The Last Rose Of Summer
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.
That note that pensive dies away,
And can each answering thrill awaken,
It sadly, wildly, seems to say,
Thy meek heart mourns its truth forsaken.
Or there was one who never more
Shall meet thee with the looks of gladness,
When all of happier life was o'er,
When first began thy night of sadness.
Sweet mourner, cease that melting strain,
Too well it suits the grave's cold slumbers;
Too well the heart that loved in vain
Breathes, lives, and weeps in those wild numbers.
poem by Charles Wolfe
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Farewell to the Muse
Enchantress, farewell, who so oft hast decoy'd me,
At the close of the evening through woodlands to roam,
Where the forester, 'lated, with wonder espied me
Explore the wild scenes he was quitting for home.
Farewell and take with thee thy numbers wild speaking
The language alternate of rapture and woe:
Oh! none but some lover, whose heartstrings are breaking
The pang that I feel at our parting can know.
Each joy thou couldst double, and when there came sorrow,
Or pale disappointment to darken my way,
What voice was like thine, that could sing of tomorrow,
Till forgot in the strain was the grief of today!
But when friends drop around us in life's weary waning,
The grief, Queen of Numbers, thou canst not assuage;
Nor the gradual estrangement of those yet remaining,
The languor of pain, and the chillness of age.
'Twas thou that once taught me, accents bewailing,
To sing how a warrior I lay stretch'd on the plain,
And a maiden hung o'er him with aid unavailing,
And held to his lips the cold goblet in vain ;
As vain thy enchantments, O Queen of wild Numbers
To a bard when the reign of his fancy is o'er,
And the quick pulse of feeling in apathy slumbers—
Farewell, then, Enchantress I'll meet thee no more!
poem by Sir Walter Scott
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Dear Harp of my Country
Dear Harp of my Country! in darkness I found thee,
The cold chain of Silence had hung o'er thee long.
When proudly, my own Island Harp, I unbound thee,
And gave all thy chords to light, freedom, and song.
The warm lay of love and the light note of gladness
Have waken'd thy fondest, thy livliest thrill,
But, so oft hast thou echoed the deep sigh of sadness,
That even in thy mirth it will steal from thee still.
Dear Harp of my country! farewell to thy numbers,
This sweet wreath of song is the last we shall twine!
Go, sleep with the sunshine of Fame on thy slumbers,
Till touch'd by some hand less unworthy than mine.
If the pulse of the patriot, soldier, or lover,
Have throbb'd at our lay, 'tis thy glory alone;
I was but as the wind, passing heedlessly over,
And all the wild sweetness I waked was thy own.
poem by Thomas Moore
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Edward
HEAVY is my trembling heart, mine own love, my dearest,
Heavy as the hearts whose love is poured in vain;
All the bright day I watch till thou appearest,
All the long night I dream of thee again.
When the whisp'ring summer breeze is waving o'er me lightly,
When the moaning winter winds their wail of sadness make;
Then dearest, then, thine image riseth brightly,
I am weary of my life, for Edward's sake.
When in the halls of light, all bright and happy faces,
Smiling turn to greet a friend, and wander on
Far through the distant crowd, my heart thy proud form traces,
My eye is sadly fixed on thee alone.
When that dear, familiar voice, some careless word hath spoken,
When thy brow a moment bends, a cold farewell to take;
Then, dearest, then, my heart is well nigh broken,
I am weary of my life, for Edward's sake.
Oh, Edward! dark my doom!--this heart will love for ever,
Though thou wilt never share its joy or pain,
Thine eye will turn to mine, and meet its glance, but never
Beam fondly back on hers who loves in vain.
But when weary life is o'er, and in the grave I'm lying,
(Silently a woman's heart should hide its love and break; )
Then, dearest, then, some voice shall tell thee, sighing,
How weary was my life to me, for Edward's sake.
poem by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton
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Nora: A Serenade
AH, Nora, my Nora, the light fades away,
While Night like a spirit steals up o'er the hills;
The thrash from his tree where he chanted all day,
No longer his music in ecstasy trills.
Then, Nora, be near me; thy presence doth cheer me,
Thine eye hath a gleam that is truer than gold.
