The Poor Relation
No longer torn by what she knows
And sees within the eyes of others,
Her doubts are when the daylight goes,
Her fears are for the few she bothers.
She tells them it is wholly wrong
Of her to stay alive so long;
And when she smiles her forehead shows
A crinkle that had been her mother’s.
Beneath her beauty, blanched with pain,
And wistful yet for being cheated,
A child would seem to ask again
A question many times repeated;
But no rebellion has betrayed
Her wonder at what she has paid
For memories that have no stain,
For triumph born to be defeated.
To those who come for what she was—
The few left who know where to find her—
She clings, for they are all she has;
And she may smile when they remind her,
As heretofore, of what they know
Of roses that are still to blow
By ways where not so much as grass
Remains of what she sees behind her.
They stay a while, and having done
What penance or the past requires,
They go, and leave her there alone
To count her chimneys and her spires.
Her lip shakes when they go away,
And yet she would not have them stay;
She knows as well as anyone
That Pity, having played, soon tires.
But one friend always reappears,
A good ghost, not to be forsaken;
Whereat she laughs and has no fears
Of what a ghost may reawaken,
But welcomes, while she wears and mends
The poor relation’s odds and ends,
Her truant from a tomb of years—
Her power of youth so early taken.
Poor laugh, more slender than her song
It seems; and there are none to hear it
With even the stopped ears of the strong
For breaking heart or broken spirit.
The friends who clamored for her place,
And would have scratched her for her face,
Have lost her laughter for so long
That none would care enough to fear it.
None live who need fear anything
From her, whose losses are their pleasure;
The plover with a wounded wing
Stays not the flight that others measure;
So there she waits, and while she lives,
And death forgets, and faith forgives,
Her memories go foraging
For bits of childhood song they treasure.
And like a giant harp that hums
On always, and is always blending
The coming of what never comes
With what has past and had an ending,
The City trembles, throbs, and pounds
Outside, and through a thousand sounds
The small intolerable drums
Of Time are like slow drops descending.
Bereft enough to shame a sage
And given little to long sighing,
With no illusion to assuage
The lonely changelessness of dying,—
Unsought, unthought-of, and unheard,
She sings and watches like a bird,
Safe in a comfortable cage
From which there will be no more flying.
poem by Edwin Arlington Robinson
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Related quotes
Neverending Song (The Song Of A mournful Heart)
Hear the child’s song,
As he sings his mournful cry to the skies above his head.
The only music in his words is the rain drops on the roof.
He watches with tears flowing down his cheeks,
He watches the wind blow the branches that scape against the walls.
Hear his song as he longs for a loving touch,
A mother’s hug.
In his own silent afterlife he watches,
As the world carries on around him.
His arms wrapped tight around his legs,
His hair uncut and knotted,
As tears stain his cheeks with salt water so rich,
Hear his silent song as he sings to those few who see him,
In his solitary windowsill in the house that was once his home he sits and Sings.
Nothing mattering to him but that that has past,
Nothing breaking his everlasting chorus,
But be careful do not listen for to long or his sorrow shall become your own,
You shall fall into rhythm with his voice,
And you will not leave,
But stay and melt into the stars that he rests his feet apon.
His prison will become your sanctuary,
His tomb, your grave,
His song, shall be your own form of reality.
In the dark stairwell you will stay with him.
Watching the endless lightnight lighting the sky,
The endless thunder the keeping time with the wind which is the music to his song.
You will fade to nothing at his feet, and he won’t even pause.
He will continue his cry to the god he once knew,
Crying for salvation for forgiveness, for the one thing that he can never have again.
And his tears will flow on running down his face to his tattered clothing,
His eyes ever fixed on the dark sky outside that expresses his pain, his agony,
His heart still in a ody somewhere, never to beat the beat of life again,
And still he will sing his mournful cry.
Listen to the child’s cry, but don’t stay long,
Or you will become the rain that beats down on the fortress around him,
Your own sorrowful tears that you shed for him, shall become the music,
To the child’s mournful cry.
poem by Bethany Maxwell
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Miracle
A Child was born
What happiness!
Mother too tired
Still in pain
But what's that? ! Hey!
Child in good health!
That is the Miracle!
Nothing of shame..
Beautiful Angel
First breast feeding
First glance, first smile
Frst call, first step!
