O Mors! Quam Amara Est Memoria Tua Homini Pacem Habenti In Substantiis Suis
Exceeding sorrow
Consumeth my sad heart!
Because to-morrow
We must depart,
Now is exceeding sorrow
All my part!
Give over playing,
Cast thy viol away:
Merely laying
Thine head my way:
Prithee, give over playing,
Grave or gay.
Be no word spoken;
Weep nothing: let a pale
Silence, unbroken
Silence prevail!
Prithee, be no word spoken,
Lest I fail!
Forget to-morrow!
Weep nothing: only lay
In silent sorrow
Thine head my way:
Let us forget to-morrow,
This one day!
poem by Ernest Christopher Dowson
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Related quotes
BÉranger's "broken fiddle"
I
There, there, poor dog, my faithful friend,
Pay you no heed unto my sorrow:
But feast to-day while yet you may,--
Who knows but we shall starve to-morrow!
II
"Give us a tune," the foemen cried,
In one of their profane caprices;
I bade them "No"--they frowned, and, lo!
They dashed this innocent in pieces!
III
This fiddle was the village pride--
The mirth of every fête enhancing;
Its wizard art set every heart
As well as every foot to dancing.
IV
How well the bridegroom knew its voice,
As from its strings its song went gushing!
Nor long delayed the promised maid
Equipped for bridal, coy and blushing.
V
Why, it discoursed so merrily,
It quickly banished all dejection;
And yet, when pressed, our priest confessed
I played with pious circumspection.
VI
And though, in patriotic song,
It was our guide, compatriot, teacher,
I never thought the foe had wrought
His fury on the helpless creature!
VII
But there, poor dog, my faithful friend,
Pay you no heed unto my sorrow;
I prithee take this paltry cake,--
Who knows but we shall starve to-morrow!
VIII
Ah, who shall lead the Sunday choir
As this old fiddle used to do it?
Can vintage come, with this voice dumb
That used to bid a welcome to it?
IX
It soothed the weary hours of toil,
It brought forgetfulness to debtors;
Time and again from wretched men
It struck oppression's galling fetters.
X
No man could hear its voice, and hate;
It stayed the teardrop at its portal;
With that dear thing I was a king
As never yet was monarch mortal!
XI
Now has the foe--the vandal foe--
Struck from my hands their pride and glory;
There let it lie! In vengeance, I
Shall wield another weapon, gory!
XII
And if, O countrymen, I fall,
Beside our grave let this be spoken:
"No foe of France shall ever dance
Above the heart and fiddle, broken!"
XIII
So come, poor dog, my faithful friend,
I prithee do not heed my sorrow,
But feast to-day while yet you may,
For we are like to starve to-morrow.
poem by Eugene Field
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The Beauti Of Sorrow
Beauti of sorrow
vast as the sea
eve of the morrow
inner expanse of me
conceptually multiplied
virtually personified
politically religified
perceptually cubified
Beatui of sorrow
vast as the sea
eve of the morrow
inner expanse of me
life is a beauty
living our prize
to share them our duty*
effects all our lives*
Beatui of sorrow
vast as the sea
eve of the morrow
inner expanse of me
running reel of thoughts
projection of the mind
independent performing plots
and a function to define
Beatui of sorrow
vast as the sea
eve of the morrow
inner expanse of me
many a different beauties
shine in a single sorrow
many a different evenings
raise a plethora of tomorrows
Beatui of sorrow
vast as the sea
eve of the morrow
inner expanse of me
contemplation of all thats left
the final mystery announced
a souls a speck of a black hole's death
so evil, and good renounce
Beatui of sorrow
vast as the sea
eve of the morrow
inner expanse of me
sorrow isn't knowing now
knowing hurts so much
hurt is hope that holds you down
ego is a common crutch
Beatui of sorrow
vast as the sea
eve of the morrow
inner expanse of me
*Changed Line From:
[to share it our duty-original-2.26.10]
[the purpose of our lives-original-2.26.10]
poem by Tim caffery
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There's No To-Morrow
Two long had Lov'd, and now the Nymph desir'd,
The Cloak of Wedlock, as the Case requir'd;
Urg'd that, the Day he wrought her to this Sorrow,
He Vow'd, that he wou'd marry her To-Morrow.