I cannot but love thee; so do not reprove me,
If the strength of my passion should make me too bold.
Nora, pride of my heart,—
Rosy cheeks, cherry lips, sparkling with glee,—
Wake from thy slumbers, wherever thou art;
Wake from thy slumbers to me.
Ah, Nora, my Nora, there's love in the air,—
It stirs in the numbers that thrill in my brain;
Oh, sweet, sweet is love with its mingling of care,
Though joy travels only a step before pain.
Be roused from thy slumbers and list to my numbers;
My heart is poured out in this song unto thee.
Oh, be thou not cruel, thou treasure, thou jewel;
Turn thine ear to my pleading and hearken to me.
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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Where Does The Broken-Hearted Go
Where does the broken-hearted go
when its world is in despair.
Where does it run to
and in whom does it console.
Where does the broken-hearted go
when winter chills the soul.
Will it mend and find
another to love again.
Where does the broken-hearted go
when day turns into night
and the candle flickers and dies
extinguishing all the light.
Where do the broken-hearted go
please tell me someone?
My heart has been broken
and I need to know where to go.
20 July 2010
poem by David Harris
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What Becomes Of The Broken Hearted
As I walk this land of broken dreams
I have visions of many things
But happiness is just an illusion
Filled with sadness and confusion
What becomes of the brokenhearted
Who had love thats now departed
I know Ive got to find
Some kind of peace of mind
Maybe
The roots of love grow all around
But for me they come a tumbling down
Every day heartaches grow a little stronger
I cant stand this pain much longer
I walk in shadows searching for light
Cold and alone no comfort in sight
Hoping and praying for someone who cares
Always moving and going nowhere
What becomes of the brokenhearted
Who had love thats now departed
I know Ive got to find
Some kind of peace of mind
Help me, please
Im searching though I dont succeed
For someones love theres a growing need
All is lost theres no place for beginning
All thats left is an unhappy ending
Now what becomes of the brokenhearted
Who had love thats now departed
I know Ive got to find
Some kind of peace of mind
Ill be searching everywhere
Just to find someone to care
Ill be looking every day
I know Im gonna find a way
Nothings going to stop me now
Ill find a way somehow
What becomes of the broken hearted
Who had love thats now departed
I know Ive got to find
Some kind of peace of mind, maybe
Oh yeah
What becomes of the broken hearted
Who had love thats now departed
What becomes of the broken hearted
Who had love thats now departed
What becomes of the broken hearted
song performed by by Westlife
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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From Faust - I. Dedication
YE shadowy forms, again ye're drawing near,
So wont of yore to meet my troubled gaze!
Were it in vain to seek to keep you here?
Loves still my heart that dream of olden days?
Oh, come then! and in pristine force appear,
Parting the vapor mist that round me plays!
My bosom finds its youthful strength again,
Feeling the magic breeze that marks your train.
Ye bring the forms of happy days of yore,
And many a shadow loved attends you too;
Like some old lay, whose dream was well nigh o'er,
First-love appears again, and friendship true;
Upon life's labyrinthine path once more
Is heard the sigh, and grief revives anew;
The friends are told, who, in their hour of pride,
Deceived by fortune, vanish'd from my side.
No longer do they hear my plaintive song,
The souls to whom I sang in life's young day;
Scatter'd for ever now the friendly throng,
And mute, alas! each sweet responsive lay.
My strains but to the careless crowd belong,
Their smiles but sorrow to my heart convey;
And all who heard my numbers erst with gladness,
If living yet, roam o'er the earth in sadness.
Long buried yearnings in my breast arise,
Yon calm and solemn spirit-realm to gain;
Like the AEONIAN harp's sweet melodies,
My murmuring song breathes forth its changeful strain.
A trembling seizes me, tears fill mine eyes,
And softer grows my rugged heart amain.
All I possess far distant seems to be,
The vanish'd only seems reality.
poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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The Convent
If chance some pensive stranger, hither led,
His bosom glowing from majestic views,
Temple and tower 'mid the bright landscape's hues,
Should ask who sleeps beneath this lowly bed?
