today
No more songs of sorrow
Lamenting things gone past us
Live today and hope for morrow
Hold tight the moments joyous.
Maybe the morrow will not find us
Our footsteps will not ring on the grass
We have only today for a fresh start
To live anew and love with all heart.
No more songs of sorrow
It's time to break from the past
Even if there comes no morrow
Live moments that fly away fast.
poem by Pradip Chattopadhyay
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Mutability
We are as clouds that veil the midnight moon;
How restlessly they speed, and gleam, and quiver,
Streaking the darkness radiantly!--yet soon
Night closes round, and they are lost forever:
Or like forgotten lyres, whose dissonant strings
Give various response to each varying blast,
To whose frail frame no second motion brings
One mood or modulation like the last.
We rest.--A dream has power to poison sleep;
We rise.--One wandering thought pollutes the day;
We feel, conceive or reason, laugh or weep;
Embrace fond woe, or cast our cares away:
It is the same!--For, be it joy or sorrow,
The path of its departure still is free:
Man's yesterday may ne'er be like his morrow;
Nought may endure but Mutability.
poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
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Envoy
Go, songs, for ended is our brief, sweet play;
Go, children of swift joy and tardy sorrow:
And some are sung, and that was yesterday,
And some unsung, and that may be to-morrow.
Go forth; and if it be o'er stony way,
Old joy can lend what newer grief must borrow:
And it was sweet, and that was yesterday,
And sweet is sweet, though purchas-ed with sorrow.
Go, songs, and come not back from your far way:
And if men ask you why ye smile and sorrow,
Tell them ye grieve, for your hearts know To-day,
Tell them ye smile, for your eyes know To-morrow.
poem by Francis Thompson
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To-Morrow
When you’re suffering hard for your sins, old man,
When you wake to trouble and sleep ill—
Oh, this is the clack of the middle class,
‘Win back the respect of the people!’
You are weak, you’re a fool, or a drunken brute
When you’re deep in trouble and sorrow;
But walk down the street in a decent suit,
And their hats will be off to-morrow! Old Chap—
And their hats will be off to-morrow!
They cant and they cackle—‘Redeem the Past!’
Who never had past worth redeeming:
Your soul seems dead, but you’ll find at last
That somewhere your soul lay dreaming.
You may stagger down-hill in a beer-stained coat,
You may loaf, you may cadge and borrow—
But walk down the street with a ten-pound note
And their hats will be off to-morrow! Old Man—
Yes, their hats will be off to-morrow!
But stick to it, man! for your old self’s sake,
Though to brood on the past is human;
Hold up for the sake of the mate who was true,
And the sake of the Other Woman.
And as for the rest, you may take off your hat
And banish all signs of sorrow;
You may take their hands, but in spite of that,
Can they win your respect to-morrow? Old Man—
Can they win your respect to-morrow?
poem by Henry Lawson
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O Mors! Quam Amara Est Memoria Tua Homini Pacem Habenti In Substantiis Suis
Exceeding sorrow
Consumeth my sad heart!
Because to-morrow
We must depart,
Now is exceeding sorrow
All my part!
Give over playing,
Cast thy viol away:
Merely laying
Thine head my way:
Prithee, give over playing,
Grave or gay.
Be no word spoken;
Weep nothing: let a pale
Silence, unbroken
Silence prevail!
Prithee, be no word spoken,
Lest I fail!
Forget to-morrow!
Weep nothing: only lay
In silent sorrow
Thine head my way:
Let us forget to-morrow,
This one day!
poem by Ernest Christopher Dowson
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Sweet Sorrow
O Darkness of mine,
Why do they maltreat you?
O Sorrow so kind,
What is it you do?
How cruel they are,
to make Sorrow cry!
How cruel they are,
to leave Darkness looking up at the sky!
Why is Sorrow such a malady?
Who left Darkness in disarray?
He longs to live in sweet Sorrow's golden morrow,
even if it pierces like an arrow.
poem by Soren Valentine
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Man's yesterday may never be like his morrow; Nought may endure but Mutability.
quote by Percy Bysshe Shelley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Four Seasons
Maple leaves of yesterday
Rainbow leaves of morrow
Autumn strolls on its way
Time it fails to borrow.
Ice crystals of yesterday
Snow flowers of morrow
Winter roves on a dray
Time it fails to borrow.
Oak leaves of yesterday
Verdant leaves of morrow
April flows into May
Time it fails to borrow.
Blue blossoms of yesterday
Forget-me-not of morrow
Summer rides a railway
Love overcomes sorrow.
poem by Paul Hartal
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B: XVI: Fear In Sorrow
Sorrow must like
putting itself on show.
Yet you never see it all.
