Related quotes: SHE opened her moist crimson...

Afterwards

SHE opened her moist crimson lips to sing;
And from her throat that is so white and full
The notes leaped like a fountain. A smooth lull
Was o'er my heart: as when—a viol—string
Having been broken—the first musical ring
Once over, all the rest is but a dull
Crude dissonance, howe'er thou twist and pull
The sundered fragments. A most weary thing
It is within the perished heart to seek
Pain, and not find it, but a clinging pall
Like sleep upon the mind. The mere set plan
Of life then comes, and grief that is not weak
Because it has no tears. Life's all—in—all
Was certainly at end when this began.

poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
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Related quotes

My Loves Wedding

One said, its a secret
So don't say to anyone
Said, she is marrying
That she is, my love
The one, don't knew it

Heart stopped for second
And started to pain badly
My throat too had felt it
But my lips had smiled
And said, its good news

The one said me date
And told me to come
By then heart was broken
But my lips still smiled
Said, wish i can do so

The one started to say
About my loves only love
So my ears were on job
And lips carried the talk
But rest of me had died

The one told me all
About my loves love
Then my dead heart felt
My loves love is better
Far far better than me

So I wiped my eyes
Said bye to the one
And placed hand on heart
Said, its time to sing
For my only loves wedding

Wedding, which i can't go
My broken heart is weak
It can't break down more
But its each broken piece
Sings a happy marry life

Forever to my loves wedding

poem by Kranthi Pothineni
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Mountain's grief

Have I ever wept on a mountain's grief?

The sadness so profound, yet so majestic
That thy strongest heart bore since thou wert born

What is so immortal in a grief that finds a spring to express?
Just a solace, an easing out of a pine

The greatest grief in this world
is sculptured on you

So thou stands still, watching forever
Whilst the rest of the world weep

So the river floats on God's tears
Whilst He mourns on thy grief

So the birds sing in melody
Whilst thy heart burns in pain

So the wild rains thunder
Whilst the saddest quake in your heart erupts
In a wave around all thy moist rocks

poem by Shamik Bose
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Because Today

I have to play my role
But my heart is full of dole
I don't know what to do
For things are right now blue
I wish I can explain
Why always I get pain
That fills my heart and soul
With grief and so much dole
For life cannot run smooth
And nothing can today soothe
The pain and agony's sleep
That is all running deep
Because today my life's pole
Is full of grief and dole.

poem by Seema Chowdhury
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Love Fulfilled

Hast thou longed through weary days
For the sight of one loved face?
Mast thou cried aloud for rest,
Mid the pain of sundering hours;
Cried aloud for sleep and death,
Since the sweet unhoped for best
Was a shadow and a breath?
O, long now, for no fear lowers
O’er these faint feet-kissing flowers.
O, rest now; and yet in sleep
All thy longing shalt thou keep.

Thou shalt rest and have no fear
Of a dull awaking near,
Of a life for ever blind,
Uncontent and waste and wide.
Thou shalt wake and think it sweet
That thy love is near and kind.
Sweeter still for lips to meet;
Sweetest that thine heart doth hide
Longing all unsatisfied
With all longing’s answering
Howsoever close ye cling.

Thou rememberest how of old
E’en thy very pain grew cold,
How thou might’st not measure bliss
E’en when eyes and hands drew nigh.
Thou rememberest all regret
For the scarce remembered kiss,
The lost dream of how they met,
Mouths once parched with misery.
Then seemed Love born but to die,
Now unrest, pain, bliss are one,
Love, unhidden and alone.

poem by William Morris
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The Request

Sing me a song-a song to ease old sorrows,
And dull the edge of care-
A song of Hope to ring through all the morrows
That be my share.

Unlock the doors where joy hath been in hiding,
Though barred they be and strong,
And send black grief far down the wind a-riding-
Sing me a song.

Sing thou thy sky-lark song of sweetest daring,
And April ecstasy,
That I may follow it and go a-faring
To Arcady.

Charm sleep from out the shadows with thy singing,
And when the light turns grey,
Leave me bright dreams until the dawn comes bringing
The rose-edged day.

The wind of March taught thee his springtime madness,
And then in undertone
Whispered the wonder-secret of his gladness
To thee alone.

And thou hast learned from little brook and river
Their tender melody-
The notes that set the thrush's throat a-quiver
Are known to thee.

Sing me a song-a song to ease old sorrows,
And dull the edge of care-
A song of Hope, to ring through all the morrows
That be my share.

poem by Virna Sheard
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When Thou Hast Spent The Lingering Day

WHEN thou hast spent the lingering day in pleasure and delght,
Or after toil and weary way, dost seek to rest at night,
Unto thy pains or pleasures past, add this one labor yet:
Ere sleep close up thine eye too fast, do not thy God forget,
But search within thy secret thoughts, what deeds did thee befall;
And if thou find amiss in aught, to God for mercy call.
Yea, though thou find nothing amiss which thou canst call to mind,
Yet evermore remmeber this: there is the more behind;
And think how well so ever it be that thou hast spent the day,
It came of God, and not of thee, so to direct thy way.
Thus if thou try thy daily deeds and pleasure in this pain,
Thy life shall cleanse thy corn from weeds, and thine shall be the gain;
But if thy sinful, sluggish eye will venture for to wink,
Before thy wading will may try how far thy soul may sink,
Beware and wake; for else, thy bed, which soft and smooth is made,
May heap more harm upon thy head than blows of en'my's blade.
Thus if this pain procure thine ease, in bed as thou dost lie,
Perhaps it shall not God displease to sing thus, soberly:

