Widows
The world was widowed by the death of Christ:
Vainly its suffering soul for peace has sought
And found it not.
For nothing, nothing, nothing has sufficed
To bring back comfort to the stricken house
From whence has gone the Master and the Spouse.
In its long widowhood the world has striven
To find diversion. It has turned away
From the vast awefull silences of Heaven
(Which answer but with silence when we pray)
And sought for something to assuage its grief.
Some surcease and relief
From sorrow, in pursuit of mortal joys.
It drowned God's stillness in a sea of noise;
It lost God's presence in a blur of forms;
Till, bruised and bleeding with life's brutal storms,
Unto immutable and speechless space
The World lifts up its face,
Its haggard, tear-drenched face,
And cries aloud for faith's supreme reward,
The promised Second Coming of its Lord.
So many widows, widows everywhere,
The whole earth teems with widows.
Guns that blare-
Winged monsters of the air-
And deep-sea monsters leaping through the water,
Hell bent on slaughter,
All these plough paths for widows. Maids at dawn,
And brides at noon, ere eventide pass on
Into the ranks of widows: but to weep
Just for a little space; then will grief sleep
In their young bosoms, where sweet hope belongs,
New love will sing once more its age-old songs,
And life bloom as a rose-tree blooms again
After a night of rain.
There are complacent widows clothed in crêpe
Who simulate a grief that is not real.
Through paths of seeming sorrow they escape
From disappointed hopes to some ideal,
Or, from the penury of unloved wives
Walk forth to opulent lives.
And there are widows who shed all their tears
Just at the first
In one wild burst,
And then go lilting lightly down the years:
Black butterflies, they flit from flower to flower
And live in the thin pleasures of the hour;
Merging their tender memories of the dead
In tenderer dreams of being once more wed.
But there are others: women who have proved
That loving greatly means so being loved.
Women who through full beauteous years have grown
Into the very body, souls, and heart
Of their dear comrades. When death tears apart
Such close-knit bonds as these, and one alone
Out to the larger freer life is called,
And one is left-
Then God in heaven must sometimes be appalled
At the wild anguish of the soul bereft,
And unto His Son must say, 'I did not know
Mortals could suffer so.'
But Christ, remembering Gethsemane,
Will answer softly, 'It was known to Me.'
God's alchemist, old Time, will merge to calm
That bitter anguish; but there is no balm
Save the sweet certitude that each long day
Is one step in a stair
That circles up to where freed spirits stay.
Widows, so many widows everywhere.
The world was widowed by the death of Christ,
And nothing, nothing, nothing has sufficed
To bring back comfort to the stricken house
From whence has gone the Master and the Spouse.
Hasten, dear Lord, with Thy Millennium,
Hasten and come.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Related quotes
Sonnet: On Widows
My heart feels truly sorry for widows,
Who're young and lose their husbands suddenly;
What quirk of fate has given them such woes?
-Of solitude, sexlessness forcefully.
My mind is angered yet, when I behold,
A frantic widow searching for a mate!
Her heart is cold, vixen-like, she is bold;
A female-spider-like, she waits to bait.
My God, how pangs of sex affect women,
Who've tasted love's magic potion on bed?
The widows are much worse off than such men,
Their bosom's fire aren't so easily dead.
Yet, how will widows fight their love onslaughts?
-Companionless, for life, on empty cots?
poem by John Celes
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The Opposing Sex
The Widows of Ashur
Are loud in their wailing:
'No longer the 'masher'
Sees Widows of Ashur!'
So each is a lasher
Of Man's smallest failing.
The Widows of Ashur
Are loud in their wailing.
The Cave of Adullam,
That home of reviling
No wooing can gull 'em
In Cave of Adullam.
No angel can lull 'em
To cease their defiling
The Cave of Adullam,
That home of reviling.
At men they are cursing
The Widows of Ashur;
Themselves, too, for nursing
The men they are cursing.