It doesn't have that winning drive
and keeps some back to stay alive,
afraid that saying, 'All is sorrow',
would spell the end to morrow.
'I have no illusions, friend, '
said sorrow, knowing everything.
'I will give you some relief
from the unknown deep.
Tonight I'll give you dreamless sleep.'
poem by Douglas Scotney
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You Aren't Sure
There on the rock wall
The sun kisses the last time
Then it bows and bids farewell
For the evening to spin her rhyme.
But you hope there'll be a morrow
The transient night will end
The darkness will be a passing sorrow
With the new dawn you will amend.
There on the mountain peaks
The sun clings one last time
Then another world it seeks
Here the evening spins her rhyme.
But you aren't sure there'll be a morrow
And the night that arrives will end
The darkness will be a passing sorrow
Gifting you a day to amend!
poem by Pradip Chattopadhyay
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Dost Thou Not Care?
I love and love not: Lord, it breaks my heart
To love and not to love.
Thou veiled within Thy glory, gone apart
Into Thy shrine, which is above,
Dost Thou not love me, Lord, or care
For this mine ill?—
I love thee here or there,
I will accept thy broken heart, lie still.
Lord, it was well with me in time gone by
That cometh not again,
When I was fresh and cheerful, who but I?
I fresh, I cheerful: worn with pain
Now, out of sight and out of heart;
O Lord, how long?—
I watch thee as thou art,
I will accept thy fainting heart, be strong.
'Lie still,' 'be strong,' to-day; but, Lord, to-morrow,
What of to-morrow, Lord?
Shall there be rest from toil, be truce from sorrow,
Be living green upon the sward
Now but a barren grave to me,
Be joy for sorrow?—
Did I not die for thee?
Did I not live for thee? Leave Me to-morrow.
poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
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Song Of The New Year
I heard the bells at midnight
Ring in the dawning year;
And above the clanging chorus
Of the song, I seemed to hear
A choir of mystic voices
Flinging echoes, ringing clear,
From a band of angels winging
Through the haunted atmosphere:
'Ring out the shame and sorrow,
And the misery and sin,
That the dawning of the morrow
May in peace be ushered in.'
And I thought of all the trials
The departed years had cost,
And the blooming hopes and pleasures
That are withered now and lost;
And with joy I drank the music
Stealing o'er the feeling there
As the spirit song came pealing
On the silence everywhere:
'Ring out the shame and sorrow,
And the misery and sin,
That the dawning of the morrow
May in peace be ushered in.'
And I listened as a lover
To an utterance that flows
In syllables like dewdrops
From the red lips of a rose,
Till the anthem, fainter growing,
Climbing higher, chiming on
Up the rounds of happy rhyming,
Slowly vanished in the dawn:
'Ring out the shame and sorrow,
And the misery and sin,
That the dawning of the morrow
May in peace be ushered in.'
Then I raised my eyes to Heaven,
And with trembling lips I pled
For a blessing for the living
And a pardon for the dead;
And like a ghost of music
Slowly whispered--lowly sung--
Came the echo pure and holy
In the happy angel tongue:
'Ring out the shame and sorrow,
And the misery and sin,
And the dawn of every morrow
Will in peace be ushered in.'
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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King Of Sorrow
I'm crying everyones tears
And there inside our private
war I died the night before
And all of these remnants
of joy and disaster
What am I supposed to do
I want to cook you a soup that
warms your soul
But nothing would change
nothing would change at all
Its just a day that brings
it all about
Just another day
And nothings any good
The DJ's playing the
same song
I have so much to do
I have to carry on
I wonder if this grief will
ever let me go
I feel like
I am the king
of sorrow
The king of sorrow
I suppose I could just walk away
Will I dissapoint my future
if I stay
Its just a day that brings
it all about
Just another day
And nothings any good
The DJ's playing the
same song
I have so much to do
I have to carry on
I wonder will this grief
ever be gone
Will it ever go
I'm the king
of sorrow
The king of sorrow
I'm crying everyones tears
I have already paid for all
my future sins
Theres nothing anyone
can say to take this away
Its just another day
And nothings any good
I'm the king
of sorrow
King of sorrow
song performed by by Sade
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Fare well - and yet goodbye to all farewells.
