Ni-Chan’s Dirge For Yen-Oey
SO soon asleep! Now must the coming years
Weep ignorantly their loss they cannot know,
And life miss ever what has never been
We weep to-day, let theirs be sadder tears
Who have not seen thee near as we have seen,
Who shall but learn a hope died long ago.
Alas for flowers untimely winds have broken,
That should have scattered seed of following flowers!
Alas for ruin of unbuilded towers!
Alas for ripening words that die unspoken!
But let them weep with sadder tears than ours
Who shall but learn a hope died long ago,
A world's hope long ago.
poem by Augusta Davies Webster
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Related quotes
The Saddest Fate
To touch a broken lute,
To strike a jangled string,
To strive with tones forever mute
The dear old tunes to sing--
What sadder fate could any heart befall?
Alas! dear child, never to sing at all.
To sigh for pleasures flown,
To weep for withered flowers,
To count the blessings we have known,
Lost with the vanished hours--
What sadder fate could any heart befall?
Alas! dear child, ne'er to have known them at all.
To dream of love and rest,
To know the dream has past,
To bear within an aching breast
Only a void at last--
What sadder fate could any heart befall?
Alas! dear child, ne'er to have loved at all.
To trust an unknown good,
To hope, but all in vain,
Over a far-off bliss to brood,
Only to find it pain--
What sadder fate could any soul befall?
Alas! dear child, never to hope at all.
poem by Anonymous Americas
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Corn Grinders
O little mouse, why dost thou cry
While merry stars laugh in the sky?
Alas! alas! my lord is dead!
Ah, who will ease my bitter pain?
He went to seek a millet-grain
In the rich farmer's granary shed;
They caught him in a baited snare,
And slew my lover unaware:
Alas! alas! my lord is dead.
O little deer, why dost thou moan,
Hid in thy forest-bower alone?
Alas! alas! my lord is dead!
Ah! who will quiet my lament?
At fall of eventide he went
To drink beside the river-head;
A waiting hunter threw his dart,
And struck my lover through the heart.
Alas! alas! my lord is dead.
O little bride, why dost thou weep
With all the happy world asleep?
Alas! alas! my lord is dead!
Ah, who will stay these hungry tears,
Or still the want of famished years,
And crown with love my marriage-bed?
My soul burns with the quenchless fire
That lit my lover's funeral pyre:
Alas! alas! my lord is dead.
poem by Sarojini Naidu
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The Sultana's Remonstrance
IT suits thee well to weep,
As thou lookest on the fair land,
Whose sceptre thou hast held
With less than woman's hand.
On yon bright city gaze,
With its white and marble halls,
The glory of its lofty towers,
The strength of its proud walls.
And look to yonder palace,
With its garden of the rose,
With its groves and silver fountains,
Fit for a king's repose.
There is weeping in that city,
And a cry of woe and shame,
There's a whisper of dishonour,
And that whisper is thy name.
And the stranger's feast is spread,
But it is no feast of thine;
In thine own halls accursed lips
Drain the forbidden wine.
And aged men are in the streets,
Who mourn their length of days,
And young knights stand with folded arms,
And eyes they dare not raise.
There is not one whose blood was not
As the waves of ocean free,--
Their fathers died for thy fathers,
They would have died for thee.
Weep not, 'tis mine to weep,
That ever thou wert born,
Alas, that all a mother's love
Is lost in a queen's scorn!
Yet weep, thou less than woman, weep,
Those tears become thine eye,--
It suits thee well to weep the land
For which thou daredst not die.*
poem by Letitia Elizabeth Landon
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The Sun chased the Moon
The wild flowers bloom, the first snow melts,
The rain stops, the rainbow fades.
While the Sun chased the Moon...
The first fish swam, the first bird flew,
The first mammal ran, the first Man stand.
While the Sun chased the Moon...
Buildings scraped the sky, wheels rule the streets,
Man became oblivious to everything except what they need.
Still the Sun chased the Moon...
The Earth chokes, the Air appalls,
The Water tainted, the Sky weeps.
Still the Sun chased the Moon...
Love found, love lost,
In a vicious cycle of tears and joy.
Still the Sun chased the Moon...
