The Unfinished Book
TAKE it, reader, idly passing,
This, like other idle lines;
Take it, critic, great at classing
Subtle genius and its signs:
But, O reader, be thou dumb;
Critic, let no sharp wit come;
For the hand that wrote and blurred
Will not write another word;
And the soul you scorn or prize,
Now than angels is more wise.
Take it, heart of man or woman,
This unfinished broken strain,
Whether it be poor or common
Or the noblest work of brain;
Let that good heart only sit
Now in judgment over it
Tenderly, as we would read,--
Any one, of any creed,
Any churchyard passing by,--
'Sacred to the Memory.
Wholly sacred: even as lingers
Final word, or last look cast.
Or last clasp of life-warm fingers,
Which we knew not was the last.
Or, as we apart do lay,
The day after funeral-day,
Their dear relics, great and small,
Who need nothing--yet win all:
All the best we had and have,
Buried in one silent grave.
All our highest aspirations,
And our closest love of loves;
Our most secret resignations,
Our best work that man approves,
Yet which jealously we keep
In our mute heart's deepest deep.
So of this poor broken song
Let no echoes here prolong:
For the singer's voice is known
In the heaven of heavens alone.
poem by Dinah Maria Mulock Craik
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Related quotes
To My Friend On The Death Of His Sister
Thine is a grief, the depth of which another
May never know;
Yet, o'er the waters, O my stricken brother!
To thee I go.
I lean my heart unto thee, sadly folding
Thy hand in mine;
With even the weakness of my soul upholding
The strength of thine.
I never knew, like thee, the dear departed;
I stood not by
When, in calm trust, the pure and tranquil-hearted
Lay down to die.
And on thy ears my words of weak condoling
Must vainly fall
The funeral bell which in thy heart is tolling,
Sounds over all!
I will not mock thee with the poor world's common
And heartless phrase,
Nor wrong the memory of a sainted woman
With idle praise.
With silence only as their benediction,
God's angels come
Where, in the shadow of a great affliction,
The soul sits dumb!
Yet, would I say what thy own heart approveth
Our Father's will,
Calling to Him the dear one whom He loveth,
Is mercy still.
Not upon thee or thine the solemn angel
Hath evil wrought
Her funeral anthem is a glad evangel,--
The good die not!
God calls our loved ones, but we lose not wholly
What He hath given;
They live on earth, in thought and deed, as truly
As in His heaven.
And she is with thee; in thy path of trial
She walketh yet;
Still with the baptism of thy self-denial
Her locks are wet.
Up, then, my brother! Lo, the fields of harvest
Lie white in view
She lives and loves thee, and the God thou servest
To both is true.
Thrust in thy sickle! England's toilworn peasants
Thy call abide;
And she thou mourn'st, a pure and holy presence,
Shall glean beside!
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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Good-bye
Good-bye! -- 'tis like a churchyard bell -- good-bye!
Poor weeping eyes! Poor head, bowed down with woe!
Kiss me again, dear love, before you go.
Ah, me, how fast the precious moments fly!
Good-bye! Good-bye!
We are like mourners when they stand and cry
At open grave in wintry wind and rain.
Yes, it is death. But you shall rise again --
Your sun return to this benighted sky.
Good-bye! Good-bye!
The great physician, Time, shall pacify
This parting anguish with another friend.
Your heart is broken now, but it will mend.
Though it is death, yet still you will not die.
Good-bye! Good-bye!
Dear heart! dear eyes! dear tongue, that cannot lie!
Your love is true, your grief is deep and sore;
But love will pass -- then you will grieve no more.
New love will come. Your tears will soon be dry.
Good-bye! Good-bye!
poem by Ada Cambridge
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A Woman
Oh, dwarfed and wronged, and stained with ill,
Behold! thou art a woman still!
And, by that sacred name and dear,
I bid thy better self appear.
