Joseph's Coat
Wounded I sing, tormented I indite,
Thrown down I fall into a bed, and rest:
Sorrow hath chang'd its note: such is his will
Who changeth all things, as him pleaseth best.
For well he knows, if but one grief and smart
Among my many had his full career,
Sure it would carry with it ev'n my heart,
And both would run until they found a bier
To fetch the body; both being due to grief.
But he hath spoil'd the race; and giv'n to anguish
One of Joy's coats, 'ticing it with relief
To linger in me, and together languish.
I live to shew his power, who once did bring
My joys to weep, and now my griefs to sing.
poem by George Herbert
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Related quotes
Softly, O! dropp mine eyes
Softly, O! dropp mine eyes, lest you be dry,
And make my heart with grief to melt and die.
Now pour out tears apace,
Now stay, O heavy case!
O sour sweet woe!
Alas! O grief! O joy! Why strive you so?
Can griefs and joys at once in one poor heart consent?
Then sigh and sing, rejoice, lament.
Ah me! O passions strange and violent!
Was never poor wretch so tormented:
Nor joy, nor grief can make my heart contented.
For while with joy I look on high,
Down, down I fall with grief, and die.
poem by John Wilbye
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Mothers Day2007
She hath my heart, she is my mum.
She hath my heart, she is my only, she is my one.
She hath my heart, though rough winds may blow.
She hath my heart, still her love will flow, her love will always show.
She hath my heart, I thank my lucky stars.
She hath my heart and i have hers.
She hath my heart, i long for her presence.
She hath my heart, her name is essence.
She hath my heart and forever she will.
Lifetimes will come and go, i will love her still
She hath my heart, this fact i cant conceal
Our bond is like sentiment you just cant kill
She hath my heart in times of sorrow.
She hath my heart, yesterday, today and tomorrow.
She hath my heart, my voice will sing.
She hath my heart, she makes the bell in my heart ring.
She hath my heart, in times of trouble.
She wont stumble no i will not let her crumble.
She hath my heart in each and every way
And my love for her grows with each day
She hath my heart for we were once one.
She hath my heart, the heart of the boy inside the man
I hath her heart, the heart we once shared.
Though separated in body the hearts still paired.
She hath my heart i need her near.
She hath my heart my mama dear
She hath my heart and she already knows
In a world of thorny bushes she stands out like rose
She hath my heart for she is always by my side
When the sun sets she is my light, she is my guide.
poem by Soul Child
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Dialogus inter Vram & Skell, duos amnes Ripponam ambientes, & in parte oppidi orientali coeuntes, de morte celeberrimi viri, Ioh. Mallory, Equitis aurati
Vr.
Tell me, good Skell, from mirth to mourning cheer
What so hath chang'd thee, or what moves thy mind?
Hath any troubled late thy Waters cleer?
Or doth thy lovely Nymph now prove unkinde?
Sk.
Nor this, nor that: far greater Grief I knowe,
Which on my wofull Heart doth heavie lie.
Hast thou not heard the cause of common Woe;
The Funerall of famous Mallory?
Vr.
Is Mallory dead? O cruell Fates decree!
Could his great Worth obtaine then no Relief?
O Irow lawes of still-stern Destiny,
Ne'r satisfied with humane Woe and Grief!
Sk.
At his death, Nymphs in liquid Bowrs did weep;
And, shrieking out, did rent their greenish hair:
At his death, Wayling did all places keep:
Both Heaven, and Earth their mourning weeds did wear.
Vr.
Was this the cause wisen sweet sleep clos'd mine eyes
In my moss-matted roome, whiles Nymphs did sing,
That Storm-wingd Boreas, and the thundring Skies,
Me from my bed so suddenly did bring?
Sk.
Since both of Vs then Partners are in woe,
And neither from disastrous Chance are free,
Lets ioyne our streams, and both together goe:
So, that, which two-fold was, one Grief will be.
Vr.
Content: but, thus; that both together we
Doe run t'our Father Oceans larger coast:
Hee'l us imbrace in's glassie Hall; and he,
To ease our Grief, will play the gentle Hoast.
Sk.
May any thing more ioyfull me betide,
Than him to see that rules ith' watry Field?
