A Woman's Fancy
'Ah Madam; you've indeed come back here?
'Twas sad-your husband's so swift death,
And you away! You shouldn't have left him:
It hastened his last breath.'
'Dame, I am not the lady you think me;
I know not her, nor know her name;
I've come to lodge here-a friendless woman;
My health my only aim.'
She came; she lodged. Wherever she rambled
They held her as no other than
The lady named; and told how her husband
Had died a forsaken man.
So often did they call her thuswise
Mistakenly, by that man's name,
So much did they declare about him,
That his past form and fame
Grew on her, till she pitied his sorrow
As if she truly had been the cause-
Yea, his deserter; and came to wonder
What mould of man he was.
'Tell me my history!' would exclaim she;
'OUR history,' she said mournfully.
'But YOU know, surely, Ma'am?' they would answer,
Much in perplexity.
Curious, she crept to his grave one evening,
And a second time in the dusk of the morrow;
Then a third time, with crescent emotion
Like a bereaved wife's sorrow.
No gravestone rose by the rounded hillock;
-'I marvel why this is?' she said.
- 'He had no kindred, Ma'am, but you near.'
-She set a stone at his head.
She learnt to dream of him, and told them:
'In slumber often uprises he,
And says: 'I am joyed that, after all, Dear,
You've not deserted me!'
At length died too this kinless woman,
As he had died she had grown to crave;
And at her dying she besought them
To bury her in his grave.
Such said, she had paused; until she added:
'Call me by his name on the stone,
As I were, first to last, his dearest,
Not she who left him lone!'
And this they did. And so it became there
That, by the strength of a tender whim,
The stranger was she who bore his name there,
Not she who wedded him.
poem by Thomas Hardy
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Related quotes
Andrew Mcauley
He is out there with Nature his is a watery grave
The man who loved adventure but he was truly brave
His kayak was found capsized just out of Milford Sound
A day or two and he would be with family and friends and safe on solid ground.
Andrew Mcauley the Australian adventurer was so close to history
To be the first to kayak from Tasmania to New Zealand across the Pacific sea
He was a brave adventurer one who lived without fear
And he must have known to history that he was very near.
He did not make it to land this time luck not on his side
But he was a true adventurer and on his greatest adventure he died
He went so close to history till things for him went wrong
And amongst the great adventurers he surely does belong.
Somewhere in the vast Pacific his last remains now lay
And he did not live as many do for to grow old and gray
Dear Lady Luck ran out on him in his greatest ever test
And he died in his late thirties doing what he liked doing best.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Lois House
Air -- "Saphrona's Farewell"
Come all ye young people of every degree,
Come give your attention one moment to me;
It's of a young couple I now will relate,
And of their misfortunes and of their sad fate.
One was a young damsel, both blooming and fair,
The other a young man, his beauty was rare;
He loved this lady as he loved his own life --
If God had not called her he would made her his wife.
He courted her a long time in triumph and glee,
But little did he think that she would soon leave,
Leave him in sorrow, forsaken, alone,
To mourn her departure, for she was going home:
Going home to her Father, that dwelleth on high,
Who gave her her life and who caused her to die,
And leave her true lover, one whom she could trust,
To moulder her fair form a while in the dust.
Lois House and Joy Morris were their names, I believe,
They loved each other dearly and never deceived,
But God he did part them, one which he laid low,
The other He left with his heart full of woe.
Joy laid her dying head on his bosom once more,
Pressed her to his heart as he had oft done before,
Saying, "Dear Lois, are you going to leave me?"
"Yes, Joy, I can no longer stay here with thee! "
"Oh! Joy, can't you give me up, dearest," said she;
"If you will say yes, love, I can leave in peace;
In heaven, love, I will be waiting for thee --
Be true to our Savior -- you'll soon follow me."
"If I must say yes, love, for you to leave me --
God will do better by you, Lois, than me;
Oh! it's hard for me, dearest, hard to say yes,
It leaves me alone, love, in sad woefulness."