All these are blessing
Memories that warms
Even the coldest heart
Lights any face!
That are the Miracles!
Nothing of shame..
But what about
Hardest times
When Child is
Sick and doesnt eat
Soo many worries:
Guess the cry
Is Child in danger?
Hurt? ..How? ..Why?
Your heart jumps out..
But when the child's
Getting safe, all right
That's Happiness! !
Nothing of shame..
Years past by
I'm afraid
The Child has gone
You find yourself alone
Can't, but remember
Everyday and smile of
Past Miracles!
Nothing of shame..
Worries still there
But not the same
Now find yourself
asking and wondering
Is the Big Child ok,
not hungry! ?
Does Child's heart happy?
Loved, it doesn't
Cry of hurt?
You'll never stop to worry
That's a fact
But miracles has gone
Remains the Fear
And the feeling Lone
No more miracles left
No moore..Is it or
Not a shame? ! ..
Now! Start to live
Live for self
Go on! Come
See miracles
again, this time
Done for nobody but you!
Say it:
Miracles for me!
See? !
That's nothing of shame..
Be Brave Go On,
Couse in the end
Your soul
Has always been
It is
And forever be
alone..
This earth this time
This world
Will never let you get
or find own soul fate..
No miracle left
No one to blame
Start to do one
By self, for nobody
But you
That Miracle too
Should not be
of any
Shame...
For me, anything can be a miracle, as long as brings a smile(*_*) lol
poem by Elena Sandu
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Felix Antonius
(After Martial)
To-day, my friend is seventy-five;
He tells his tale with no regret;
His brave old eyes are steadfast yet,
His heart the .lightest heart alive.
He sees behind him green and wide
The pathway of his pilgrim years;
He sees the shore, and dreadless hears
The whisper of the creeping tide.
For out of all his days, not one
Has passed and left its unlaid ghost
To seek a light for ever lost,
Or wail a deed for ever done.
So for reward of life-long truth
He lives again, as good men can,
Redoubling his allotted span
With memories of a stainless youth.
poem by Sir Henry Newbolt
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A Song for New Year's Eve
Stay yet, my friends, a moment stay—
Stay till the good old year,
So long companion of our way,
Shakes hands, and leaves us here.
Oh stay, oh stay,
One little hour, and then away.
The year, whose hopes were high and strong,
Has now no hopes to wake;
Yet one hour more of jest and song
For his familiar sake.
Oh stay, oh stay,
One mirthful hour, and then away.
The kindly year, his liberal hands
Have lavished all his store.
And shall we turn from where he stands,
Because he gives no more?
Oh stay, oh stay,
One grateful hour, and then away.
Days brightly came and calmly went,
While yet he was our guest;
How cheerfully the week was spent!
How sweet the seventh day's rest!
Oh stay, oh stay,
One golden hour, and then away.
Dear friends were with us, some who sleep
Beneath the coffin-lid:
What pleasant memories we keep
Of all they said and did!
Oh stay, oh stay,
One tender hour, and then away.
Even while we sing, he smiles his last,
And leaves our sphere behind.
The good old year is with the past;
Oh be the new as kind!
Oh stay, oh stay,
One parting strain, and then away.
poem by William Cullen Bryant
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A Soldiers love
They retreat from the past
For they know they shall never forget, it will never pass
As those they love shelter behind whats to come
For from the bottle of pain they take some
They wait for the day to come the day to leave
Yet until then the fire, and horror shall make them greive
Their friends longing to hear ther voices, feel their touch
To think they will never see their faces again, they shall not think of such
The sounds fill their ears as they wait for the firing to subside
As they know they stand with the others side by side
They long to be home, to be in peace, to be in their place
And they know time is all they face
It shall come, the day it ends
The day the memories end, the memories that shall not mend
They know they will be back to the place they love
The day America sees the dove
As they wait they think of those back here
And know it is for the lives back home they fear
They know that their here, they just don't know why
As they sit behind the sheild of life they look to the sky
As they sit they do not know that back home we look to the same sky
As they sit and wait they wish it were all a lie
As they sit and yern for hope they look above
For they know in their heart this is a soldiers love
(may all the soldiers get back safely to their homes, and family. And hopefully it shall be soon that america sees the dove. god bless all soldiers and everyone)
poem by Bethany Maxwell
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Our Past Lives On With Us
We may not be in prison yet we are not truly free
For of our past we are prisoners that's how 'twould seem to me
Bad memories always haunt us they never go away
Until the Reaper claims us they are with us to stay.