Still, through thy foul disguise, I see
The rudimental purity,
That, spite of change and loss, makes good
Thy birthright-claim of womanhood;
An inward loathing, deep, intense;
A shame that is half innocence.
Cast off the grave-clothes of thy sin!
Rise from the dust thou liest in,
As Mary rose at Jesus' word,
Redeemed and white before the Lord!
Reclairn thy lost soul! In His name,
Rise up, and break thy bonds of shame.
Art weak? He 's strong. Art fearful? Hear
The world's O'ercomer: 'Be of cheer!'
What lip shall judge when He approves?
Who dare to scorn the child He loves?
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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After My Death
After my death mourn me this way:
'There was a man-and see: he is no more;
before his time this man died
and his life's song in mid-bar stopped;
and oh, it is sad! One more song he had
and now the song is gone for good,
gone for good!
And it is very sad!-a harp too he had
a living being and murmurous
and the poet in his words in it
all of his heart's secret revealed,
and all the strings his hand gave breath
but one secret his heart kept hid,
round and round his fingers played,
and one string stayed mute,
mute to this day!
And it is sad, very sad!
All of her days this string moved,
mute she moved, mute she shook,
for her song, her beloved redeemer
she yearned, thirsted, grieved and longed
as a heart pines for its intended:
and though he hesitated each day she waited
and in a secret moan begged for him to come,
and he hesitated and never came,
never came!
And great, great is the pain!
There was a man-and see: he is no more,
and his life's song in mid-bar stopped,
one more song he had to go,
and now the song is gone for good,
gone for good!
poem by Hayyim Nahman Bialik
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The Wise And Good
'O father, I saw at the church as I passed
The populace gathered in numbers so vast
That they couldn't get in; and their voices were low,
And they looked as if suffering terrible woe.'
''Twas the funeral, child, of a gentleman dead
For whom the great heart of humanity bled.'
'What made it bleed, father, for every day
Somebody passes forever away?
Do the newspaper men print a column or more
Of every person whose troubles are o'er?'
'O, no; they could never do that-and indeed,
Though printers might print it, no reader would read.
To the sepulcher all, soon or late, must be borne,
But 'tis only the Wise and the Good that all mourn.'
'That's right, father dear, but how can our eyes
Distinguish in dead men the Good and the Wise?'
'That's easy enough to the stupidest mind:
They're poor, and in dying leave nothing behind.'
'Seest thou in mine eye, father, anything green?
And takest thy son for a gaping marine?
Go tell thy fine tale of the Wise and the Good
Who are poor and lamented to babes in the wood.'
And that horrible youth as I hastened away
Was building a wink that affronted the day.
poem by Ambrose Bierce
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Is Nothing Sacred
If a love as strong as ours
Couldnt make it all the way,
Can anything make sense at all?
If a love so deep and true
Couldnt stand the test of time,
Then mount everest could slide,
And jeruselem could fall.
Is nothing sacred anymore?
Is forever just another word?
Is a promise something people used to keep
When love was worth fighting for?
If we can say good-bye,
If we can say good-bye,
Is nothing sacred anymore?
If we can say good-bye
Is nothing sacred anymore?
I can hear the final words
Every sentence that was said
Dont know what turned our lives around.
It doesnt matter who was right,
Theres no justice in a dream.
Never thought a heart could break
Without making any sound.
Is nothing sacred anymore?
Is forever just another word?
Is a promise something people used to keep
When love was worth fighting for?
If we can say good-bye,
If we can say good-bye,
Is nothing sacred anymore?
If we can say good-bye
If we can say good-bye
Is nothing sacred anymore?
Our love was as certain as the dawn,
As solid and save as any love could be.
Our love was the star you wished upon,
And you thought that I saved you,
Couldve sworn that you saved me.
Is nothing sacred anymore?
Is forever just another word?
Is a promise something people used to keep
When love was worth fighting for?
If we can say good-bye,
If we can say good-bye,
Is nothing sacred anymore?
Is nothing sacred anymore?
Is forever just another word?