Hee'l us receiue; and t'us, with weeping dry'd,
He for fresh tears salt waters still will yeeld.
poem by John Ashmore
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Untitled 5
An exile captive, severed from his home,
Torn from the friends he loved in life's sweet spring;
Heart-broken toils, while still his sad thoughts roam
Back to the past which now no joys can bring;
Vainly he seeks compassion and relief
In human hearts around, to cheer of soothe his grief.
As hard the steel, so hard the flinty rock,
Whose grating echoes jest but at his woe;
The quivering iron yields but to the shock,
While down his bosom's height the cold drops flow,
His bleeding hands show many a sanguine spot,
Though seen by human eyes, by human hearts forgot.
There's not a sigh his spirit's grief hath sped,
There's not a dew-drop wrung by tyranny,
Nor yet one scorching tear his sould hath shed,
Nor bloody stain of silent agony,
But God hath seen, and hath recorded true,
To render unto man according to his due.
poem by Owen Suffolk
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Untitled 1
I gladly would sing in a joyous strain,
But my heart of its joy is bereft;
For my young life there is nought but grief and pain,
And a haunting memory left.
Look at the stars how they gleam from the skies
On me with a frosty stare;
Can it be that this world hath no pitying eyes
For the houseless child of care?
Ye that look on me have homes tonight,
And loving ones wait you there;
And the cheerful fire is burning bright,
And young faces are beaming fair.
Though a thousand homes are around I know
'Mong them all there is no home for me:
For I must sleep in the cold white snow,
And the skies must my shelter be.
My life is still in its summer years,
But its flowers can bloom no more;
I weep - and mine are the bitter tears
That are wept for the joys of yore.
Then I cannot be glad, for my heart will cling
To the grief that is all its own:
So wonder not that I only sing
A song with a mournful tone.
poem by Owen Suffolk
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Sonnet 07
Grief dies like joy; the tears upon my cheek
Will disappear like dew. Dear God! I know
Thy kindly Providence hath made it so,
And thank thee for the law. I am too weak
To make a friend of Sorrow, or to wear,
With that dark angel ever by my side
(Though to thy heaven there be no better guide),
A front of manly calm. Yet, for I hear
How woe hath cleansed, how grief can deify,
So weak a thing it seems that grief should die,
And love and friendship with it, I could pray,
That if it might not gloom upon my brow,
Nor weigh upon my arm as it doth now,
No grief of mine should ever pass away.
poem by Henry Timrod
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The Forsaken Lover Describeth And Forsaketh Love
O LOATHSOME place ! where I
Have seen, and heard my dear ;
When in my heart her eye
Hath made her thought appear,
By glimpsing with such grace,—
As fortune it ne would
That lasten any space,
Between us longer should.
As fortune did advance
To further my desire ;
Even so hath fortune's chance
Thrown all amidst the mire.
And that I have deserved,
With true and faithful heart,
Is to his hands reserved,
That never felt a smart.
But happy is that man
That scaped hath the grief,
That love well teach him can,
By wanting his relief.
A scourge to quiet minds
It is, who taketh heed ;
A common plage that binds ;
A travail without meed.
This gift it hath also :
Whoso enjoys it most,
A thousand troubles grow,
To vex his wearied ghost.
And last it may not long ;
The truest thing of all :
And sure the greatest wrong,
That is within this thrall.
But since thou, desert place,
Canst give me no account
Of my desired grace,
That I to have was wont ;
Farewell ! thou hast me taught,
To think me not the first
That love hath set aloft,
And casten in the dust.
poem by Henry Howard
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Dark Hours: The Drunkard's Mother
Dark hours of tearless, sleepless grief,
Of woe, denied the soft relief
Of tears, to soothe the burning smart
That throbs and festers in my heart.
Oft has this grief my soul o'erspread,
Like funeral pall above the dead.
Ah, me! beneath the coffin-lid
Of murdered hopes for ever hid,
My promised joys of love and trust
With them lie mouldering in the dust.
Ah! not in sentimental strain
Of love-sick maid and sighing swain
I sing, who, crossed in hapless love,
The tender anguish deeply prove-
Nor that fierce grief when loss of fame,
Of wealth, of power, the baffled aim
Of worldly schemes, sends to the heart
Keen disappointment's venom'd dart.