``I see that sleep is lent me here to ease my weary bones,
As death at last shall eke appear, to ease my grievous groans.
My daily sports, my paunch full fed, have caused my drowsy eye,
As careless life, in quiet led, might cause my soul to die.
The stretching arms, the yawning breath, which I to bedward use,
Are patterns of the pangs of death, when life will me refuse.
And of my bed each sundry part in shadows doth resemble
The sundry shapes of death, whose dart shall make my flesh to tremble.
My bed itself is like the grave, my sheets the winding sheet,
My clothes the mold which I must have to cover me most meet;
The hungry fleas, which frisk so fresh, to worms I can compare,
Which greedily shall gnaw my flesh and leave the bones full bare.
The waking cock, that early crows to wear the night away
Puts in my mind the trump that blows before the Latter Day.
And as I rise up lustily when sluggish sleep is past,
So hope I to rise joyfully to Judgment at the last.
Thus will I wake, thus will I sleep, thus will I hope to rise,
Thus will I neither wail nor weep, but sing in godly wise;
My bones shall in this bed remain, my soul in God shall trust,
By whom I hope to rise again from death and earthly dust.''

poem by George Gascoigne
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The Poet To Be Yet

NOT he who sings smooth songs that soothe—
Sweet opiates that lull asleep
The sorrow that would only weep;
There are some spirit-stains so deep
That only tears may wash away.
Not he whose lays thrill fiercely till
The soul is sick with surfeiting,
Such passion flies, and leaves its sting,
Till through the body quivering
The wearied dull pain throbs again.
Not he whose glad voice says “Rejoice!”
For whom no clouds o'ercast the sky;
Whose god is in his heaven so high
That this dull world he come not nigh:
Life is no sun-kissed optimist!
But he who Sorrow's presence knows,
Who hears the minor chords beneath
The song of life, and feels the breath
Upon his cheek of quiet death,
Yet stirs and sings of life and love.
Who in his suffering yet can sing;
With that calm pathos in his face—
The hopeless yearning of the race—
Can chant the faith that holds its place,
Upsurging through each sore heart's speech;

Who, though his heart bleed, onward leads;
Who knows eternal is our quest,
Yet bids us toil and strive—not rest—
Who looks life o'er and takes its best—
This is the poet to be yet!

poem by Arthur Henry Adams
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The Depth Of Grief

The depth of grief is hard to measure
For the pain inside it that is treasures
Is so much and so bitter and hard
That everone wants it to totally discard

But one thing taht we must keep in mind
Is to always seek ways with others to be kind
No matter what we are going through
We must be honest and sincere too

And always remember these pain and grief
Are only let out and gets a relief
If they are given a chance to drop
From inside painful injured heart's top

And then all life's pain and sigh
Will leave your soul and will say goodbye
And then in your heart all pain and grief
Will not get a place, not even brief.

poem by Seema Chowdhury
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Never Ending Sadness

Tears I shed with feelings unknown.
Pain so deep I think I'll explode.
My loneliness that drives me insane.
The smile I put with no one to blame.

My heart's pieces lost in this world,
And I'm tide with grief to seek alone.
Im slowly trying to leave my grief,
to eventually find that missing piece.

The piece of happiness that my heart needs
The true smile my cheeks seek.
The warming love to dry my tears.
'Oh I really miss yall dear.'

It seems forever I will cry
And with a heart of sadness I shall die,
With a heart as cold as ice,
And a grief that slowly took my life.

Never ending sadness deep within.
Hoping happiness will some day win,
And one day leave these tears behind,
And have a smile all the time.

poem by Jessica Vera
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After The Ball

Silence now reigns in the corridors wide,
The stately rooms of that mansion of pride;
The music is hushed, the revellers gone,
The glitt’ring ball-room deserted and lone,—
Silence and gloom, like a clinging pall,
O’ershadow the house—’tis after the ball.

Yet a light still gleams in a distant room,
Where sits a girl in her “first season’s bloom;”
Look at her closely, is she not fair,
With exquisite features, rich silken hair
And the beautiful, child-like, trusting eyes
Of one in the world’s ways still unwise.

The wreath late carefully placed on her brow
She has flung on a distant foot-stool now;
The flowers, exhaling their fragrance sweet,
Lie crushed and withering at her feet;
Gloves and tablets she has suffered to fall—
She seems so weary after the ball!

Ah, more than weary! How still and white,
With rose-tipped fingers entwined so tight:
A grieved, pained look on that forehead fair,
One which it never before did wear,
And soft eyes gleam through a mist of tears,
Telling of secret misgivings and fears.

Say, what is it all? Why, some April care,
Or some childish trifle, baseless as air;
For the griefs that call forth girlhood’s tears
Would but win a smile in maturer years,
When the heart has learned, ’mid pain and strife,
Far sterner lessons from the book of life.

Ah! far better for thee, poor child, I ween,
Had thy night been spent in some calmer scene,
Communing with volume or friend at will,
Or in innocent slumber, calm and still;
Thou would’st not feel so heart-weary of all
As thou to night thou feelest, “after the ball!”

poem by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
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Sing This Heart Back To Me

This heart that slept the beauty sleep
And dreamt of daylight drums of joy
This heart that dived abyss too deep

Sing this heart bring this heart
Bring this heart back to me

For there will be no more no heart
No no more heart
No no more heart to beat in me

This heart that leaped this heart that burned
In ashes smashed and crushed and rocked
This heart your heart it never learned

Sing this heart sink not this heart
Think not this heart belongs just to me

For there will be no more no heart
No no more heart
No no more heart to sing in me

This heart that shared your heart that dared
To see too much of the heart in me

Sing this heart bring this heart
Bring this heart back to me

For there will be no more no heart
No no more heart
No no more heart to dream in me

This heart your heart my heart toy heart
Sink not this heart choke not this heart

Sing this heart bring this heart
Bring this heart back to me

That I can cling to this heart
Sing to this heart
Bring my heart back to me

poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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