Is a promise something people used to keep
When love was worth fighting for?
If we can say good-bye,
If we can say good-bye,
Is nothing sacred anymore?
If we can say good-bye,
If we can say good-bye...
Is nothing sacred anymore...
Is nothing sacred anymore...
Is nothing sacred anymore...
song performed by by Meat Loaf
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Nada Mas (only the poem)
Reader, your voice is the poem
you are the words; and
nothing more.
Reader, there is no poetry
unless you speak it.
Reader, there is no sound
you must find what it has to say.
Reader, seek the thought
rising from your soul.
Reader, look all about you, up and down
no one else has come this way.
Reader, there is no other poem
only you among the words of the word; and
nothing more.
poem by Smoky Hoss
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On Hearing The Princess Royal Sing
In thine abode so high
Where yet one scarce can breathe,
Dear child, most tenderly
A soft song thou dost wreathe.
Thou singest, little girl--
Thy sire, the King is he:
Around thee glories whirl,
But all things sigh in thee.
Thy thought may seek not wings
Of speech; dear love's forbidden;
Thy smiles, those heavenly things,
Being faintly born, are chidden.
Thou feel'st, poor little Bride,
A hand unknown and chill
Clasp thine from out the wide
Deep shade so deathly still.
Thy sad heart, wingless, weak,
Is sunk in this black shade
So deep, thy small hands seek,
Vainly, the pulse God made.
Thou art yet but highness, thou
That shaft be majesty:
Though still on thy fair brow
Some faint dawn-flush may be,
Child, unto armies dear,
Even now we mark heaven's light
Dimmed with the fume and fear
And glory of battle-might.
Thy godfather is he,
Earth's Pope,--he hails thee, child!
Passing, armed men you see
Like unarmed women, mild.
As saint all worship thee;
Thyself even hast the strong
Thrill of divinity
Mingled with thy small song.
Each grand old warrior
Guards thee, submissive, proud;
Mute thunders at thy door
Sleep, that shall wake most loud.
Around thee foams the wild
Bright sea, the lot of kings.
Happier wert thou, my child,
I' the woods a bird that sings!
poem by Victor Hugo
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Onward
Have the blasts of sorrow worn thee,
Have the rocks of danger torn thee,
And thus shifted, wreck-like drifted,
Wouldst thou find a port in time?
Vain the quest! That word sublime—
God’s great one word,
Silent never, pealeth ever,
Onward!
Hast thou done all loving duty,
Hast thou clothed thy soul with beauty,
And wouldst rest then, wholly blest then,
In some sunny lapse of time?
Vain the hope! The word sublime—
God’s great one word,
Silent never, pealeth ever,
Onward!
Hast thou won the heart of glory,
Hast thou charmed the tongue of story,
And wouldst pause then for applause then,
Underneath the stars of time?
Vain the lure! That word sublime—
God’s great one word,
Silent never, pealeth ever,
Onward!
Truth and virtue hast thou wrought for,
Faith and freedom hast thou fought for,
And then shrinkest for thou thinkest
Paid is all thy debt in time?
Vain the thought! That word sublime—
God’s great one word,
Silent never, pealeth ever,
Onward!
From endeavour to endeavour,
Journeying with hours for ever,
Or aspiring, or acquiring
This, O man, is life in time,
Urged by that primal word sublime—
God’s great one word,
Silent never, pealeth ever,
Onward!