Is such thy grief? you ask.-Ah, no!
A darker, deeper, deadlier woe
Is mine. Within its poisonous folds
My writhing heart a serpent holds;
I vainly struggle in the toils,
More closely wind the crushing coils.
No hand but His, to whom is given
All power in earth, all power in heaven,
The hideous reptile can unwind,
My crushed and broken heart upbind.
Lord, speak with power, I Thee implore,
As when, by lone Gennesaret's shore,
As God, Thou gave the high command,
That legion fiends might not withstand.
Oh, speak the words of power again,
All power, all words but Thine are vain;
This demoniac, fiercely driven,
Assaulting man, defying heaven,
'Twere joy ineffable, complete,
To see him sitting at Thy feet,
Renewed in heart, in mind restored,
Oh, speak the word; oh, save him, Lord!
poem by Janet Hamilton
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Sing To Me
Sing to me! Something of sunlight and bloom,
I am so compassed with sorrow and gloom,
I am so sick with the world’s noisse and strife, -
Sing of the beauty and brightness of life –
Sing to me, sing to me!
Sing to me! Something that’s jubilant, glad!
I am so weary, my soul so sad.
All my earth riches are covered with rust,
All my bright dreams are but ashes and dust.
Sing to me, sing to me!
Sing og the blossoms that open in spring,
How the sweet flowers blow, and the long lichens cling,
Say, though the winter is round about me,
There are bright summers and springs yet to be.
Sing to me, sing to me!
Sing me a song full of hope and of truth,
Brimming with all the sweet fancies of youth!
Say, though my sorrow I may not forget,
I have not quite done with happiness yet.
Sing to me, sing to me!
Lay your soft fingers just here, on my cheek;
Turn the light lower – there- no, do not speak,
But sing! My heart thrills at your beautiful voice;
Sing till I turn from my grief and rejoice.
Sing to me, sing to me!
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Life's Tragedy
It may be misery not to sing at all,
And to go silent through the brimming day;
It may be misery never to be loved,
But deeper griefs than these beset the way.
To sing the perfect song,
And by a half-tone lost the key,
There the potent sorrow, there the grief,
The pale, sad staring of Life's Tragedy.
To have come near to the perfect love,
Not the hot passion of untempered youth,
But that which lies aside its vanity,
And gives, for thy trusting worship, truth.
This, this indeed is to be accursed,
For if we mortals love, or if we sing,
We count our joys not by what we have,
But by what kept us from that perfect thing.
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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Man's Medley
Hark, how the birds do sing,
and woods do ring.
All creatures have their joy: and man hath his.
Yet if we rightly measure,
Man's joy and pleasure
Rather hereafter, than in present, is.
To this life things of sense
Make their pretense:
In th'other Angels have a right by birth:
Man ties them both alone,
And makes them one,
With th'one hand touching heav'n, with th'other earth.
In soul he mounts and flies,
In flesh he dies.
He wears a stuff whose thread is coarse and round,
But trimm'd with curious lace
And should take place
After the trimming, not the stuff and ground.
Not that he may not here
Taste of the cheer,
But as birds drink, and straight lift up their head,
So must he sip and think
Of better drink
He may attain to, after he is dead.
But as his joys are double,
So is his trouble.
He hath two winters, other things but one:
Both frosts and thoughts do nip,
And bite his lip;
And he of all things fears two deaths alone.
Yet ev'n the greatest griefs
May be reliefs,
Could he but take them right, and in their ways.
Happy is he, whose heart
Hath found the art
To turn his double pains to double praise.
poem by George Herbert
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Long Live, Wherever You are!
Long live wherever you are!
Let peace spill out of your whole heart.
Knowledge lightens your children.
Scarcity flees from your home.
They shut the door hard to me, the scared,
and kept you off in places not known.
Classes of our race somehow formed have
taken deep roots to spoil! Spoil! Spoil!
Long live wherever you are!
I have sheltered in the north end far off,
not to come back for things simple happen.
You conveyed though words of comfort
to salve my heart rudely wounded! Wounded! Wounded!
Long live wherever you are!