"I want your picture, Joy, placed in my cold hand,
And let it be buried with me in the ground;
It's all I can carry with me to the grave --
Grant it to me, love, it's all that I crave."
They called for her father and mother most dear,
She kissed them and bade them farewell thro' their tears;
They called for her brother and sisters again,
To kiss their sister while life still remain.
"One kiss from you, Joy," she whispered so low,
That no one in the room heard her, you know;
She gasped for her breath once or twice more,
When lo! her spirit left her, and Lois is no more.
They placed her fair form in the coffin so cold,
And placed there Joy's picture as they had been told;
They bore her to her grave, all were in sad gloom,
And gently laid her down to rest in her tomb.
poem by Julia A Moore
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The Troubles of Matthew Mahoney
In a little town in Devonshire, in the mellow September moonlight,
A gentleman passing along a street saw a pitiful sight,
A man bending over the form of a woman on the pavement.
He was uttering plaintive words and seemingly discontent.
"What's the matter with the woman?" asked the gentleman,
As the poor, fallen woman he did narrowly scan.
"There's something the matter, as yer honour can see,
But it's not right to prate about my wife, blame me."
"Is that really your wife?" said the gentleman.
"Yes, sor, but she looks very pale and wan."
"But surely she is much younger than you?"
"Only fourteen years, sor, that is thrue."
"It's myself that looks a deal oulder nor I really am,
Throuble have whitened my heir, my good gintleman,
Which was once as black as the wings of a crow,
And it's throuble as is dyed it as white as the snow.
Come, my dear sowl, Bridget, it's past nine o'clock,
And to see yez lying there it gives my heart a shock."
And he smoothed away the raven hair from her forehead,
And her hands hung heavily as if she had been dead.
The gentleman saw what was the matter and he sighed again,
And he said, "It's a great trial and must give you pain,
But I see you are willing to help her all you can."
But the encouraging words was not lost upon the Irishman.
"Thrial!" he echoed, "Don't mintion it, yer honour,
But the blessing of God rest upon her.
Poor crathur, she's good barrin' this one fault,
And by any one I don't like to hear her miscault."
"What was the reason of her taking to drink?"
"Bless yer honour, that's jest what I oftentimes think,
Some things is done without any rason at all,
And, sure, this one to me is a great downfall.
'Ah, Bridget, my darlin', I never dreamt ye'd come to this,"
And stooping down, her cheek he did kiss.
While a glittering tear flashed in the moonlight to the ground,
For the poor husband's grief was really profound.
"Have you any children?" asked the gentleman.
"No, yer honour, bless the Lord, contented I am,
I wouldn't have the lambs know any harm o' their mother,
Besides, sor, to me they would be a great bother."
"What is your trade, my good man?"
"Gardening, sor, and mighty fond of it I am.
Kind sor, I am out of a job and I am dying with sorrow."
"Well, you can call at my house by ten o'clock to-morrow.
"And I'll see what I can do for you.
Now, hasten home with your wife, and I bid you adieu.
But stay, my good man, I did not ask your name."
"My name is Matthew Mahoney, after Father Matthew of great fame,"
Then Mahoney stooped and lifted Bridget tenderly,
And carried her home in his arms cheerfully,
And put her to bed while he felt quite content,
Still hoping Bridget would see the folly of drinking and repent.
And at ten o'clock next morning Matthew was at Blandford Hall,
And politely for Mr Gillespie he did call,
But he was told Mrs Gillespie he would see,
And was invited into the parlour cheerfully.
And when Mrs Gillespie entered the room
She said, "Matthew Mahoney, I suppose you want to know your doom.
Well, Matthew, tell your wife to call here to-morrow."
"I'll ax her, my lady, for my heart's full of sorrow."