For many childhood memories are full of mental pain
Their heavy cross of sorrows through their lives with them remain
Children of war and famines they cannot forget their past
Their living nightmares with them linger though few other things seem to last.
Children of abusive parents bad old memories in them stay young
They live remembering their traumas and die as the unsung
Their innocence stolen from them in their childhood of tears
Bad memories still with them undimmed by the passing years.
We may not be in prison though it would seem to me
That we prisoners of our memories of our past we can't be free
Until the Reaper claims us good and bad memories with us stay
Our past seems to live on with us and it never goes away.
poem by Francis Duggan
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A silent murder
A silent murder
A whispering grave
Voices are spoken
But they all fade away
Left all alone
In this forsaken home
Pictures we'll bare
Lost long voices we'll share
Broken memories of the past
Where too good to last
So pack up your bags
This is your last chance
Voices we long to hear
Are crackled, unclear
And faces we miss
Are long lost in the mist
New people we will meet
Eyes don't leave our feet
For memories from our past
Were built strong, to forever last
Frame your past
Shatter your future
Lose yourself in the moment
Lose yourself in the past
Twisted lives, will forever last
Frame your past
Jump inside
Hate the moment
So feed me more lies
poem by Shannon daffsdffjk
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The Good Memories Of What Was
I was not any use at Gaelic Football or Soccer though I played in Millstreet Townpark in the rain
And I played Soccer in Neily Duggan's Inch Field but these things I will never do again
With my young friends for us it was enjoyment but few things in life stay the same
The fire of youth in us was burning but it now is a flickering flame
We never thought about growing older the gift of youth is a great thing
Though of the past we have our memories and till death to them we will cling
The thought that we age with the Seasons does seldom enter the young mind
But the years leave us frailer and older eternal youth not for air breathing kind
But for as long as we have the gift of memory of our prime years good memories we retain
And often in our flights of fancy the past we do visit again
I still recall the joy and laughter as we chased the football up and down
On Summer evenings often wet and windy in the Townpark of old Millstreet Town
The years leave us all looking older and the clock on our lives ticking on
But the good memories of what was bring us comfort of the past to the forever gone.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Sit Down, Sad Soul
SIT down, sad soul, and count
The moments flying:
Come,—tell the sweet amount
That ’s lost by sighing!
How many smiles?—a score?
Then laugh, and count no more;
For day is dying.
Lie down, sad soul, and sleep,
And no more measure
The flight of Time, nor weep
The loss of leisure;
But here, by this lone stream,
Lie down with us, and dream
Of starry treasure.
We dream: do thou the same:
We love—for ever;
We laugh; yet few we shame,
The gentle, never.
Stay, then, till Sorrow dies;
Then—hope and happy skies
Are thine for ever!
poem by Barry Cornwall
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Christmas
WITH garlands to grace it, with laughter to greet it,
Christmas is here, holly-red and snow-white,
Hung round with quaint legends, and old-as-life stories
Of mystical beauty and lifelong delight;
With dreams of the Christ-child, with Santa Claus fables,
Without doubts to trouble or questions to break
The absolute faith in the triumph of goodness,
In God and in nature on guard for its sake;
Without fear of death, with no memories of grief,
Believing life clear as our cloudless belief;
What wonder if rose-coloured Christmas appear
As the happiest day of our happy child year?
With the swiftness of thought, with the spring's incompleteness,
Childhood has passed, and its place is filled up;
Hope suns our youth into midsummer sweetness,
And the roses of love wreathe our life's golden cup.
We shall do--we shall dare--and our faith has no limit,
Wrong must go down 'neath the sword of the right
And life is so joyous, and may be so glorious,
And day looks so long, and so distant the night.
We love--there are chances--and if we should meet
The woman who holds all our heart at her feet
At Christmas--would that not make Christmas more dear
Than all other days of our love-lightened year?
With the sadness of tears, with the speed of the swallow,
Youth has gone by, and its hope and its faith;
Love has grown into grief, and remembrance is anguish,
And down the dim years sound the footsteps of death.