All is in the mind and in the heart:
there are no empires and no entities,
nought can be owned and nought possessed,
in mind nor heart; our parents, partners, kith and kin
are but changing shadow puppets in
the self-constructed drama of our life -
and this the humbling truth, which in our mind we know
yet in our heart, wish that it were not so;
loving the flight of free and graceful birds
yet wishing all within the golden net
of our own love - that love which can so quickly seem to go...
and so, since we can never own those things
which bring us all our joys and all our life
we can no more say hello nor goodbye
when all is all within, yet all without...
this freedom should bring joy - were we so bold
that in ourselves, we knew it to be so;
so, meeting some new face, know it to be - ourself;
and saying goodbye - be it to dust and ashes said -
know, what we never owned, can never lose;
for 'hello' was an ancient wish - 'be whole and well',
and 'goodbye' meant 'God be with ye' in a distant age;
'fare well' a blessing too, a wish beyond
our view of self, and loss - or death - or gain;
and thus beyond all pleasure lost, or pain;
what cannot be acquired can not be lost;
'goodbye, my love' a frail, transparent ghost;
love weeps beside the grave's heart-rending sorrow,
yet lives to love, heart beat again, the morrow.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Sorrow Under Mist
Mist -
Giving wispy vapour to the breath,
Cool calm to autumn afternoons,
A hovering air of mysticism
Over brooding lakes -
Was different here,
Affording company, closeness -
A caring arm around her shoulders.
In the eyes, a once-clear oceanic blue
Wavered under water -
Tears telling torrid truths
She couldn't face -
Like the glowering image in the mirror
You don't see in your mind's eye
Of compensation; delusion.
We see her sitting on the concrete steps
That led down to the dew-laden garden.
She's peering up, sensing her diffuse companion,
Refreshing in its chill; giving crispness
To the stealth of dulling evening.
But the bite of air couldn't lift the sorrow
Of pale youth in love,
Shouldered by a not-in-love and scoffing eye.
Rejection hurt;
Hurts -
Wrenches deep -
Emotion that we can't deny!
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2011
Sorrow Rain
sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow
sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow
sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow
sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow
sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow
sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow
sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow sorrow
poem by Mark R Slaughter
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Life's Mighty Flood
WHAT is wrought in the forge of the living and life--
All things are nought! Ho! fill me the bowl,
For nought is the gear of the world and the strife!
One passion has quickened the heart and the soul,
The Beloved's presence alone they have sought--
Love at least exists; yet if Love were not,
Heart and soul would sink to the common lot--
All things are nought!
Like an empty cup is the fate of each,
That each must fill from Life's mighty flood;
Nought thy toil, though to Paradise gate thou reach,
If Another has filled up thy cup with blood;
Neither shade from the sweet-fruited trees could be bought
By thy praying-oh Cypress of Truth, dost not see
That Sidreh and Tuba were nought, and to thee
All then were nought!
The span of thy life is as five little days,
Brief hours and swift in this halting-place;
Rest softly, ah rest! while the Shadow delays,
For Time's self is nought and the dial's face.
On the lip of Oblivion we linger, and short
Is the way from the Lip to the Mouth where we pass
While the moment is thine, fill, oh Saki, the glass
Ere all is nought!
Consider the rose that breaks into flower,
Neither repines though she fade and die--
The powers of the world endure for an hour,
But nought shall remain of their majesty.
Be not too sure of your crown, you who thought
That virtue was easy and recompense yours;
From the monastery to the wine-tavern doors
The way is nought
What though I, too, have tasted the salt of my tears,
Though I, too, have burnt in the fires of grief,
Shall I cry aloud to unheeding ears?
Mourn and be silent! nought brings relief.
Thou, Hafiz, art praised for the songs thou hast wrought,
But bearing a stained or an honoured name,
The lovers of wine shall make light of thy fame--
All things are nought!
poem by Shams al-Din Hafiz
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Farewell
I LEAVE the world to-morrow,—
What news for Fairyland?
I’m tired of dust and sorrow
And folk on every hand.
A moon more calm and splendid
Moves there through deeper skies,
By maiden stars attended
She peaces goddes-wise.
And there no wrath oppresses,
And there no teardrops start,
There cool winds breathe caresses,
That soothe the weary heart.
The wealth the mad world follows
Turns ashes in the hand
Of him who sees the hollows
And glades of Fairyland.
And pine boughs sigh no sorrow
Where fairy rotas play,—
I leave the world to-morrow
For ever and a day.
poem by Enid Derham
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Repentance
"If you repent," the Parson said,"
Your sins will be forgiven.
Aye, even on your dying bed
You're not too late for heaven."
That's just my cup of tea, I thought,
Though for my sins I sorrow;
Since salvation is easy bought
I will repent . . . to-morrow.
To-morrow and to-morrow went,
But though my youth was flying,
I was reluctant to repent,
having no fear of dying.
'Tis plain, I mused, the more I sin,
(To Satan's jubilation)
When I repent the more I'll win
Celestial approbation.
So still I sin, and though I fail
To get snow-whitely shriven,
My timing's good: I home to hail
The last bus up to heaven.
poem by Robert William Service
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