So Matthew got his wife to make her appearance at Blandford Hall,
And, trembling, upon Mrs Gillespie poor Bridget did call,
And had a pleasant interview with Mrs Gillespie,
And was told she was wanted for a new lodge-keeper immediately.
"But, Bridget, my dear woman, you mustn't drink any more,
For you have got a good husband you ought to adore,
And Mr Gillespie will help you, I'm sure,
Because he is very kind to deserving poor."
And Bridget's repentance was hearty and sincere,
And by the grace of God she never drank whisky, rum, or beer,
And good thoughts come into her mind of Heaven above,
And Matthew Mahoney dearly does her love.
poem by William Topaz McGonagall
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The Three Bushes
SAID lady once to lover,
'None can rely upon
A love that lacks its proper food;
And if your love were gone
How could you sing those songs of love?
I should be blamed, young man.
O my dear, O my dear.
Have no lit candles in your room,'
That lovely lady said,
'That I at midnight by the clock
May creep into your bed,
For if I saw myself creep in
I think I should drop dead.'
O my dear, O my dear.
'I love a man in secret,
Dear chambermaid,' said she.
'I know that I must drop down dead
If he stop loving me,
Yet what could I but drop down dead
If I lost my chastity?
O my dear, O my dear.
'So you must lie beside him
And let him think me there.
And maybe we are all the same
Where no candles are,
And maybe we are all the same
That stip the body bare.'
O my dear, O my dear.
But no dogs barked, and midnights chimed,
And through the chime she'd say,
'That was a lucky thought of mine,
My lover. looked so gay';
But heaved a sigh if the chambermaid
Looked half asleep all day.
O my dear, O my dear.
'No, not another song,' siid he,
'Because my lady came
A year ago for the first time
At midnight to my room,
And I must lie between the sheets
When the clock begins to chime.'
O my dear, O my d-ear.
'A laughing, crying, sacred song,
A leching song,' they said.
Did ever men hear such a song?
No, but that day they did.
Did ever man ride such a race?
No, not until he rode.
O my dear, O my dear.
But when his horse had put its hoof
Into a rabbit-hole
He dropped upon his head and died.
His lady saw it all
And dropped and died thereon, for she
Loved him with her soul.
O my dear, O my dear.
The chambermaid lived long, and took
Their graves into her charge,
And there two bushes planted
That when they had grown large
Seemed sprung from but a single root
So did their roses merge.
O my dear, O my dear.
When she was old and dying,
The priest came where she was;
She made a full confession.
Long looked he in her face,
And O he was a good man
And understood her case.
O my dear, O my dear.
He bade them take and bury her
Beside her lady's man,
And set a rose-tree on her grave,
And now none living can,
When they have plucked a rose there,
Know where its roots began.
O my dear, O my dear.
poem by William Butler Yeats
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Her Memories
NOT by her grave: thither I bid them take
Fresh garlands of the flowers that pleased her best,
And lay them by the headstone, for my sake,
My token and remembrance with the rest:
But here, where in the brightening of the west
I see her mountains grow into the sky,
Her native world, and mine because of her,
Here, where that low sigh of the pinewood's stir,
That was her dearest music, fills all sound
,I am with her;
And always, always, past comes passing by,
Lost in her grave, but here as if half found.
Not by her grave: it is too still, too cold,
And save my loss is nothing with me there.
What memories have I there of her of old?
They came not there, the dear lost days that were;
Not she lies there, but only my despair;
Not she, but death and all my loneliness.
What memories save all memories love must shun?
I would not think of death and her as one;
She shall be only life-ful in my mind,
With life's self one;
A name of glad remindings and old bliss,
So something of her presence left behind.
Not by her grave: some day will I return,
When sorrow keeps its wont unvexed by place,
And, sitting on the turf beside, will learn
To call before me there her waking face,
Not that white face that slept and took no trace
Of change because I kissed it, nor for tears.
Some day; for now I should forget her so,
Lose the fair happy woman and but know
The coldness and the silence when she died,
Lose her all so,
My love that was my life of all for years.