There sit at our feast (for we still hold our revels)
The phantom of hope and the spectre of truth.
This life we believed in--how has it rewarded
The passionate faith of our long-ago youth?
Our hearth is deserted--our Christmas Day seems
But the ghost of a day from a lifetime of dreams.
Oh, lost voices that call us--we hear you--we hear!
Oh, most desolate day of our desolate year!
poem by Edith Nesbit
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Laughter In The Rain.
We use to have it,
Long long time ago.
We use to reach for it.
But now it’s no more.
It was our pride,
Having laughter in the rain,
With nothing to hide,
We made it plain.
How stunning it was laughing in the rain.
Laugh like a drain,
Like a baby with no stain.
Yes!
I felt like a child
Felt it like a lady that is not wild.
Having laughter in the rain with you,
Hand in hand walking on the street with you.
In all times you hold me tight.
To make me feel alright.
Laughter always in my mouth.
`Cause you always with me no matter what.
How stunning,
Having laughter in the rain.
No cunning,
We made every thing plain.
Sit on the couch laughing and laughing
Laughing and laughing.
To ease the pain.
Having laughter in the rain.
Laughter in the rain,
Sadness of our pain.
It was a pleasure.
It is a treasure.
And I am sure
It is nothing you will not want to measure.
Our laughter in the rain.
The many tears we cried over and over again.
It is something maybe good.
Everyone thought we could,
Take it to the next level if we would.
I remember thousand of the droplet tears
The holding and cuddling to take off the fears.
Titter to make us laugh.
Titillate me to get me down.
Laughter in the rain.
Took away our pain.
But now it is no more.
We lost it long time ago.
It was our pride.
It was with us every time we ride
Laughter in the rain.
poem by Chinwendu Ibeh
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Our Bird In Your Cage
we have this bird
we both own it and love it and care for it
our bird
and you have this cage
that you only own
golden, new and strong and as you say it
so reliable
that when our bird is in that cage
it will be safe
and cannot escape
we feed this bird together
and give it water and birdseeds
and a place of twigs and swing
where the bird can play
and perch upon
like it is on a tree
days and years
we keep this bird in your cage
and we see it is dying
and wanting to be free
yet you say, this sickness is just temporary
time heals what has wounded it
and shall forget the power of its wings
days and more years
we keep this bird in your cage
and i have not listened at all
to the sad song of that bird
her waning chirps
her weakened wings
her way of losing hold to the dreams of its wings
today we see this bird is dead
but you have no sadness at all
you say, you will buy another bird
again to be kept in your cage
i could have told you
i am the bird in your cage and i too have forgotten the power of
my wings
i could have told you, i have long died
and have forgotten what freedom is, what love is, what i am
in the first place. How can i ever tell you?
you are my cage.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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You'd Know That I'd Be Lying...
I will not keep you long,
The time, she is a'flying,
And if I wanted here to stay,
You'd know that I'd be lying.
Just want to say goodbye,
To all my kin and friends,
I'm going far away,
to where the river bends.
I travel fast and travel light,
You'll not miss me when I go,
We haven't hit off so well,
But you were nice to know.
Two ships passing in the night,
Going seperate ways,
One keeps going further,
Not much for lengthy stays.
I just wanted to see your smile,
and the beauty of your face,
just wanted to take, along with me,
some memories of this place.
I will not keep you long,
For time, she is a a'flying,
I'd ask you to come with me,
But you'd know that I'd be lying.
poem by David Lessard
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Eight Years Old
SUN, whom the faltering snow-cloud fears,
Rise, let the time of year be May,
Speak now the word that April hears,
Let March have all his royal way;
Bid all spring raise in winter’s ears
All tunes her children hear or play,
Because the crown of eight glad years
On one bright head is set to-day.
II.
What matters cloud or sun to-day
To him who wears the wreath of years
So many, and all like flowers at play
With wind and sunshine, while his ears
Hear only song on every way?
More sweet than spring triumphant hears
Ring through the revel-rout of May
Are these, the notes that winter fears.
III.
Strong-hearted winter knows and fears
The music made of love at play,
Or haply loves the tune he hears
From hearts fulfilled with flowering May,
Whose molten music thaws his ears
Late frozen, deaf but yesterday
To sounds of dying and dawning years,
Now quickened on his deathward way.