Hopes and dreams piled up high,
With one kick all comes tumbling-by.
Still the Sun chased the Moon...
Civilizations fall, Men slaughtered,
Wars rage on as if they'd never stop
Still the Sun chased the Moon...
A millenia the chase lasted,
Another millenia it'll go on.
Darkness falls, the Moon comes out
Rest assured the Sun is not far behind.
The Day may seem at its worst,
The Night may seem it could never get better.
Fear not, weep not.
As long as the Sun chases the Moon, there is hope.
A Hope for a new Day,
Hope for a new beginning.
The winds of loneliness howls in your chest
The turbulence of the storm rages on...
Alas, this is how we're meant to be,
The pain will never quite go away.
There will always be Hope,
Just beyond the hills, just beyond the valleys,
As long as...
The Sun chases the Moon.
poem by Cheng Li Yang
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Hope Dieth: Hope Liveth
Strong are thine arms, O love, & strong
Thine heart to live, and love, and long;
But thou art wed to grief and wrong:
Live, then, and long, though hope be dead!
Live on, & labour thro’ the years!
Make pictures through the mist of tears,
Of unforgotten happy fears,
That crossed the time ere hope was dead.
Draw near the place where once we stood
Amid delight’s swift-rushing flood,
And we and all the world seemed good
Nor needed hope now cold and dead.
Dream in the dawn I come to thee
Weeping for things that may not be!
Dream that thou layest lips on me!
Wake, wake to clasp hope’s body dead!
Count o’er and o’er, and one by one
The minutes of the happy sun
That while agone on kissed lips shone,
Count on, rest not, for hope is dead.
Weep, though no hair’s breadth thou shalt move
The living Earth, the heaven above
By all the bitterness of love!
Weep and cease not, now hope is dead!
Sighs rest thee not, tears bring no ease,
Life hath no joy, and Death no peace:
The years change not, though they decrease,
For hope is dead, for hope is dead.
Speak, love, I listen: far away
I bless the tremulous lips, that say,
“Mock not the afternoon of day,
Mock not the tide when hope is dead!”
I bless thee, O my love, who say’st:
“Mock not the thistle-cumbered waste;
I hold Love’s hand, and make no haste
Down the long way, now hope is dead.
With other names do we name pain,
The long years wear our hearts in vain.
Mock not our loss grown into gain,
Mock not our lost hope lying dead.
Our eyes gaze for no morning-star,
No glimmer of the dawn afar;
Full silent wayfarers we are
Since ere the noon-tide hope lay dead.
Behold with lack of happiness
The master, Love, our hearts did bless
Lest we should think of him the less:
Love dieth not, though hope is dead!”
poem by William Morris
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ong have I made these hills and valleys weary
Long have I made these hills and valleys weary,
With noise of these my shrieks and cries that fill the air;
She only, who should make me merry,
Hears not my prayer:
That I, alas! misfortune’s son and heir,
Hope in none other hope but in despair.
O unkind and cruel! If thus my death may please thee,
Then die I will to ease thee:
Yet if I die, the world will thee control,
And write upon my tomb, O sweet departure,
Lo! here lies one, alas! poor soul,
A true love’s martyr.
poem by John Wilbye
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To the Memory of
I once could hope—alas! no more
Her bright wings wave for me;
The sunlit hours of life are o'er,
I weep, dear love, for thee!
And in those tears—and in that sigh
Will fond remembrance dwell;
'Tis all remains when dear ones lie
Within death's darksome cell.
So young! so pure!—alas! that thou
In marble tomb should sleep!
And leave the weary heart and brow
Thy vigils lone to keep.
And yet 'tis better thus than feel
The crushed heart's mad despair;
Alas! no balm those woes may heal
Love—death—have planted there.
Farewell! farewell! my buried love,
No pangs may wring thy heart;
Enough for me to gaze above,
To meet where none may part!
poem by Edward Henry Bickersteth
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Lost love 2
Void, empy and hollow inside
my dreams have fled, my hope have died.
existance has no reason
life's just passing with each other.
She was my life, my hope and love
all is gone, passed by thereof
the hurt is much no one should bear
what's to life, why should i care?