She loved this music when the pinewoods sighed.
poem by Augusta Davies Webster
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Hole
Husband died of a whole in the heart
Son one died of a whole in the heart
Son two died of a whole in the heart
Son three died of a whole in the heart
Do l have to bury son four
Son four died of a whole in the heart
Luckily they left me some grandchildren.
All with a hole in the heart
poem by Doris Dzameshie
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The Angel
When my love and I decided to marry
she mentioned something new.
She told me she had seen an angel
more than a time or two.
I didn’t want to challenge her beliefs
even though I certainly did,
so I said perhaps it was her guardian angel
who would protect her while she lived.
She said the first time that she saw him
was when she died at the age of four.
She was in hospital suffering from pneumonia
and had knocked on heavens door.
As the medical team revived her,
the angel left with a smile and wave,
and she didn’t see him again until
the funeral at her mother’s grave.
The next time she mentioned him
was on our wedding day.
He was hovering above the aisle,
as her father gave her away.
He was there when our children were born
and present when her father died.
I told her he was a figment of her imagination,
just an illusion from her mind’s eye.
I asked her to explain his presence,
and what good did he do.
She said that he brought her comfort
and some meaning to her life too.
Today I saw two beautiful angels
at the graveside of my wife.
One of them was carved in stone,
and the other gleamed with life.
poem by Orlando Belo
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The Goddess in the Wood
In a flowered dell the Lady Venus stood,
Amazed with sorrow. Down the morning one
Far golden horn in the gold of trees and sun
Rang out; and held; and died. . . . She thought the wood
Grew quieter. Wing, and leaf, and pool of light
Forgot to dance. Dumb lay the unfalling stream;
Life one eternal instant rose in dream
Clear out of time, poised on a golden height. . . .
Till a swift terror broke the abrupt hour.
The gold waves purled amidst the green above her;
And a bird sang. With one sharp-taken breath,
By sunlit branches and unshaken flower,
The immortal limbs flashed to the human lover,
And the immortal eyes to look on death.
poem by Rupert Brooke (1910)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Goddess In The Wood, The
In a flowered dell the Lady Venus stood,
Amazed with sorrow. Down the morning one
Far golden horn in the gold of trees and sun
Rang out; and held; and died. . . . She thought the wood
Grew quieter. Wing, and leaf, and pool of light
Forgot to dance. Dumb lay the unfalling stream;
Life one eternal instant rose in dream
Clear out of time, poised on a golden height. . . .
Till a swift terror broke the abrupt hour.
The gold waves purled amidst the green above her;
And a bird sang. With one sharp-taken breath,
By sunlit branches and unshaken flower,
The immortal limbs flashed to the human lover,
And the immortal eyes to look on death.
poem by Rupert Brooke
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The Dead Man Walking
They hail me as one living,
But don't they know
That I have died of late years,
Untombed although?
I am but a shape that stands here,
A pulseless mould,
A pale past picture, screening
Ashes gone cold.
Not at a minute's warning,
Not in a loud hour,
For me ceased Time's enchantments
In hall and bower.
There was no tragic transit,
No catch of breath,
When silent seasons inched me
On to this death ...
-- A Troubadour-youth I rambled
With Life for lyre,
The beats of being raging
In me like fire.
But when I practised eyeing
The goal of men,
It iced me, and I perished
A little then.
When passed my friend, my kinsfolk,
Through the Last Door,
And left me standing bleakly,
I died yet more;
And when my Love's heart kindled
In hate of me,
Wherefore I knew not, died I
One more degree.
And if when I died fully
I cannot say,
And changed into the corpse-thing
I am to-day,
Yet is it that, though whiling
The time somehow
In walking, talking, smiling,
I live not now.
poem by Thomas Hardy
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Her Death And After
'TWAS a death-bed summons, and forth I went
By the way of the Western Wall, so drear
On that winter night, and sought a gate--
The home, by Fate,
Of one I had long held dear.