A maid of sorrow. To the cloistered scene,
Unknown and beautiful a mourner came,
Seeking with unseen tears to quench the flame
Of hapless love: yet was her look serene
As the pale moonlight in the midnight aisle;--
Her voice was gentle and a charm could lend,
Like that which spoke of a departed friend;
And a meek sadness sat upon her smile!--
Now, far removed from every earthly ill,
Her woes are buried, and her heart is still.
poem by William Lisle Bowles
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XII. Written at a Convent.
IF chance some pensive stranger, hither led,
His bosom glowing from majestic views,
The gorgeous dome, or the proud landscape's hues,
Should ask who sleeps beneath this lowly bed --
'Tis poor Matilda! To the cloister'd scene,
A mourner, beauteous and unknown, she came,
To shed her tears unseen; and quench the flame
Of fruitless love: yet was her look serene
As the pale midnight on the moon-light isle --
Her voice was soft, which e'en a charm could lend,
Like that which spoke of a departed friend,
And a meek sadness sat upon her smile!
Now here remov'd from ev'ry human ill,
Her woes are buried, and her heart is still.
poem by William Lisle Bowles
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Broken Hearted
By eric clapton and greg phillinganes
When the wind blows down this hard,
Many a bond is broken.
See the water lie on the ground
From where the heavens opened.
Lord, how will you get through this night
With your dreams departed?
And who alone will comfort you?
Only the broken hearted.
So youve gone beyond your means,
Every wound is open,
Your best laid plans are out of reach,
And all your fears unspoken.
Chorus
Sweet revenge is spoken then;
In the twilight it is gone.
To living lies with no escape,
Lord, I would rather be alone.
I press my fingers to the wood
To tell you of my dreaming,
To sing you songs from olden times,
To keep the love light gleaming.
cause theres a place where we can go,
Where we will not be parted.
And who alone will enter there?
Only the broken hearted.
Only the broken, broken hearted.
Only the broken, broken hearted.
Only the broken, broken hearted.
Only the broken, broken hearted.
song performed by by Eric Clapton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Cold Hearted Man
No one knew
Where he came from
He never knew himself
Call her ma
Call him pa
But he was born to someone else
No one fooled
Or messed him around
Cause they were all afraid
Aint no lies
Ice in the eyes
Of leeroy kincaid
Chorus:
Cold hearted man
One time lover heart in his hand
Cold hearted man
And you cant trust nothing you dont understand
Cold hearted man
Cold hearted man
Like a snake
He had no friends
He didnt need no one
Hurt his pride
Deep inside
He was another mothers son
Reputation
Broken glass
Everybody prayed
For their lives on the street
Where they happened to meet
Leeroy kincaid
Chorus
Sometimes you cant see
The other side
Its too well hidden
For the naked eye
One time lover
With his heart in his hand
Two time loser
A broken man
Cold hearted man
song performed by by AC-DC
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Memory
Soon the waves so lightly bounding
All forget the tempest blast;
Soon the pines so sadly sounding
Cease to mourn the storm that's past.
Soon is hushed the voice of gladness
Heard within the green wood's breast;
Yet come back no notes of sadness,
No remembrance breaks its rest.
But the heart,—how fond t'will treasure
Every note of grief and joy!
Oft come back the notes of pleasure,
Grief's sad echoes oft annoy.
There still dwell the looks that vanish
Swift as brightness of a dream;
Time in vain earth's smiles may banish,
There undying still they beam.
poem by Jones Very
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Pain
She crys out in vain
as she watchs the moon
and feels its chill
from the rain of thoughts
that blisters her dreams
She crys out in vain
as she remembers
how she opens her heart
only for it be broken in two
She remembers his smile
when he waves his farewell
as he walked away
from her veiw of pain
She begs to be forgiven
for her cold reception
of dougbts that made
her soul bleed
for a lost love forsaken
She pushed away
the one man that loved her
because of her own doubts
that bleed her heart of pain
All she remembers is the pain
from the past
all she remembers is
crying in vain
she can not will not
put her self though
all this again
She walks away with a broken heart
never to know how much he loved her so
poem by Kaila George
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Farewell To The Muse
Thou Power! who hast ruled me through Infancy's days,
Young offspring of Fancy, 'tis time we should part;
Then rise on the gale this the last of my lays,
The coldest effusion which springs from my heart.