I weep all night for my love gone
my herat is sick for death i long
mine eyes well tears for love thats lost
i'll mourn always for my great cost.
But in each day, Lord give me hope
strengthen me so i may cope
grant me wisdom to help me see
thy great way and not just me.
poem by Randy Micheal
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A Greek Girl
I may not weep, not weep, and he is dead.
A weary, weary weight of tears unshed
Through the long day in my sad heart I bear;
The horrid sun with all unpitying glare
Shines down into the dreary weaving-room,
Where clangs the ceaseless clatter of the loom,
And ceaselessly deft maiden-fingers weave
The fine-wrought web; and I from morn till eve
Work with the rest, and when folk speak to me
I smile hard smiles; while still continually
The silly stream of maiden speech flows on:--
And now at length they talk of him that's gone,
Lightly lamenting that he died so soon--
Ah me! ere yet his life's sun stood at noon.
Some praise his eyes, some deem his body fair,
And some mislike the colour of his hair!
Sweet life, sweet shape, sweet eyes, and sweetest hair,
What form, what hue, save Love's own, did ye wear?
I may not weep, not weep, for very shame.
He loved me not. One summer's eve he came
To these our halls, my father's honoured guest,
And seeing me, saw not. If his lips had prest
My lips, but once, in love; his eyes had sent
One love-glance into mine, I had been content,
And deemed it great joy for one little life;
Nor envied other maids the crown of wife:
The long sure years, the merry children-band--
Alas, alas, I never touched his hand!
And now my love is dead that loved not me.
Thrice-blest, thrice-crowned, of gods thrice-lovèd she--
That other, fairer maid, who tombward brings
Her gold, shorn locks and piled-up offerings
Of fragrant fruits, rich wines, and spices rare,
And cakes with honey sweet, with saffron fair;
And who, unchecked by any thought of shame,
May weep her tears, and call upon his name,
With burning bosom prest to the cold ground,
Knowing, indeed, that all her life is crown'd,
Thrice-crowned, thrice honoured, with that love of his;--
No dearer crown on earth is there, I wis.
While yet the sweet life lived, more light to bear
Was my heart's hunger; when the morn was fair,
And I with other maidens in a line
Passed singing through the city to the shrine,
Oft in the streets or crowded market-place
I caught swift glimpses of the dear-known face;
Or marked a stalwart shoulder in the throng;
Or heard stray speeches as we passed along,
In tones more dear to me than any song.
These, hoarded up with care, and kept apart,
Did serve as meat and drink my hungry heart.
And now for ever has my sweet love gone;
And weary, empty days I must drag on,
Till all the days of all my life be sped,
By no thought cheered, by no hope comforted.
For if indeed we meet among the shades,
How shall he know me from the other maids?--
Me, that had died to save his body pain!
Alas, alas, such idle thoughts are vain!
O cruel, cruel sunlight, get thee gone!
O dear, dim shades of eve, come swiftly on!
That when quick lips, keen eyes, are closed in sleep,
Through the long night till dawn I then may weep.
Hope Has A Son (II)
For every sickness
you have to bear
For every song
you cannot hear
Hope has a son
For every angel
with a broken wing
For every dove
that cannot fly
Hope has a son
For every sea
you cannot see
For every ocean
you have to sail
Hope has a son
For every victory
that died in vain
For every game
you lost again
Hope has a son
For every favor
you have to kneel
For every love you grip that frailed
Hope has a son
For every weep
that make you weak
For every snow
that makes you weary
Hope has a son
poem by Abdullah Musa
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The Battle of Moncontour
Oh, weep for Moncontour! Oh! weep for the hour,
When the children of darkness and evil had power,
When the horsemen of Valois triumphantly trod
On the bosoms that bled for their rights and their God.
Oh, weep for Moncontour! Oh! weep for the slain,
Who for faith and for freedom lay slaughtered in vain;
Oh, weep for the living, who linger to bear
The renegade's shame, or the exile's despair.
One look, one last look, to our cots and our towers,
To the rows of our vines, and the beds of our flowers,
To the church where the bones of our fathers decayed,
Where we fondly had deemed that our own would be laid.