Agen he Swears, to shun the present Storm,
That he, To-Morrow, will that Vow perform.
The Morrows in their due Successions came;
Impatient still on Each, the pregnant Dame
Urg'd him to keep his Word, and still he swore the same.
When tir'd at length, and meaning no Redress,
But yet the Lye not caring to confess,
He for his Oath this Salvo chose to borrow,
That he was Free, since there was no To-Morrow;
For when it comes in Place to be employ'd,
'Tis then To-Day; To-Morrow's ne'er enjoy'd.
The Tale's a Jest, the Moral is a Truth;
To-Morrow and To-Morrow, cheat our Youth:
In riper Age, To-Morrow still we cry,
Not thinking, that the present Day we Dye;
Unpractis'd all the Good we had Design'd;
There's No To-Morrow to a Willing Mind.
poem by Anne Kingsmill Finch
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Silence
I awake to silence and in silence I sleep
Silence to silent me, I silently weep
Away in silence for silence to hear
The sorrow in between both mine ear.
I think in silence, I mediate in peace
Thinking peacefully in silence I cease
All the sorrow that embosoms me
All the silence, that silence be
Whatever silence is, for silence tis
My beauty, my desire, my Adonis
poem by Kevin Michael Murphy
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Happiness May Come Later....
there is always
a sorrow inside us
do not be shy
say a little
we, men, do not want
to tell about this sorrow
women know that
but just like us they are not saying anything
it is this respect for sorrow
that makes it dignified
well kept,
well minded, but never spoken
when you share it with someone else
what good will it give her?
she has also her own sorrow
inside her
no matter how well dressed
no one wants to take it
it is the dignity of sorrow
to be silent and just be itself
it will always be here
waiting for her sister.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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B: XVI: Fear In Sorrow
Sorrow must like
putting itself on show.
Yet you never see it all.
It doesn't have that winning drive
and keeps some back to stay alive,
afraid that saying, 'All is sorrow',
would spell the end to morrow.
'I have no illusions, friend, '
said sorrow, knowing everything.
'I will give you some relief
from the unknown deep.
Tonight I'll give you dreamless sleep.'
poem by Douglas Scotney
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Undying Tomorrow
Undying Tomorrow
By: Adam M. Snow
An undying tomorrow;
friends of sorrow;
lay to rest;
on the night of morrow.
Mark of raw;
torments and flaw;
lives on forever;
with silence of maw.
All hearts are broken;
lies are spoken;
the hangman comes;
the gallows oaken.
Death is forsaken;
lives are taken;
no rest for the wicked;
as the reapers awaken.
All eyes are scorn;
the people mourn;
nameless ones are lost;
no child is born.
Souls are caged;
the peoples outraged;
all children died;
the dogwood aged.
An undying tomorrow;
dying of sorrow;
awakens the beast;
of the final morrow.
No need to mend;
nothing left to fend;
all hope is gone;
this is the end.
poem by Adam M. Snow
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O sweet song of sorrow play thy song in me
O sweet song of sorrow play thy song in me
Lonely, alone with thee, in perfect harmony
Sorrow don't ever leave me; I need thy loyalty
Without thy sweet song, I am nothing, with no sympathy
Without thy empathy, breathing in me, sorrow thou art beauty
The beauty in me, so weep thy soul in me
And in thy sweet cry, my soul shall flow free
To thine heart, to thine love, to thine eternal glory
Sorrow, sweet sorrow, thou play thy song in me
Me as sorrowful, as thy soul's sorrow be…
poem by Kevin Michael Murphy
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Here For Today
No more songs of sorrow
Lamenting things gone past us
Live today and hope for morrow
Hold tight the moments joyous.
Maybe the morrow will not find us
Our footsteps will not ring on the grass
We have only today for a fresh start
To live anew and love with all heart.
No more songs of sorrow
It's time to break from the past
Even if there comes no morrow
Live moments that fly away fast.
poem by Pradip Chattopadhyay
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Georgie Sails To-Morrow!