This bosom, responsive to rapture no more,
Shall hush thy wild notes, nor implore thee to sing;
The feelings of childhood, which taught thee to soar,
Are wafted far distant on Apathy's wing.
Though simple the themes of my rude flowing Lyre,
Yet even these themes are departed for ever;
No more beam the eyes which my dream could inspire,
My visions are flown, to return, alas, never!
When drain'd is the nectar which gladdens the bowl,
How vain is the effort delight to prolong!
When cold is the beauty which dwelt in my soul,
What magic of Fancy can lengthen my song?
Can the lips sing of Love in the desert alone,
Of kisses and smiles which they now must resign?
Or dwell with delight on the hours that are flown?
Ah, no! for those hours can no longer be mine.
Can they speak of the friends that I lived but to love?
Ah, surely Affection ennobles the strain!
But how can my numbers in sympathy move,
When I scarcely can hope to behold them again?
Can I sing of the deeds which my Fathers have done,
And raise my loud harp to the fame of my Sires?
For glories like theirs, oh, how faint is my tone!
For Heroes' exploits how unequal my fires!
Untouch'd, then, my Lyre shall reply to the blast--
'Tis hush'd; and my feeble endeavors are o'er;
And those who have heard it will pardon the past,
When they know that its murmurs shall vibrate no more.
And soon shall its wild erring notes be forgot,
Since early affection and love is o'ercast:
Oh! blest had my Fate been, and happy my lot,
Had the first strain of love been the dearest, the last.
Farewell, my young Muse! since we now can ne'er meet;
If our songs have been languid, they surely are few:
Let us hope that the present at least will be sweet--
The present--which seals our eternal Adieu.
She is Far From the Land
She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps,
And lovers are round her, sighing;
But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps,
For her heart in his grave is lying.
She sings the wild song of her dear native plains,
Every note which he loved awaking; --
Ah! little they think, who delight in her strains,
How the heart of the Minstrel is breaking.
He had lived for his love, for his country he died,
They were all that to life had entwined him;
Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried,
Nor long will his Love stay behind him.
Oh! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest,
When they promise a glorious morrow;
They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the West,
From her own loved island of sorrow.
poem by Thomas Moore
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From The Philosopher’s Stone
Now she heard the following words sadly sung,—
“Life is a shadow that flits away
In a night of darkness and woe.”
But then would follow brighter thoughts:
“Life has the rose’s sweet perfume
With sunshine, light, and joy.”
And if one stanza sounded painfully—
“Each mortal thinks of himself alone,
Is a truth, alas, too clearly known;”
Then, on the other hand, came the answer—
“Love, like a mighty flowing stream,
Fills every heart with its radiant gleam.”
She heard, indeed, such words as these—
“In the pretty turmoil here below,
All is a vain and paltry show.”
Then came also words of comfort—
“Great and good are the actions done
By many whose worth is never known.”
And if sometimes the mocking strain reached her—
“Why not join in the jesting cry
That contemns all gifts from the throne on high?”
In the blind girl’s heart a stronger voice repeated—
“To trust in thyself and God is best,
In His holy will forever to rest.”
But the evil spirit could not see this and remain contented.
poem by Hans Christian Andersen
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There is an hour, a pensive hour
THERE is an hour, a pensive hour;
(And oh! how dear its soothing pow'r!)
It is, when twilight spreads her veil,
And steals along the silent dale;
'Tis when the fading blossoms close,
When all is silence and repose;
Then memory wakes, and loves to mourn,
For days—that never shall return!
There is a strain, a plaintive strain,
The source of joy and yet of pain;
It is the song, whose dying measure,
Some friend belov'd has heard with pleasure;
Some friend—who ne'er again may hear,
The melting lay, to memory dear;
Ah! then, her magic spells restore,
Visions of blissful days no more!
There is a tear of sweet relief,
A tear—of rapture and of grief;
The feeling heart alone can know
What soft emotions bid it flow!