And there, as I paused by her tenement,
And the trees shed on me their rime and hoar,
I thought of the man who had left her lone--
Him who made her his own
When I loved her, long before.
The rooms within had the piteous shine
The home-things wear which the housewife miss;
From the stairway floated the rise and fall
Of an infant's call,
Whose birth had brought her to this.
Her life was the price she would pay for that whine--
For a child by the man she did not love.
"But let that rest forever," I said,
And bent my tread
To the chamber up above.
She took my hand in her thin white own,
And smiled her thanks--though nigh too weak--
And made them a sign to leave us there;
Then faltered, ere
She could bring herself to speak.
"'Twas to see you before I go--he'll condone
Such a natural thing now my time's not much--
When Death is so near it hustles hence
All passioned sense
Between woman and man as such!
"My husband is absent. As heretofore
The City detains him. But, in truth,
He has not been kind.... I will speak no blame,
But--the child is lame;
O, I pray she may reach his ruth!
"Forgive past days--I can say no more--
Maybe if we'd wedded you'd now repine!...
But I treated you ill. I was punished. Farewell!
--Truth shall I tell?
Would the child were yours and mine!
"As a wife I was true. But, such my unease
That, could I insert a deed back in Time,
I'd make her yours, to secure your care;
And the scandal bear,
And the penalty for the crime!"
--When I had left, and the swinging trees
Rang above me, as lauding her candid say,
Another was I. Her words were enough:
Came smooth, came rough,
I felt I could live my day.
Next night she died; and her obsequies
In the Field of Tombs, by the Via renowned,
Had her husband's heed. His tendance spent,
I often went
And pondered by her mound.
All that year and the next year whiled,
And I still went thitherward in the gloam;
But the Town forgot her and her nook,
And her husband took
Another Love to his home.
And the rumor flew that the lame lone child
Whom she wished for its safety child of mine,
Was treated ill when offspring came
Of the new-made dame,
And marked a more vigorous line.
A smarter grief within me wrought
Than even at loss of her so dear;
Dead the being whose soul my soul suffused,
Her child ill-used,
I helpless to interfere!
One eve as I stood at my spot of thought
In the white-stoned Garth, brooding thus her wrong,
Her husband neared; and to shun his view
By her hallowed mew
I went from the tombs among
To the Cirque of the Gladiators which faced--
That haggard mark of Imperial Rome,
Whose Pagan echoes mock the chime
Of our Christian time:
It was void, and I inward clomb.
Scarce had night the sun's gold touch displaced
From the vast Rotund and the neighboring dead
When her husband followed; bowed; half-passed,
With lip upcast;
Then, halting, sullenly said:
"It is noised that you visit my first wife's tomb.
Now, I gave her an honored name to bear
While living, when dead. So I've claim to ask
By what right you task
My patience by vigiling there?
"There's decency even in death, I assume;
Preserve it, sir, and keep away;
For the mother of my first-born you
Show mind undue!
--Sir, I've nothing more to say."
A desperate stroke discerned I then--
God pardon--or pardon not--the lie;
She had sighed that she wished (lest the child should pine
Of slights) 'twere mine,
So I said: "But the father I.
"That you thought it yours is the way of men;
But I won her troth long ere your day:
You learnt how, in dying, she summoned me?
'Twas in fealty.
--Sir, I've nothing more to say,
"Save that, if you'll hand me my little maid,
I'll take her, and rear her, and spare you toil.
Think it more than a friendly act none can;
I'm a lonely man,
While you've a large pot to boil.
"If not, and you'll put it to ball or blade--
To-night, to-morrow night, anywhen--
I'll meet you here.... But think of it,
And in season fit
Let me hear from you again."
--Well, I went away, hoping; but nought I heard
Of my stroke for the child, till there greeted me
A little voice that one day came
To my window-frame
And babbled innocently:
"My father who's not my own, sends word
I'm to stay here, sir, where I belong!"