---------
poem by Rajendran Muthiah
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To the memory of my dear Daughter in Law, Mrs. Mercy Bradstreet, who deceased Sept. 6. 1669. in the
And live I still to see Relations gone,
And yet survive to sound this wailing tone;
Ah, woe is me, to write thy Funeral Song,
Who might in reason yet have lived long,
I saw the branches lopt the Tree now fall,
I stood so nigh, it crusht me down withal;
My bruised heart lies sobbing at the Root,
That thou dear Son hath lost both Tree and fruit:
Thou then on Seas sailing to forreign Coast;
Was ignorant what riches thou hadst lost.
But ah too soon those heavy tydings fly,
To strike thee with amazing misery;
Oh how I simpathize with thy sad heart,
And in thy griefs still bear a second part:
I lost a daughter dear, but thou a wife,
Who lov'd thee more (it seem'd) then her own life.
Thou being gone, she longer could not be,
Because her Soul she'd sent along with thee.
One week she only past in pain and woe,
And then her sorrows all at once did go;
A Babe she left before, she soar'd above,
The fifth and last pledg of her dying love,
E're nature would, it hither did arrive,
No wonder it no longer did survive.
So with her Children four, she's now a rest,
All freed from grief (I trust) among the blest;
She one hath left, a joy to thee and me,
The Heavens vouchsafe she may so ever be.
Chear up, (dear Son) thy fainting bleeding heart,
In him alone, that caused all this smart;
What though thy strokes full sad & grievous be,
He knows it is the best for thee and me.
poem by Anne Bradstreet
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Grief Is Never Having To Say I Grieve
Your grief has been too heavy
I don’t know how much grief buries you down
Please let me weep with you
Please let me weep with you
Like the others, I adore you for keeping up with life
I could imagine how you cry in your thoughts
How like blade, grief cuts your heart, your throat,
the top of your skull - slowly
Like wars in history, there are no exits
and there are no choices
If you were there, you had to face those rattling guns
Plead, please plead
Remember “Our Lady of Sorrows'
Mary carried part of the grief Jesus has
been carrying to save us, during the crucifixion
Mary had no one with her
She was helpless, yet in those moments
God’s strength kept her unmovable and brave
How long does grief stay?
People are not things
How long does grief stay?
If you lost something, you can always build it again
How long does grief stay?
If you lost someone, and someone, and someone
again, in any way – they are part of you
For as long as you live, grief changes into
remembering happy days with each other
Grief becomes faithfulness
Grief changes unto faith
Those drops of blood, while Jesus prayed in the garden
Is grief
Grief is never having to say “I grieve, ”
but “I love, ”
This is how long grief stays.
poem by Rosalinda Flores Martinez
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To Sensibility
In SENSIBILITY'S lov'd praise
I tune my trembling reed,
And seek to deck her shrine with bays,
On which my heart must bleed!
No cold exemption from her pain
I ever wish to know;
Cheer'd with her transport, I sustain
Without complaint her woe.
Above whate'er content can give,
Above the charm of ease,
The restless hopes and fears, that live
With her, have power to please.
Where, but for her, were Friendship's power
To heal the wounded heart,
To shorten sorrow's ling'ring hour,
And bid its gloom depart?
'Tis she that lights the melting eye
With looks to anguish dear;
She knows the price of every sigh,
The value of a tear.
She prompts the tender marks of love
Which words can scarce express;
The heart alone their force can prove,
And feel how much they bless.
Of every finer bliss the source!
'Tis she on love bestows
The softer grace, the boundless force,
Confiding passion knows;
When to another, the fond breast
Each thought for ever gives;
When on another leans for rest,
And in another lives!
Quick, as the trembling metal flies
When heat or cold impels,
Her anxious heart to joy can rise,
Or sink where anguish dwells!
Yet though her soul must griefs sustain
Which she alone can know,
And feel that keener sense of pain
Which sharpens every woe;
Though she, the mourners' grief to calm,
Still shares each pang they feel,
And, like the tree distilling balm,
Bleeds others' wounds to heal;
Though she, whose bosom, fondly true,
Has never wish'd to range,
One alter'd look will trembling view,
And scarce can bear the change;
Though she, if death the bands should tear
She vainly thought secure,
Through life must languish in despair,
That never hopes a cure;
Though wounded by some vulgar mind,
Unconscious of the deed,
Who never seeks those wounds to bind,
But wonders why they bleed;--
She oft will heave a secret sigh,
Will shed a lonely tear,
O'er feelings nature wrought so high,
And gave on terms so dear.