It is when memory charms the mind,
With tender images refin'd;
'Tis when her balmy spells restore,
Departed friends, and joys no more!
poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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The Harp, And Despair, Of Cowper
Sweet bard, whose tones great Milton might approve,
And Shakspeare, from high Fancy's sphere,
Turning to the sound his ear,
Bend down a look of sympathy and love;
Oh, swell the lyre again,
As if in full accord it poured an angel's strain!
But oh! what means that look aghast,
Ev'n whilst it seemed in holy trance,
On scenes of bliss above to glance!
Was it a fiend of darkness passed!
Oh, speak--
Paleness is upon his cheek--
On his brow the big drops stand,
To airy vacancy
Points the dread silence of his eye,
And the loved lyre it falls, falls from his nerveless hand!
Come, peace of mind, delightful guest!
Oh, come, and make thy downy nest
Once more on his sad heart!
Meek Faith, a drop of comfort shed;
Sweet Hope, support his aged head;
And Charity, avert the burning dart!
Fruitless the prayer--the night of deeper woes
Seems o'er the head even now to close;
In vain the path of purity he trod,
In vain, in vain,
He poured from Fancy's shell his sweetest hermit strain--
He has no hope on earth: forsake him not, O God!
poem by William Lisle Bowles
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The First Grey Hair
NO, let it stay. It speaks but truth:
My Autumn's day is dawning.
The dream is past; sweet dream of youth.
Hair, I accept thy warning.
With mournful thought, my spirit swells,
At the wild chime of memory bells.
Why will we in the present time,
Of by-gone days be dreaming?
Say, why throughout the storm sublime,
Is lightning ever gleaming?
Ah! there is naught on earth that quells
The chiming of sad memory bells.
Hope, garlands fair of future bliss,
With Fancy's pearls is weaving;
Alas! we find in world like this,
That Hope too is deceiving,
As on the past, our full heart dwells,
At your sad chiming, memory bells.
In youth all Earth was passing bright,
And life with joy was teeming —
But hidden in each flower was blight,
And happiness was seeming.
Yet charm me with your mystic spells —
With your sweet chiming, memory bells.
Why speak ye of the cruel wrong,
That I am ever grieving?
I would forget, forgive, be strong,
With faith in Christ, believing.
But oh! the strain triumphant knells —
Cease, cease your clashing, memory bells.
Avaunt, dark image of despair!
Why dost thou still go raving?
I would to Lethe's streams repair,
And drown thy taunts in laving.
Alas! can nothing still thy yells?
Cease, cease your clashing, memory bells.
Now mournful is the solemn strain,
And sadly I am weeping.
For those I love in battle slain,
Who all unknown are sleeping,
Like murmuring of ocean shells,
Swells your sad requiem, memory bells.
Now much loved voices in their glee
Their joyous shouts are sending;
And the sweet chorus, light and free,
Of many a song is blending,
Yet bitter tear-drops, sad fare-wells,
Melt in your chiming, memory bells.
Yet I would fain recall the past,
The bright celestial gleaming,
Which my first love around me cast,
Too sweet to be but dreaming.
Like flowing water, in lone dells,
Is your sweet chiming, memory bells.
Yes, silver hair, rest thee in peace,
I know that life is waning,
That soon will all my troubles cease,
And I, the goal attaining,
Will list the joy your music tells,
And love your chiming, memory bells.
poem by Mary Eliza Perine Tucker Lambert
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My soul is dark
I
My soul is dark—Oh! quickly string
The harp I yet can brook to hear;
And let thy gentle fingers fling
Its melting murmurs o'er mine ear.—
If in this heart a hope be dear,
That sound shall charm it forth again—
If in these eyes there lurk a tear,
'Twill flow—and cease to burn my brain—
II
But bid the strain be wild and deep,
Nor let thy notes of joy be first—
I tell thee—Minstrel! I must weep,
Or else this heavy heart will burst—
For it hath been by sorrow nurst,
And ached in sleepless silence long—
And now 'tis doom'd to know the worst,
And break at once—or yield to song.
poem by Byron (1815)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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