IV.
For deathward now lies winter’s way
Down the green vestibule of years
That each year brightens day by day
With flower and shower till hope scarce fears
And fear grows wholly hope of May.
But we—the music in our ears
Made of love’s pulses as they play
The heart alone that makes it hears.
V.
The heart it is that plays and hears
High salutation of to-day.
Tongue falters, hand shrinks back, song fears
Its own unworthiness to play
Fit music for those eight sweet years,
Or sing their blithe accomplished way.
No song quite worth a young child’s ears
Broke ever even from birds in May.
VI.
There beats not in the heart of May,
When summer hopes and springtide fears,
There falls not from the height of day,
When sunlight speaks and silence hears,
So sweet a psalm as children play
And sing, each hour of all their years,
Each moment of their lovely way,
And know not how it thrills our ears.
VII.
Ah child, what are we, that our ears
Should hear you singing on your way,
Should have this happiness? The years
Whose hurrying wings about us play
Are not like yours, whose flower-time fears
Nought worse than sunlit showers in May,
Being sinless as the spring, that hears
Her own heart praise her every day.
VIII.
Yet we too triumph in the day
That bare, to entrance our eyes and ears,
To lighten daylight, and to play
Such notes as darkness knows and fears,
The child whose face illumes our way,
Whose voice lifts up the heart that hears,
Whose hand is as the hand of May
To bring us flowers from eight full years.
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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Friend Of Mine
Are you feelin that your on the brink
Of spilling some red in the sink
It wasn't the easiest year
No I don't want you to go
Are the memories too hard to take
Rape is a word with a face
No I don't want you to go
You know I don't want you to go
Friend of mine stay alive
Don't you leave me here
All alone in a world with a chronic tear
I will always be here, I will always be here
I will always be here for you
We walked the promenade in the rain
With velcrow shoes and an ice cream stain
You've the only one who understands
Remember the place that direction you wake
And help save your generation
No I don't want you to go
You know we don't want you to go
Friend of mine stay alive
Don't you leave me here
All alone in a world with a chronic tear
I will always be here, I will always be here
I will always be here for you
Don't look back
The past is just that
We are We are We are We are
Awake
Friend of mine stay alive
Don't you leave me
Friend of mine stay alive
Don't you leave me
I will always be here
I will always be here
Friend of mine stay alive
Don't you leave me here
All alone in a world with a chronic tear
I will always be here, I will always be here
I will always be here for you
song performed by by Eve 6
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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You Cant Hide The Real You
i try and try to keep him in,
but he refuses to stay in side,
we talk and play when no one near,
but when they come i hide in fear,
he sits and waits all day long,
and when i say get inside,
he tells me to stay quiet,
so i duck and wait until its safe,
the very next day we sat and played,
for we are alike in many ways,
we care for eachother,
the only difference is he is violent and i am not,
he is me and i am him,
we share the same mind,
sometimes he stays inside,
and wait to fight,
i try and try to keep him in,
but all he says is,
you cant hide the real you,
like i said i am him and he is me.
poem by Jaqualen Roberts
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Forsaken Me
Forsaken Me
By: Adam M. Snow
Night by night, I lie awake wishing for soothing rain,
With loss of hope and faith I ask to ease this lonely pain.
With feeling lost and full of doubt, struggling through this frozen time,
And this stench of lies between the worldly grime,
Now follows behind me forevermore.
I hear the ghost of mine alone calling throughout the night,
With darkness within his voice, tormented with delight.
'Forsaken me' must he said.
And I, afraid of what now to come.
'Forsaken me' the voice grows strong.
And I, longing for what now to come.
But thus this be but a dream or thus this be but a life without a dream?
A life without faith and hope and all, does it seem?
Could this be but a mirror of my life?
Forsaken me, is all I hear,
Yet it shows me, itself is fear,
And I ponder to why it is here.
Could it be that death is near?
'Forsaken me' must he said.
And I, afraid of what now to come.
'Forsaken me' the voice grows strong.
And I, longing for what now to come.
Again, must I go through this,
The feeling of emptiness,
And the knowledge that all could end,
And this heart to not be mend?
Again, must I go through this,
To throw myself back into abyss?
'Forsaken me' must he said.