The praise they're rehearsing
Of every slasher
At men. _They_ are cursing
The Widows of Ashur.
poem by Ambrose Bierce
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Continuous persecution of widows and orphans is a crime. Even the Bible says there is a specific place in hell for those who oppress widows.
quote by Imelda Marcos
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Widows And Warriors
Widows and Warriors
On the plateau a file of women, all in black,
war widows waiting to be given tea, bread
and rice from two men in a pickup truck.
The men spoke hoarsely, scurrying them on,
found their work shameful, would rather have
been up on the mountain fighting, thought
the women superfluous. They had given birth
to sons who now fought in war and to daughters
married to warriors on the mountain.
The women didn’t look the men in the eyes,
spoke softly and briefly amongst themselves
about the health of their grandchildren. They
had miles to walk, back down to meagre soil
and skinny goats.
Soul to Soul is a literary journal
Editor/Publisher: Joneve McCormick
Written by Jan Oskar Hansen
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Queen Of Spades
Written by james young/dennis deyoung
Lead vocals by dennis deyoung
Day into night shes with me
How sweet is her warm embrace
Safe in the scent of jasmine
So safe in her gold and lace
Mornings I find, shes left me
So cold so alone, but aware
I try to escape, she finds me
Oh run though I may, shes there, there, there, there, there...
Luck is a lady whose smile is as cold as a stone
Shell bring you things, many things you might never have known
But when your die is cast shell have the final laugh at you
Shell lock you in a duel, where you come out the fool
Beware of the queen of spades
Her black widows curse might find you yet
Beware of a love that you will regret
Her love means only your death
Day into night shes with me
Turn of a card, shes there
The first time is free, you know
But from now on, pay me, me, me, me, me...
Beware of the queen of spades
Her black widows curse might find you yet
Beware of a love that you will regret
Her love means only your death
song performed by by Styx
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Worth A Shot
What kind of lottery have we won?
When we are here having fun
War-torn countries at the end of a gun
Where the dying has just begun
People dying
Children crying
Widows weeping
Justice sleeping
Contemplate this, it would be a start
With wisdom and effort we may impart
For someone’s existence, a piece of our heart
Making a difference before we depart
People dying
Children crying
Widows weeping
Justice sleeping
Corporate America are you hearing this?
Can anyone see how they are so remiss?
Reaping millions where ignorance is bliss
Their dollars filling their own void, an abyss
People dying
Children crying
Widows weeping
Justice sleeping
It’s what we do with what we’ve got
It’s who we help with who knows what
It’s sharing with those who have not
Don’t you think it’s worth a shot?
poem by Rose Falcone
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Freedom’s Road
For all those who fight on freedom's road.
Hear the cries on freedom’s road above the cannon’s roar
See the faces of anguish in the tide of war
See the smoke, smell the cordite
That covers the dying, ten thousand and more
Innocence dies a lonely death on any battlefield
Boys turn to men and are slaughtered by the score
How can we stop all these wicked wars
Mothers and widows weep the bitter tears of grief
There is no easy path to take when you fight on freedom’s road
poem by David Harris
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Boyhood
Were you to ask what age of womanhood
Brings most delight, producing most of good,
I should, to quote a phrase much used in rhyme,
“Turn back the leaflets in the Book of Time.”
To find the page, whereon, in letters bright,
Is written clear, my first ecstatic night.
I was a boy attuned to passion’s strain,
I knew its music and I knew its pain,
I longed for—something—but, I was a boy;
I knew not how to change my pain to joy.
But Heaven has given to earth, in its dire needs,
No sweeter thing than widows, in their weeds,
And in the household, where I ruled supreme,
A widow lived, a sorrowing, throbbing dream.
I was her comfort. Many times, at night,
When I, awakened by some childish fright,
Cried out to her, she took me to her side,
And kissed me till my fears were pacified.
She was my confidant. My childish fears,
My hopes and dreams and all my boyish tears
Found comfort sweet upon that loving breast
Where all perplexities were set at rest.