poem by Charles Harpur
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Of A Broken Heart
If only I die
Just once in my life
If only to try
To take a guess, to be the best
A feeling I hide
That runs this world, that keeps us alive
I want you to climb with me
Until I die of a broken heart
A broken heart
Until I die of a broken heart
A broken heart
Until I die
The heart of a child
Is in your hands now
So lets see you smile
cause Im not impressed with your loneliness
And its been a while
Since you forgave all your changes made
So lets count the miles together
Until I die of a broken heart
A broken heart
Until I die of a broken heart
A broken heart
Until I die of a broken heart
A broken heart
Until I die
If only I die
Just once in my life
If only to try together
Until I die of a broken heart
A broken heart
Until I die of a broken heart
A broken heart
Until I die of a broken heart
A broken heart
Until I die
song performed by by Zwan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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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
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Time Mends A Broken Heart
(jeff lynn/ kiki dee)
Producer for bonnie: christopher neil
Im living in another time another place
I knew you then
It used to be a different world
And now I start to live again
A sight of heaven in a grain of sand
Leading me on taking me by the hand
Time mends a broken heart
Time mends a broken heart
Love tears it all apart
But time mends a broken heart
I see you in another life
Theres someone else that I didnt know
Theres someone else that I dont know
It used to hurt me deep inside
I had to learn to let you go
I thought that happiness was by your side
I didnt know that it was here in me
And still alive
Time mends a broken heart
Time mends a broken heart
Love tears it all apart
But time mends a broken heart
Time mends a broken heart
Time mends a broken heart
Love tears it all apart
But time mends a broken heart
song performed by by Bonnie Tyler
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sonnet- Jesus, the Son of God
One Word of Thine can heal my wounded heart;
One look divine can work wonders from start;
One Word of Thine can change water to wine;
One touch of Thine can make a Leper fine.
Authority in Thine word's what we find;
Divinity, none can be than Thy mind;
Psychology of man, Thou know'st so well,
Who can with the Son of God, argue, tell.
What anger great, Thou hast shown in some place!
Thine advice can soothe any angry face;
Thine parables drive home morals so great;
Sin's the thing, not the sinner, Thou did hate.
What love Thou had shown to the poor brethren?
And kindness too to the atheist, heathen.
poem by John Celes
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My Beloved
If you ever knew how great is your love inside my heart
If you ever felt how my eyes always shine when they meet your eyes
If you could feel shivery of my voice when I call your name
If you ever knew this sad soul of mine returned back to life because
Just because of you
If you ever felt how this poor heart of mine revives and sighs when you are beside
Ah, my beloved you would never destroyed the woman who has this great love for you in her heart.
poem by Sossi Khachadourian
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A Heart Trade
Long time ago
A woman tried to trade her own heart: ..
..
My tears, would you please get dry? !
Is there somebody or something
To stop Me, stop my Cry?
Abyss! !
Release my body and my soul! Despair! !
My heart, is not your home:
Go! Disappear! Disintegrate! !
Get Homeless! Hungry! Die! ! !
.........................................
Aww.. Heart to become a killer? !
No,
Never
Can't! ..
Not even the despair and loneliness..
I know, they're bad..But they are personal
They're mine! ..
Hahahahaha...
No! I don't want anything (or nothing,) die? !
Do search for better word and choice:
What would it be? !
Transformation? ! Naah.. Evolution? ! Ttsst...Change? ! .~hard..
Sell..hmm..sounds bad
.Trade..yes! ! That's it! Trade it! !
I' ll trade my broken lonely crying heart
For anything to anyone..
Who wants it?
A broken lonely crying heart Once!
A broken lonely crying heart Twice! !
A broken...No Offered Price? !
The cheapest thing! A paper clip, a thread, Nothing! !
.. Lonely crying heart...
No one? !
Come on...Can't be that hard!
No problem..I Can be patient..
I'll wait..but please:
Stop time or help me stop my Cry..
....
And so, the poor woman
couldn't even do a trade..
And you know what?
She had to heal herself.
She did it smartly
By sharing little half torn
smiles..
And broken little pieces
of
her heart..
Bits, were put into baked cakes
shared in a small neighborhood
Others were put in flower's seeds
who knows where wind did spread them
But most, were put into warm words
and shared with an entire world..
Her heart developed..
Now days she found her dolphin smile
Again..
poem by Elena Sandu
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Wellington's Funeral
18th November 1852
“VICTORY!”
So once more the cry must be.