And I, afraid of what now to come.
'Forsaken me' the voice grows strong.
And I, longing for what now to come.
Maybe it's time to face my ghost,
And all the things that I boast,
And forsaken me nonetheless,
And free myself from all the stress.
Now I lie myself to sleep,
Forsaken myself with terrible heap.
'Forsaken me' the voice goes on,
Even 'gainst the blackest of dawn.
'Forsaken me' forevermore,
With every burden I must bore.
I see the ghost in tainted light,
Following the waking of the night.
Condemn me, condemn me,
It knows not what this curse may be.
Forsaken me, forsaken me,
Let my broken life see.
'Forsaken me' must he said.
And I, afraid of what now to come.
'Forsaken me' the voice grows strong.
And I, longing for what now to come.
My life's in shackles,
My misery, my hackles,
My longing for redemption.
I see a door, cracked and torn,
As I bow my head to mourn,
For my endless shadow of my endless fate,
Swallowed by everything that I hate.
'Forsaken me' the voice goes on,
Even 'gainst the blackest of dawn.
'Forsaken me' forevermore,
With every burden I must bore.
Must this ghost be me but an echo of what yet to come?
The presence I feel, the nameless numb.
Must this be my suffering end?
Must I now make amend,
With but a single heartache,
On the night of my Irish wake?
'Forsaken me' the voice goes on,
Even 'gainst the blackest of dawn.
'Forsaken me' forevermore,
With every burden I must bore.
Could it be that the ghost I spoke of,
Could it be that it's really me?
Gone from this world, lonely as can be.
Forsaken, as the years go by,
And to find all things must die.
Being left in solitude,
Cold and alone and yes, even nude.
Myself I now forsaken,
Curse to sleep and never awaken.
poem by Adam M. Snow
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Breaking The Chain
To find my spirit, is to free my mind.
My mind tells me what I want.
My spirit tells me what I already have.
What is pleasing to the eyes,
Is poison to the spirit.
Love things and use people.
Give the power to a thought,
Leaves me powerless.
My mind wants control of all.
My spirit says I must control myself.
For it is all I have the power to do.
If I fear I am sick,
I can will myself to feel sick.
Even though I am really well.
I live according to my fears.
My life is surrounded by my giant.
I cannot breathe.
I am suffocated, by what I imagine.
I think what once was, still is.
I fear for my future, based on my past.
I cannot move forward,
If I am constantly held back.
By the chains of my mind that bind me,
I can only be at one place at one time.
My past or my present.
If I hold on to both,
One hand on my past, one on my future,
They each pull me in opposite directions,
Leaving me torn.
Let go of the past.
Grab a hold of the future with both hands.
It's will to be a wild ride!
With my mind, all things are probable.
With my spirit, all things are possible.
poem by Ryan Lee Morris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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We Need Some Laughter In Our Lives
We need some laughter in our lives since laughter makes us happy
I know this bloke he never smiles like baby with wet nappy
He always seems so close to tears for him I do feel pity
Financially well to do and spiritually poor many like him in this City
With a lovely school going daughter and a beautiful wife he ought to feel lighthearted
But happinness out of his life 'twould seem has long departed
A millionaire many times over his business it is thriving
But about him he has the sad look of one barely surviving
He needs some laughter in his life since by laughter he's forsaken
Without laughter happiness sleeps on and never does awaken
Materially wealthy but spiritually poor he always looks sad and lonely
But such is life as some do say and he is not the only
Wealthy person for to feel this way for him I feel some pity
For he is a poor man in some ways one of many in this City.
poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The City Sings the Song of Death
The City sings the song of Death
Death that roams in the streets
Fearless and merciless, its hands smeared with blood
Its clothes drenched, its desire insatiable
It yearns for more bodies, for more and more
And yet more
The City sings the song of Death
A song whose tragic pitch would scare of birds
Were they to listen to its harrowing cadence
A song that makes babies cry and disturbs the old
A song that is sung by every one who lives in the city of Death
In fear, in pain, in terror
For Death itself has come to life
For Death itself, unchained and unchecked, roams around freely
Who shall now question Death?
The City sings the song of Death
My City sings the song of Death
I too sing the song of Death
And so do the millions that live with me
In the City of Death
poem by Abdul Samad
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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