Alas! we must leave thee, dear desolate home,
To the spearmen of Uri, the shavelings of Rome,
To the serpent of Florence, the vulture of Spain,
To the pride of Anjou, and the guile of Lorraine.
Farewell to thy fountains, farewell to thy shades,
To the song of thy youths, and the dance of thy maids,
To the breath of thy gardens, the hum of thy bees,
And the long waving line of the blue Pyrenees.
Farewell, and for ever. The priest and the slave
May rule in the halls of the free and the brave.
Our hearths we abandon; our lands we resign;
But, Father, we kneel to no altar but thine.
poem by Thomas Babbington Macaulay
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To Primroses Filled With Morning Dew
Why do ye weep, sweet babes? can tears
Speak grief in you,
Who were but born
just as the modest morn
Teem'd her refreshing dew?
Alas, you have not known that shower
That mars a flower,
Nor felt th' unkind
Breath of a blasting wind,
Nor are ye worn with years;
Or warp'd as we,
Who think it strange to see,
Such pretty flowers, like to orphans young,
To speak by tears, before ye have a tongue.
Speak, whimp'ring younglings, and make known
The reason why
Ye droop and weep;
Is it for want of sleep,
Or childish lullaby?
Or that ye have not seen as yet
The violet?
Or brought a kiss
From that Sweet-heart, to this?
--No, no, this sorrow shown
By your tears shed,
Would have this lecture read,
That things of greatest, so of meanest worth,
Conceived with grief are, and with tears brought forth.
poem by Robert Herrick
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Weep No More
Mary, don't you weep no more
Mary, don't you weep no more
'Cuz, I got your letter today
Pack my bags and I'm on my way
So, don't you weep no more
Don't you weep no more
Dry your eyes
Don't you shed no tears
The sun is risin'
So, put away your fears
Cuz, I know I once done you wrong
I want to say I'm sorry
And I'm comin' back home
So, don't you weep no more
Don' t you weep no more
I hear your voice in the wind
And I feel your tears in the rain
Shadows of night are falling
Can't you hear me call your name
I'm comin' home
I'm comin' home
So, don't you weep
Don't you weep
Don't you weep
Don't you weep no more
song performed by by Bad Company
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A 'Scion Of Nobility
Come, sisters, weep!-our Baron dear,
Alas! has run away.
If always we had kept him here
He had not gone astray.
Painter and grainer it were vain
To say he was, before;
And if he were, yet ne'er again
He'll darken here a door.
We mourn each matrimonial plan
Even tradesmen join the cry:
He was so promising a man
Whenever he did buy.
He was a fascinating lad,
Deny it all who may;
Even moneyed men confess he had
A very taking way.
So from our tables he is gone
Our tears descend in showers;
We loved the very fat upon.
His kidneys, for 'twas ours.
To women he was all respect
To duns as cold as ice;
No lady could his suit reject,
No tailor get its price.
He raised our hope above the sky;
Alas! alack! and O!
That one who worked it up so high
Should play it down so low!
poem by Ambrose Bierce
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Weep Day
I never went to the tropical island
Though everybody said they saw me there
And it wasnt me you punched a hole in
At the west german protest march
Simultaneous events dont happen
We are isolated temporally
And a part is never called the whole thing
Though it bothers us to know its so
Every man is made of two opinions
Every woman has a second half
And its samba time for tambo and weep day for urine man (samba time for tambo and weep day for urine man)
Yes, its samba time for tambo and weep day for urine man (samba time for tambo and weep day for urine man)
I didnt write the words you hear me singing (didnt write the words you hear me singing)
I didnt sing the line before this one (didnt sing the line before this one)
You are not the one I was addressing (you are not the one I was addressing)
That person took a train to africa (africa)
Where he met the consulate from belgium
Who is now a buddhist in a cave
Who is pitching for the oakland raiders
Striking out the batter she became
Every man is made of two opinions
Every woman has a second half
And its samba time for tambo and weep day for urine man (samba time for tambo and weep day for urine man)
Yes, its samba time for tambo and weep day for urine man (samba time for tambo and weep day for urine man)
Yes, its samba time for tambo and weep day for urine man (samba time for tambo and weep day for urine man)
Weep day for urine man (weep day for urine man)
Weep day for urine man (weep day for urine man)
Weep day for urine man (weep day for urine man)
Weep day weep day
Weep day weep day
Weep day weep day
Weep (weep) weep (weep) weep (weep) weep (weep)
Weep (weep) weep (weep) weep (weep) weep (weep)
Weep (weep) weep (weep) weep (weep) weep (weep)
Weep (weep) weep (weep) weep (weep) weep (weep)
Weep (weep) weep (weep) weep (weep) weep (weep)
Weep (weep) weep (weep) weep (weep)
song performed by by They Might Be Giants
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Flowers for a Grave
Flowers for a Grave.