Next a writing came: "Since the child was the fruit
Of your passions brute,
Pray take her, to right a wrong."
And I did. And I gave the child my love,
And the child loved me, and estranged us none.
But compunctions loomed; for I'd harmed the dead
By what I'd said
For the good of the living one.
--Yet though, God wot, I am sinner enough,
And unworthy the woman who drew me so,
Perhaps this wrong for her darling's good
She forgives, or would,
If only she could know!
poem by Thomas Hardy
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Opaque, thank God!
One woman is gossiping with her husband
How another woman is all the time
Complaining about her husband about
All small, small things: and this husband
Nods his head, and agrees to what his wife says,
Thinking all the time, “What about you, my dear? ”
poem by Daniel Trevelyn Joseph
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The Old Man's Saddest Story
We sat about the fireplace listening to the old man's tales
Of the youthful years of life he spent in lovely Alder Vale
He told some happy stories but he told some sad one's too
And the saddest story that he told I will relate to you.
'Twas the story of young Joaney Ryan who died whilst in her prime
When the fruits were ripe for picking in September's harvest time
She died at twenty three years old the valley beauty queen
And a fairer maid since her time the old man has not seen.
She was the most beautiful maid the old man ever knew
With sheeny hair of raven black and sparkling eyes of blue
Yet for all of her splendid beauty she did not show conceit
A better mannered girl than her no man could wish to meet.
Beauty it can take a woman quite a long, long way
But beauty quickly withers like the flowers that bloom in May,
You cannot judge a woman by her beauty or her dress
You can only judge a woman by the manner she possess.
He must have loved this lovely maid he must have loved her so
Who died in September forty six years ago
For as he told her story a tear showed in each eye
And it seemed quite clear to all of us that he was near to cry.
She died in a hospital this lady like woman
From Leuchaemia a disease that greatly curtail life's span
On the tenth day of September her remains were put to earth
Twenty three years and thirty six days from the day of her birth.
In each human's life story there is some share of woe
And the old man's saddest thoughts are of a maid he used to know
Who died of Leuchaemia whilst only in her prime
When the fruits were ripe for picking in September's harvest time.
poem by Francis Duggan
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A Female Pedophiliac
Mother's best friend a shapely woman with a sexy smile
I was fifteen and went to her house with a message-
something about a wedding where mother was cooking-
and she seduced me... Can't remember it clearly only that
I was trembling by the sight of her nudeness.
She did the rest, the ecstasy and the enormous newness
of pleasure was like a dream come true... we made love
and I died every time in her ravenous encirclement.
When I left her house I was a person bewitched but had
the sense to worry what mother would say by me being so
late, but I told her I had met some friends and we had
gone down to the park feeding the ducks and talking to
the girls... Next time I saw her I went beetroot not sure
if I had had a dream, but when mother went into the kitchen
to make coffee she told me to come back to her house in
the evening...and I did. But someone spoke, when mother
knew she called her a whore and never spoke to her again.
Yet my loins craved her I was a burning flame and we met in
fields and woods... till I had to go to sea as a galley boy.
When I saw again she was quite old was old, perhaps forty five,
and the flame of love had died.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Cycles
When Dave Priest died grave sexton told
to toll bell well for corpse stone cold -
from epiderm to earthworm’s feast
star studded sports sporadic yeast.
The moral reads: reeds brave, deeds bold,
berth bends to end which breaks birth's mould.
Mould broken, mould returned, at least
is he released from life once leased.
Though pitter-pat or thud, thud, thud,
warm blood turns into tainted mud,
must musty dust depart, heart ceased,
Time’s gavel knocks down man and beast.
As cycles spin, out's in's template,
who sees the light before dark fate?
© Jonathan Robin – Sonnet robi3_0968 written 1 November 2005 revised 17 October 2008 - for previous version see below
When Dave died grave sexton was told
to toll the bell for one grown old, -
now he is young again, released
from epiderm to earthworm’s feast.