Yet who would hard INDIFFERENCE choose,
Whose breast no tears can steep?
Who, for her apathy, would lose
The sacred power to weep?
Though in a thousand objects pain
And pleasure tremble nigh,
Those objects strive to reach in vain
The circle of her eye.
Cold as the fabled god appears
To the poor suppliant's grief,
Who bathes the marble form in tears,
And vainly hopes relief.
Ah, GREVILLE ! why the gifts refuse
To souls like thine allied?
No more thy nature seem to lose,
No more thy softness hide.
No more invoke the playful sprite
To chill, with magic spell,
The tender feelings of delight,
And anguish sung so well;
That envied case thy heart would prove
Were sure too dearly bought
With friendship, sympathy, and love,
And every finer thought.
poem by Helen Maria Williams
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Despiteful thus unto myself, I languish
Despiteful thus unto myself, I languish,
And in disdain, myself from joy I banish,
These secret thoughts enwrap me so in anguish,
That life, I hope. will soon from body vanish;
And to some rest will quickly be conveyed,
That on no joy, while so I liv’d, hath stayed.
poem by John Wilbye
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Stand Alone Complex
I stand alone,
I fall apart.
In my deepest sorrow i grief.
I grief for a touch, for a smile...
I grief for love;
I grief for live...
I grief and i beg,
For the heat of an angel to save me...
For the simplest touch of a lover...
For the complex soul of a writer...
And i fall apart
I stand alone...
I stand alone complex.
28th January 1010
poem by DarkShaya Naiyamoto
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Sir Richard's Song
(A. D. 1066)
I followed my Duke ere I was a lover,
To take from England fief and fee;
But now this game is the other way over--
But now England hath taken me!
I had my horse, my shield and banner,
And a boy's heart, so whole and free;
But now I sing in another manner--
But now England hath taken me!
As for my Father in his tower,
Asking news of my ship at sea,
He will remember his own hour--
Tell him England hath taken me!
As for my Mother in her bower,
That rules my Father so cunningly,
She will remember a maiden's power--
Tell her England hath taken me!
As for my Brother in Rouen City,
A nimble and naughty' page is he,
But he will come to suffer and pity--
Tell him England hath taken me!
As for my little Sister waiting
In the pleasant orchards of Normandie,
Tell her youth is the time for mating--
Tell her England hath taken me!
As for my comrades in camp and highway
That lift their eyebrows scornfully,
Tell them their way is not my way--
Tell them England hath taken me!
Kings and Princes and Barons famed,
Knights and Captains in your degree;
Hear me a little before I am blamed--
Seeing England hath taken me!
Howso great man's strength be reckoned,
There are two things he cannot flee.
Love is the first, and Death is the second-
And Love in England hath taken me!
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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A Meeting
Queen, widowed Mother of a widowed child,
Whose ancient sorrow goeth forth to meet
Her new-born sorrow with parental feet,
And tearful eyes that oft on hers have smiled,
Will not your generous heart be now beguiled
From its too lonely anguish, as You greet
Her anguish, yet more cruel and complete,
And, through her woe, with woe be reconciled?
Or if this may not be, and all the years
Of love's bereavement be withal too brief
To bring slow solace to still lengthening grief
For loss of One whom distance but endears,
Surely to Both will come some sad relief,
Sharing the comfort of commingled tears.
poem by Alfred Austin
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Mountain's grief
Have I ever wept on a mountain's grief?
The sadness so profound, yet so majestic
That thy strongest heart bore since thou wert born
What is so immortal in a grief that finds a spring to express?
Just a solace, an easing out of a pine
The greatest grief in this world
is sculptured on you
So thou stands still, watching forever
Whilst the rest of the world weep
So the river floats on God's tears
Whilst He mourns on thy grief
So the birds sing in melody
Whilst thy heart burns in pain
So the wild rains thunder
Whilst the saddest quake in your heart erupts
In a wave around all thy moist rocks
Copyright: Shamik Bose 2009
poem by Shamik Bose
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