For sixteen years, a merry, laughing maiden,
I have warbl'd only songs of joy;
And in this heart, so very lightly laden,
Happy thoughts have ever found employ.
But times will change! and now there comes a sorrow,
Which bids me ev'ry joy resign:
My Georgie sails for China seas tomorrow,
And he knows not yet that he is mine--
My Georgie sails for China seas tomorrow,
And he knows not yet that he is mine--
How should he know? 'twas from a dream awaking,
When they told me he and I must part;
For not until the tie was nearly breaking,
Had I felt its tendrils on my heart.
These lips are seal'd--I cannot tell my sorrow,
And hope must die without a sign:
Oh, who can tell the fearful scenes of danger,
And the hardships Georgie dear must know!
On stormy seas, in foreign lands a stranger,
Oh, I cannot, cannot let him go!
My heart will break! where shall I patience borrow,
For months thro' which I can but pine?
The last farewell--that solemn word is spoken,
And my spirit trembles with its thrill;
His manly tones, by deep emotion broken,
In my inmost soul are ringing still.
But strange, wild joy is mingled with my sorrow,
And smiles among my tear-drops shine:
My Georgie sails for China seas to-morrow,
But he knows--he knows that he is mine.
My Georgie sails for China seas to-morrow,
But he knows--he knows that he is mine.
poem by Henry Clay Work
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A Year Ago
I'm sitting by the fire tonight,
The cat purrs on the rug;
The room's abrim with rosy light,
Suavely soft and snug;
And safe and warm from dark and storm
It's cosiness I hug.
Then petulant the window pane
Quakes in the tempest moan,
And cries: "Forlornly in the rain
There starkly streams a stone,
Where one so dear who shared your cheer
Now lies alone, alone.
Go forth! Go forth into the gale
And pass and hour in prayer;
This night of sorrow do not fail
The one you deemed so fair,
The girl below the bitter snow
Who died your child to bear."
So wails the wind, yet here I sit
Beside the ember's glow;
My grog is hot, my pipe is lit,
And loth am I to go
To her who died a ten-month bride,
Only a year ago.
To-day we weep: each morrow is
A littling of regret;
The saddest part of sorrow is
That we in time forget . . .
Christ! Let me go to graveyard woe,--
Yea, I will sorrow yet.
poem by Robert William Service
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Why so pale and wan, fond lover?
Why so pale and wan, fond lover?
Prithee, why so pale?--
Will, when looking well can't move her,
Looking ail prevail?
Prithee, why so pale?
Why so dull and mute, young sinner?
Prithee, why so mute?--
Will, when speaking well can't win her,
Saying nothing do't?
Prithee, why so mute?
Quit, quit, for shame! this will not move,
This cannot take her--
If of herself she will not love,
Nothing can make her:
The Devil take her!
poem by John Suckling
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Song
Why so pale and wan fond lover?
Prithee why so pale?
Will, when looking well can't move her,
Looking ill prevail?
Prithee why so pale?
Why so dull and mute young sinner?
Prithee why so mute?
Will, when speaking well can't win her,
Saying nothing do't?
Prithee why so mute?
Quit, quit for shame, this will not move,
This cannot take her;
If of herself she will not love,
Nothing can make her;
The devil take her.
poem by John Suckling
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Four Seasons
Maple leaves of yesterday
Rainbow leaves of morrow
Autumn strolls on its way
Time it fails to borrow.
Ice crystals of yesterday
Snow flowers of morrow
Winter roves on a dray
Time it fails to borrow.
Oak leaves of yesterday
Verdant leaves of morrow
April flows into May
Time it fails to borrow.
Blue blossoms of yesterday
Forget-me-not of morrow
Summer rides a railway
Love overcomes sorrow.
poem by Paul Hartal
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Today I Say Thank You For The Silence
thank you for the silence
when you tap my shoulder without saying a word
that was all that i need
thank you for the smile
without uttering any word that smile has spoken more than
what i need for the day
when i finally hit the rocks at the bottom
thank you for the company
it was more than the flowers and the money and the food
even for that short moment
way beyond my longer days of sorrow
you have given me comfort
now, in my solitude, i need more of the silence
thank you, you also know how to leave me
always at the right time
when silence becomes so precious
when we call it
golden
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Envoy
Go, songs, for ended is our brief, sweet play;
Go, children of swift joy and tardy sorrow:
And some are sung, and that was yesterday,
And some unsung, and that may be to-morrow.