Duteous mourning we fulfil
In God's name; but by God's will,
Doubt not, the last word is still
“Victory!”
Funeral,
In the music round this pall,
Solemn grief yields earth to earth;
But what tones of solemn mirth
In the pageant of new birth
Rise and fall?
For indeed,
If our eyes were openèd,
Who shall say what escort floats
Here, which breath nor gleam denotes,—
Fiery horses, chariots
Fire-footed?
Trumpeter,
Even thy call he may not hear;
Long-known voice for ever past,
Till with one more trumpet-blast
God's assuring word at last
Reach his ear.
Multitude,
Hold your breath in reverent mood:
For while earth's whole kindred stand
Mute even thus on either hand,
This soul's labour shall be scann'd
And found good.
Cherubim,
Lift ye not even now your hymn?
Lo! once lent for human lack,
Michael's sword is rendered back.
Thrills not now the starry track,
Seraphim?
Gabriel,
Since the gift of thine “All hail!”
Out of Heaven no time hath brought
Gift with fuller blessing fraught
Than the peace which this man wrought
Passing well.
Be no word
Raised of bloodshed Christ-abhorr'd.
Say: “'Twas thus in His decrees
Who Himself, the Prince of Peace,
For His harvest's high increase
Sent a sword.”
Veterans,
He by whom the neck of France
Then was given unto your heel,
Timely sought, may lend as well
To your sons his terrible
Countenance.
Waterloo!
As the last grave must renew,
Ere fresh death, the banshee-strain,—
So methinks upon thy plain
Falls some presage in the rain,
In the dew.
And O thou,
Watching, with an exile's brow
Unappeased, o'er death's dumb flood:—
Lo! the saving strength of God
In some new heart's English blood
Slumbers now.
Emperor,
Is this all thy work was for?—
Thus to see thy self-sought aim,
Yea thy titles, yea thy name,
In another's shame, to shame
Bandied o'er?
Thy great work is but begun.
With quick seed his end is rife
Whose long tale of conquering strife
Shows no triumph like his life
Lost and won.
poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
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A Well Crafted Word
Why am I so philosophical, a philosopher a long time ago once wrote.
The song writer, script writer, poet and novelist like to use a great quote.
Some poems are written with a catchy rhyme and a theme.
A well crafted word can help and be a great writers dream.
Everyone knows that the pen is mightier than the sword.
A well crafted word can give the reader great reward.
'A metaphor is just like a simile'; An unknown author once quoted.
It's true about all writers I know, they all hate their words being misquoted.
To writers one and all, a well crafted word is always a must to write down.
Just remember this about all writers, they can make great use of a pronoun.
poem by Nichole Kaci McKnight
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A Song About You
If I could write a song
I’d write a song about you
I would write about how
You’re all I can every think about
How you flood my dreams each night
How thinking of you takes my breath away
When I look up to the satellites
If I could write a song
I’d write a song about you
I would write about how
The long lost butterflies returned
How I hope my number you’ll dial
And how your memory smothers me with smiles
If I could write a song
I’d write a song about you
I would write about how
You were the only one
Who had enough of me to break my heart
And when love took over my heart
You tore it all apart.
If I could write a song
I’d write a song about you
I would write about how
I gave you my heart
Caught up in the thought
That we were off to a great start
But how you threw a damn dart
Right into the center of my heart
If I could write a song
I’d write a song about you
About how you crushed my heart
Not bothering to look back.
If I could write a song
I’d write a song about you
poem by Jess Schwarcz
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A Curse For A Nation
I heard an angel speak last night,
And he said 'Write!
Write a Nation's curse for me,
And send it over the Western Sea.'
I faltered, taking up the word:
'Not so, my lord!
If curses must be, choose another
To send thy curse against my brother.
'For I am bound by gratitude,
By love and blood,
To brothers of mine across the sea,
Who stretch out kindly hands to me.'
'Therefore,' the voice said, 'shalt thou write
My curse to-night.