One night, worn out with tossing to and fro,
In longings vain which boyhood’s night must know,
I dared to make pretence of sudden fright,
That I might see that figure, clad in white,
Come stealing to my side to whisper low:
“What makes my precious darling tremble so?”
All ye who cannot sympathize, stop here.
I speak in tenderness and hold most dear
The memory of that sweet transition hour,
When Nature first revealed her wondrous power.
My heart still throbs as I remember when
I joined the ranks of sturdy little men.
I know not now, what courage made me dare,
But, pillowed close, upon her bosom fair,
A truant hand went wandering far astray
And found—that night hath greater charms than day.
As mighty Mars, full statured, in an hour,
From great Athena’s helmet, in his power,
Sprang forth full armoured, at the will of Jove,
So I sprang forth, equipped and armed for love.
With new-found strength, I ceased to be afraid
And something wild within would not be stayed.
Disarmed, perhaps, by hungry widowhood.
She could not check me, even if she would
And kisses wild were riotously pressed
On starving lips too long left uncaressed,
And roses red, upon the white flesh burned,
The while she murmured: “Child! where have you learned?”
I knew my madness, but my heart was fire
And all was swept away in my desire.
Her very gown of daintiest, filmiest lace,
Seemed cumbersome to me and out of place;
I reached and tore it, throat to hem, to find—
How cruel Fate has been to those born blind.
For even the moonbeams, stealing through the bars,
Turned back to whisper to the twinkling stars,
And tip-toed out again to realms of space,
But left the memory of her blushing face.
And when, at last, her beating heart stood still,
As though no more subservient to her will,
And when with fluttering breath, she closed her eyes,
I seemed to lose her, in a mist of sighs.
My senses swam as though a bursting star
Had set on fire the cloudland realms afar,
For one brief moment, I was lost in fear
That all I held so passionately dear
Might chide me as she never had before,
And hold me in her clinging arms no more.
I was a boy—unversed in Nature’s needs,
Unlearned of a widow’s ways, without their weeds.
She was not wanton. Nay! she was a woman.
Whose wakened, passionate heart was truly human.
And just when love was bursting into flower,
The fates, relentless, sent her saddest hour,
And, torn apart, from all she held most dear,
Time’s healing touch had dried the falling tear.
She loved me. I could feel her bosom stir
And strive to soothe my turbulent thoughts of her.
But boon companions who have loved for long,
Draw wavering lines betwixt the right and wrong.
And who shall say that love, new-born like this,
Must never know the madness of a kiss!
And who shall say it was her duty clear
To let me find a different atmosphere
In which to learn the mysteries of the world,
Where unclad sin, in wicked eddies whirled!
I must not whisper, in a careless way,
The thoughts that came to me at dawn of day.
And yet—when asked what age of womanhood
Brings most delight, producing most of good,
I turn to widowhood with tender touch,
And say: “Stop her, for widows know so much.”
poem by from The Point of View
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Wind And The Sea
I STOOD by the shore at the death of day,
As the sun sank flaming red;
And the face of the waters that spread away
Was as gray as the face of the dead.
And I heard the cry of the wanton sea
And the moan of the wailing wind;
For love's sweet pain in his heart had he,
But the gray old sea had sinned.
The wind was young and the sea was old,
But their cries went up together;
The wind was warm and the sea was cold,
For age makes wintry weather.
So they cried aloud and they wept amain,
Till the sky grew dark to hear it;
And out of its folds crept the misty rain,
In its shroud, like a troubled spirit.
For the wind was wild with a hopeless love,
And the sea was sad at heart
At many a crime that he wot of,
Wherein he had played his part.
He thought of the gallant ships gone down
By the will of his wicked waves;
And he thought how the churchyard in the town
Held the sea-made widows' graves.
The wild wind thought of the love he had left
Afar in an Eastern land,
And he longed, as long the much bereft,
For the touch of her perfumed hand.
In his winding wail and his deep-heaved sigh
His aching grief found vent;
While the sea looked up at the bending sky
And murmured: 'I repent.'
But e'en as he spoke, a ship came by,
That bravely ploughed the main,
And a light came into the sea's green eye,
And his heart grew hard again.