A life time of love gave.
A wonderfall person to miss.
Words left unspoken,
now must stay that way.
I just hope you knew that,
I loved you with all my heart.
Tears escape from my eyes.
Like an ever flowing river.
But it's in silence that I cry.
So no one else can see my pain.
I try to hide it well.
But the truth is my heart is broken.
I miss you and I need you.
Why did you have to go.
All I can do now is leave flowers on your grave.
poem by Amy Louise Kerswell
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Alas, So Long!
AH! dear one, we were young so long,
It seemed that youth would never go,
For skies and trees were ever in song
And water in singing flow
In the days we never again shall know.
Alas, so long!
Ah! then was it all Spring weather?
Nay, but we were young and together.
Ah! dear one, I've been old so long,
It seems that age is loth to part,
Though days and years have never a song,
And oh! have they still the art
That warmed the pulses of heart to heart?
Alas, so long!
Ah! then was it all Spring weather?
Nay, but we were young and together.
Ah! dear one, you've been dead so long,—
How long until we meet again,
Where hours may never lose their song
Nor flowers forget the rain
In glad noonlight that never shall wane?
Alas, so long!
Ah! shall it be then Spring weather,
And ah! shall we be young together?
poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
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Esther, A Sonnet Sequence: XVIII
Alas, poor Queen of Beauty! In my heart
I could weep for you and your sad graceless doom.
You stand at my life's threshold in the part
Of king's chief jester in the ante--room,
And none more near the throne. You made us sport
According to your folly, and passed on,
And now you live with pension in Love's Court,
And privilege to jest and wear the crown.
Yes, I could weep for you. Your part it was
To strike the cymbals on a night sublime
For Love's first bridal dance. Alas, alas!
Time, the avenger of our manhood's prime,
Is gathering all life courtiers to his cell,
And you among the rest. So fare you well.
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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Weep Not Nigeria
Weep not Nigeria,
for justice is in the offing.
Weep not Nigeria,
for your cries resonate and ring.
Weep not Nigeria,
It's time for your African spring.
Weep not Nigeria,
none shall usurp your role as king.
Weep not Nigeria,
for soon in ecstasy you'll sing.
Weep not Nigeria,
for to towering heights you'll cling.
Weep not Nigeria,
and soar atop the eagle's wing.
Weep not Nigeria,
for your patience will gladness bring.
Weep not Nigeria,
it's time to sing the ding dong song.
Weep not Nigeria,
for your misery will not be long.
Weep not Nigeria,
for you are numbered with the strong.
poem by Joseph C Ogbonna (11 July 2018)
Submitted by Joseph C Ogbonna
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The Day Old Shep Died
it's been thirty years,
that he's been gone,
the day he died, brought tears,
all day, i played his song.
for nine long years,
i loved him and he loved me,
the day he died, broght tears,
toward the end, he could barely see.
when he died, i was seventeen years,
my child hood died that day,
the day he died, brought tears,
during his youth, we were always at play.
him and i was, so close in years,
when i got shep he was five and i eight,
the day he died brought tears,
he always ate his meals, off our plate.
he died at eighty-four in human years,
he lived to a ripe old age,
the day he died brought tears,
for this poem, he set the stage.
i can't believe, its been so many years,
i think about him, all the time,
the day he died, brought tears,
but old shep, was all mind.
of all these many years,
no dog has taken the place of old shep,
the day he died, brought tears,
i'll always remember, that dog with pep
in memory of old shep 1946-1960 written june 21,1990