From the summits of love a curse is driven,
As lightning is from the tops of heaven.'
'Not so,' I answered. 'Evermore
My heart is sore
For my own land's sins: for little feet
Of children bleeding along the street:
'For parked-up honors that gainsay
The right of way:
For almsgiving through a door that is
Not open enough for two friends to kiss:
'For love of freedom which abates
Beyond the Straits:
For patriot virtue starved to vice on
Self-praise, self-interest, and suspicion:
'For an oligarchic parliament,
And bribes well-meant.
What curse to another land assign,
When heavy-souled for the sins of mine?'
'Therefore,' the voice said, 'shalt thou write
My curse to-night.
Because thou hast strength to see and hate
A foul thing done within thy gate.'
'Not so,' I answered once again.
'To curse, choose men.
For I, a woman, have only known
How the heart melts and the tears run down.'
'Therefore,' the voice said, 'shalt thou write
My curse to-night.
Some women weep and curse, I say
(And no one marvels), night and day.
'And thou shalt take their part to-night,
Weep and write.
A curse from the depths of womanhood
Is very salt, and bitter, and good.'
So thus I wrote, and mourned indeed,
What all may read.
And thus, as was enjoined on me,
I send it over the Western Sea.
The Curse
Because ye have broken your own chain
With the strain
Of brave men climbing a Nation's height,
Yet thence bear down with brand and thong
On souls of others, -- for this wrong
This is the curse. Write.
Because yourselves are standing straight
In the state
Of Freedom's foremost acolyte,
Yet keep calm footing all the time
On writhing bond-slaves, -- for this crime
This is the curse. Write.
Because ye prosper in God's name,
With a claim
To honor in the old world's sight,
Yet do the fiend's work perfectly
In strangling martyrs, -- for this lie
This is the curse. Write.
Ye shall watch while kings conspire
Round the people's smouldering fire,
And, warm for your part,
Shall never dare -- O shame!
To utter the thought into flame
Which burns at your heart.
This is the curse. Write.
Ye shall watch while nations strive
With the bloodhounds, die or survive,
Drop faint from their jaws,
Or throttle them backward to death;
And only under your breath
Shall favor the cause.
This is the curse. Write.
Ye shall watch while strong men draw
The nets of feudal law
To strangle the weak;
And, counting the sin for a sin,
Your soul shall be sadder within
Than the word ye shall speak.
This is the curse. Write.
When good men are praying erect
That Christ may avenge His elect
And deliver the earth,
The prayer in your ears, said low,
Shall sound like the tramp of a foe
That's driving you forth.
This is the curse. Write.
When wise men give you their praise,
They shall praise in the heat of the phrase,
As if carried too far.
When ye boast your own charters kept true,
Ye shall blush; for the thing which ye do
Derides what ye are.
This is the curse. Write.
When fools cast taunts at your gate,
Your scorn ye shall somewhat abate
As ye look o'er the wall;
For your conscience, tradition, and name
Explode with a deadlier blame
Than the worst of them all.
This is the curse. Write.
Go, wherever ill deeds shall be done,
Go, plant your flag in the sun
Beside the ill-doers!
And recoil from clenching the curse
Of God's witnessing Universe
With a curse of yours.
This is the curse. Write.
poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
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Sonnet XXVI: Mid-Rapture
Thou lovely and beloved, thou my love;
Whose kiss seems still the first; whose summoning eyes,
Even now, as for our love-world's new sunrise,
Shed very dawn; whose voice, attuned above
All modulation of the deep-bowered dove,
Is like a hand laid softly on the soul;
Whose hand is like a sweet voice to control
Those worn tired brows it hath the keeping of:—
What word can answer to thy word,—what gaze
To thine, which now absorbs within its sphere
My worshipping face, till I am mirrored there
Light-circled in a heaven of deep-drawn rays?
What clasp, what kiss mine inmost heart can prove,
O lovely and beloved, O my love?
poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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