Then he spoke to the wind: 'Friend, seest thou not
Yon vessel is eastward bound?
Pray speed with it to the happy spot
Where thy loved one may be found.'
And the wind rose up in a dear delight,
And after the good ship sped;
But the crafty sea by his wicked might
Kept the vessel ever ahead.
Till the wind grew fierce in his despair,
And white on the brow and lip.
He tore his garments and tore his hair,
And fell on the flying ship.
And the ship went down, for a rock was there,
And the sailless sea loomed black;
While burdened again with dole and care,
The wind came moaning back.
And still he moans from his bosom hot
Where his raging grief lies pent,
And ever when the ships come not,
The sea says: 'I repent,'
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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Van Diemens Land
Hold me now, hold me now
Till this hour has gone around
And Im gone on the rising tide
For to face van diemens land
Its a bitter pill I swallow here
To be rent from one so dear
We fought for justice not for gain
But the magistrate sent me away
Now kings will rule and the poor will toil
And tear their hands as they tear the soil
But a day will come in the dawning age
When an honest man sees an honest wage
Hold me now, hold me now
Till this hour has gone around
And Im gone on the rising tide
For to face van diemens land
Still the gunman rules and the widows pay
A scarlet coat and a black beret
They thought that blood and sacrifice
Could out of death bring forth a life
Hold me now, hold me now
Till this hour has gone around
And Im gone on the rising tide
For to face van diemens land
song performed by by U2
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I wonder who was this guy...! ! ! ! !
I wonder why…
Am I denied
A ride on the swing.
I wonder why…
Am I deprived
Of Colours in my life.
I wonder why…
My bangles were broken
And my bindi wiped…
I wonder why…
On my birth, my parents
Cursed their fate.
I wonder why…
Why am I alive
If all wait for me to die.
I wonder why…
I am not allowed
To play like a child.
I wonder why…
When I can speak
I have no voice.
I wonder why…
I was given in marriage
When I had not come of age.
I wonder why…
I have to wear white
And people want me out of sight.
I wonder why…
They call me a widow
And even hate my shadow.
I wonder why...
do I have to mourn and cry
for an unknown guy.
I wonder why…
am condemned
to pretend to live.. am dead
Written after reading an article in a leading Indian magazine, about the plight of child widows, in Desert state of Rajasthan. It’s a long dark tunnel for thousands of child
Widows. Govt. doesn't even have census figures
Mamta Agarwal
12.04.09
poem by Mamta Agarwal
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The Sunderland Calamity
'Twas in the town of Sunderland, and in the year of 1883,
That about 200 children were launch'd into eternity
While witnessing an entertainment in Victoria Hall,
While they, poor little innocents, to God for help did call.
The entertainment consisted of conjuring, and the ghost illusion play,
Also talking waxworks, and living marionettes, and given by Mr. Fay;
And on this occasion, presents were to be given away,
But in their anxiety of getting presents they wouldn't brook delay,
And that is the reason why so many lives have been taken away;
But I hope their precious souls are in heaven to-day.
As soon as the children began to suspect
That they would lose their presents by neglect,
They rush'd from the gallery, and ran down the stairs pell-mell,
And trampled one another to death, according as they fell.
As soon as the catastrophe became known throughout the boro'
The people's hearts were brim-full of sorrow,
And parents rush'd to the Hall terror-stricken and wild,
And each one was anxious to find their own child.
Oh! it must have been a most horrible sight
To see the dear little children struggling with all their might
To get out at the door at the foot of the stair,
While one brave little boy did repeat the Lord's Prayer.
The innocent children were buried seven or eight layers deep,
The sight was heart-rending and enough to make one weep;
It was a most affecting spectacle and frightful to behold
The corpse of a little boy not above four years old,
Who had on a top-coat much too big for him,
And his little innocent face was white and grim,
And appearing to be simply in a calm sleep-
The sight was enough to make one's flesh to creep.