Go forth; and if it be o'er stony way,
Old joy can lend what newer grief must borrow:
And it was sweet, and that was yesterday,
And sweet is sweet, though purchas-ed with sorrow.
Go, songs, and come not back from your far way:
And if men ask you why ye smile and sorrow,
Tell them ye grieve, for your hearts know To-day,
Tell them ye smile, for your eyes know To-morrow.
poem by Francis Thompson
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Song of Hope
O sweet To-morrow! -
After to-day
There will away
This sense of sorrow.
Then let us borrow
Hope, for a gleaming
Soon will be streaming,
Dimmed by no gray -
No gray!
While the winds wing us
Sighs from The Gone,
Nearer to dawn
Minute-beats bring us;
When there will sing us
Larks of a glory
Waiting our story
Further anon -
Anon!
Doff the black token,
Don the red shoon,
Right and retune
Viol-strings broken;
Null the words spoken
In speeches of rueing,
The night cloud is hueing,
To-morrow shines soon -
Shines soon!
poem by Thomas Hardy
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To-Morrow
When you’re suffering hard for your sins, old man,
When you wake to trouble and sleep ill—
Oh, this is the clack of the middle class,
‘Win back the respect of the people!’
You are weak, you’re a fool, or a drunken brute
When you’re deep in trouble and sorrow;
But walk down the street in a decent suit,
And their hats will be off to-morrow! Old Chap—
And their hats will be off to-morrow!
They cant and they cackle—‘Redeem the Past!’
Who never had past worth redeeming:
Your soul seems dead, but you’ll find at last
That somewhere your soul lay dreaming.
You may stagger down-hill in a beer-stained coat,
You may loaf, you may cadge and borrow—
But walk down the street with a ten-pound note
And their hats will be off to-morrow! Old Man—
Yes, their hats will be off to-morrow!
But stick to it, man! for your old self’s sake,
Though to brood on the past is human;
Hold up for the sake of the mate who was true,
And the sake of the Other Woman.
And as for the rest, you may take off your hat
And banish all signs of sorrow;
You may take their hands, but in spite of that,
Can they win your respect to-morrow? Old Man—
Can they win your respect to-morrow?
poem by Henry Lawson
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Oh, Fly Not, Pleasure
Oh fly not, Pleasure, pleasant--hearted Pleasure.
Fold me thy wings, I prithee, yet and stay.
For my heart no measure
Knows nor other treasure
To buy a garland for my love to--day.
And thou too, Sorrow, tender--hearted Sorrow.
Thou grey--eyed mourner, fly not yet away.
For I fain would borrow
Thy sad weeds to--morrow
To make a mourning for love's yesterday.
The voice of Pity, Time's divine dear Pity,
Moved me to tears. I dared not say them nay,
But went forth from the city
Making thus my ditty
Of fair love lost for ever and a day.
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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Dost Thou Not Care?
I love and love not: Lord, it breaks my heart
To love and not to love.
Thou veiled within Thy glory, gone apart
Into Thy shrine, which is above,
Dost Thou not love me, Lord, or care
For this mine ill?—
I love thee here or there,
I will accept thy broken heart, lie still.
Lord, it was well with me in time gone by
That cometh not again,
When I was fresh and cheerful, who but I?
I fresh, I cheerful: worn with pain
Now, out of sight and out of heart;
O Lord, how long?—
I watch thee as thou art,
I will accept thy fainting heart, be strong.
'Lie still,' 'be strong,' to-day; but, Lord, to-morrow,
What of to-morrow, Lord?
Shall there be rest from toil, be truce from sorrow,
Be living green upon the sward
Now but a barren grave to me,
Be joy for sorrow?—
Did I not die for thee?
Did I not live for thee? Leave Me to-morrow.
poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
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