The scene in the Hall was heart-sickening to behold,
And enough to make one's blood run cold.
To see the children's faces, blackened, that were trampled to death,
And their parents lamenting o'er them with bated breath.
Oh! it was most lamentable for to hear
The cries of the mothers for their children dear;
And many mothers swooned in grief away
At the sight of their dead children in grim array.
There was a parent took home a boy by mistake,
And after arriving there his heart was like to break
When it was found to be the body of a neighbour's child;
The parent stood aghast and was like to go wild.
A man and his wife rush'd madly in the Hall,
And loudly in grief on their children they did call,
And the man searched for his children among the dead
Seemingly without the least fear or dread.
And with his finger pointing he cried. "That's one! two!
Oh! heaven above, what shall I do;"
And still he kept walking on and murmuring very low.
Until he came to the last child in the row;
Then he cried, "Good God! all my family gone
And now I am left to mourn alone;"
And staggering back he cried, "Give me water, give me water!"
While his heart was like to break and his teeth seem'd to chatter.
Oh, heaven! it must have been most pitiful to see
Fathers with their dead children upon their knee
While the blood ran copiously from their mouths and ears
And their parents shedding o'er them hot burning tears.
I hope the Lord will comfort their parents by night and by day,
For He gives us life and He takes it away,
Therefore I hope their parents will put their trust in Him,
Because to weep for the dead it is a sin.
Her Majesty's grief for the bereaved parents has been profound,
And I'm glad to see that she has sent them £50;
And I hope from all parts of the world will flow relief
To aid and comfort the bereaved parents in their grief.
poem by William Topaz McGonagall
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Sonnet: Money Buys Sinful Things
Money can get a person murdered but
It can’t ev’r bring back life that has once left;
Money can build a palace from a hut!
It can’t give widows, husbands, love bereft.
Money can give love-making hours and lust;
It cannot wipe the sin of adultery;
Money can make idols that go to dust,
But can’t wipe tears, stop wars, crimes, misery.
Money can make a man tell false witness;
It cannot stifle justice of our God;
Money can buy a harem to Caress,
But not the Word of God who is the Lord!
Money can buy most things on earth but ne’er
A place in Heaven, the least however!
poem by John Celes
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The beloved turned sisters
Three women about whom he was crazy
About fifty years ago in his youth
Are now free, as widows, for him to renew.
Desire for them dead, they look like sisters.
01.08.2012
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Reentry of chance
Four women who were in love with me
In my youth have now become widows
In succession after fifty years.
Not a widower as I'm, I am helpless.
23.10.2012
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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If I Ever Marry, I'll Marry A Maid
If ever I marry, I'll marry a maid;
To marry a widow, I am sore afraid:
For maids they are simple, and never will grutch,
But widows full oft, as they say, know too much.
A maid is so sweet, and so gentle of kind,
That a maid is the wife I will choose to my mind
A widow is froward, and never will yield;
Or if such there be, you will meet them but seeld.
A maid ne'er complaineth, do what so you will;
But what you mean well, a widow takes ill:
A widow will make you a drudge and a slave,
And, cost ne'er so much, she will ever go brave.
A maid is so modest, she seemeth a rose
When it first beginneth the bud to unclose;
But a widow full-blowen full often deceives,
And the next wind that bloweth shakes down all her leaves.
The widows be lovely, I never gainsay,
But too well all their beauty they know to display;
But a maid hath so great hidden beauty in store,
She can spare to a widow, yet never be poor.
Then, if ever I marry, give me a fresh maid,
If to marry with any I be not afraid;
But to marry with any, it asketh much care;
And some bachelors hold they are best as they are.
poem by Anonymous Americas
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Love, Grief, Death, Peace and Life Make War
Love, grief, death, peace, and life make war.
Within the grasps of victory, here lies grief.
Striving to keep a soul alive, thriving for life
whispers of sanity fade from the sight of death.
An outstretched limb pleading for a touch of peace
as a memory of happiness fills the heart with love.
Controlling senses fester upon a long lost love,
breathing in deep, it’s the smell of a war.
Muffled cries creep into your soul, pleading for peace.
You lick your blood stained lips, tasting the bitter grief.
piercing voices thunder upon the ground, accepting death
as a memory of loneliness fills their heart with an absence of life.
Tears of blood come forth into a dimension of twisted life.
The air, heavy and hot, hover over you ridding the land of any former love.
A chorus of saints and sinners sing to you, singing the song of death,
”O come ye child, come into my arms and rid yourself of this war.
Gather your mind and venture to the morrow, leaving behind this haunting grief,
for it is not your fault that this world does not know peace.”
You close your eyes, feeling the sensation of eternal peace.
You can not move any aching limb, within an inch of life
you follow the scent of reigning mud, caking itself to the world’s own grief.
Wandering past the forgotten lives to seek the one true love
that carries upon it’s shoulders, a burden of war.
This land can no longer hold itself with peace as all the peace has turned to death.
Forging itself upon your spirit, the lies no longer live, now it is only death
that caresses your body like a mother so tender, illuminating the one and only peace.
Taunting you to go and be afraid no more, taunting and taunting, this is war.
With one last plea, you beg and cry for the voices to take your life
as you know that the searching prisms of hope will find your love
and they will abolish the need of any misery and any grief.
Once more do the saints and sinners sing of your grief
only this time, there is no mourning of war and death.
They’ve come to pour into your heart, a sound so divine. It is love.
”Dear child, dear child, no more shall you weep, we are here, we’re your peace.
Come with us to a land so pure, where love is eternal and death is not near. We will give you life.
With a trust so deep, take our hands and no more, no more, shall this be your burden of war.”
In times of sorrow and fear, lost is the value of love and peace.
All is forgotten while caged by grief and watching the slaughter of life.
You watch your fallen brothers, reaching for help, you hear the despair in all their voices.
You’re the saint and sinner, giving them hope.
You cease your thoughts, you must fight on.
You aim your gun, praying for death. This is war.
poem by Mason Letoto
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Hope Christ Gives
Many may sorrow and may grieve, but, all those who truly believe,
Have a hope beyond this place, a hope provided by God’s Grace,
When at the passing of a soul, from the earth, they become whole,
And now in Heaven and at peace, in life with God that won’t cease.
Passing from earth, filled with sins, pure life in Heaven now begins,
As the soul enters into Eternal Life; all those who trust Jesus Christ,
And Born of God, from above, as they accepted the Savior’s Love,
When He died at Calvary for them, so that they could be born again.
Made alive in Christ, never to die, though a body before us may lie,
That body is only an earthly tent, while their soul, to Heaven is sent,
To a world that they’ve never seen, a place totally pure and pristine,
Where they shall be the same, but, absent of all struggles and pain.
Now absent of all worry and fears, there’s no more crying and tears;
We may be weeping at their death, but they now have eternal breath,
They’re living now to die no more, having begun to live forevermore,
Where there will be no more night, with the Lamb being all their Light.
This Eternal Hope is for all of us, who accept as Savior Christ Jesus,
This is a Hope for all of those, who know over death Christ has rose,
This future Hope for us is assured, when we know The Lamb as Lord,
Though He died, Christ now lives; this is that Hope, our Savior gives.
(Copyright ©01/2011)
To A Friend In Bereavement
No comfort, nay, no comfort. Yet would I
In Sorrow's cause with Sorrow intercede.
Burst not the great heart,-this is all I plead-
Ah sentence it to suffer, not to die.
'Comfort?' If Jesus wept at Bethany,
-That doze and nap of Death-how may we bleed
Who watch the long sleep that is sleep indeed!
Pointing to Heaven I but remind you why
On earth you still must mourn. He who, being bold
For life-to-come, is false to the past sweet
Of Mortal life, hath killed the world above.
For why to live again if not to meet?
And why to meet if not to meet in love?
And why in love if not in that dear love of old?
poem by Sydney Thompson Dobell
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Widows comfort themselves when they remarry, widowers take revenge.