The moral is, however bold,
all bend to end which breaks the mould.
Mould broken, mould returned, as least
is he who highest life once leased.
So whether bid or oversold
warm blood soon rudderless and cold
must musty dust turn heart beat ceased,
Time’s gavel sells off man and beast.
Though cycles swift accelerate,
who sees the light before dark fate?
poem by Jonathan Robin
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A Chat With A Lady Lawyer Invisible On The Other Line
u online? (no answer)
i know you're on line (no answer, deadma)
how u been? busy? how is your new house?
and your kids? and your husband?
(he left you or u junked him?)
he left you, ok, he left you,
and don't bother asking,
i am not asking, (but i am interested
because i may say, he is my friend
at least once in those summer seminars
in physics,1980, long time ago, when
i really think he is straight and religious
and well composed, and calm and
cautious, but you finally revealed, he's on drugs
left you for a woman not of your level
or caliber, but enough with pain,
and misery, i will shift to oher things)
and how is your career? making more money
with your university research and writing
and lawyering at the same time,
coping up with motherhood, and other
important matters in your life?
you snobbed me, and you told me
when i ask you if you know this lady judge
who is married to a school mate and you
said you know her, and you do not want to
be disturbed as your boyfriend is with you
and having a good time on that time of the
day,
and you think i believe you? shall i swallow you hook, line and sinker?
i like to, but i don't really, you are just
mad about life, and you finally shut your mouth
hide in a shell, keep your fences high, and
declare to the world, this manifesto, that you are not talking
to anybody,
to include me, and i perfectly understand,
and so here i am talking to myself, because
you prefer to be invisible, suffer alone and
have more time, to think, to be yourself,
and just be plain woman of the soul and body,
looking for openings
somewhere, to be free, to be honest, in the pursuit of happiness.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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She Was A Nice Old Lady
Does it really matter one little bit at all
If only her family and her few friends memories of her do recall
She was a nice old lady that much of her I did know
But she did not die easily her end painful and slow
I had not seen her for somewhile but sad am I to say
That this evening one who knew her told me she was buried yesterday
In the flesh she will not be seen walking in the park again
But fond memories of her in those who knew her are destined to remain
Pre-deceased by her husband he died ten years ago
Their only offspring a Granddad in his late fifties the years on him begin to show
To her son she was a good mother and to her husband she was a good wife
A kind and caring person and one who did love life
Since her husband life departed she had lived on her own
She did not have a public profile and she was not well known.
poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Adulterous Wife
As her Children sleep in their bed
While her husband lays down his sleepy head
She quietly gets up and starts continuing her lies,
As this is the story, of the Adulterous wife.
She lies and cheats and do the sins that she shouldn't,
Sadly though, this isn't the first time for this woman
As in her past she has done this all before
Sadly her husband didn't know, that he had married a whore.
As when he is at work, she was never at home
And when her girl's slept, she was never alone
She lied and cheated and used her husband for a price
As this is the story of the Adulterous wife.
She sneaks out of the house whenever she can
So she can jump in the bed of another man
He then uses her, and then she lies to him
But neither can lie to GOD, when their beginning becomes their end.
And when her daughter's get older and they feel the strife
I wander if they will be like their mother, the adulterous wife
She argues and fights with her husband all the time
Loyalty and love to her husband has been left far behind.
The vow she swore to GOD she has broke it once again
Now she is a marked woman, in front of women and men
She has affairs with her lovers, that only the devil could believe
Asking them to come and rescue her, and set herself free.
She is never happy unless she is in another mans bed
Only happiness she brings that man, is when he is dead
She tells her lies and say all her men of hers are abusers
But she never let them know, that she is but a user.
And she'll keep her lies from yesterday unto today
And while she sins, other men lay down to pray
How sad it is to live that type of sinful life
But this is the true story of the Adulterous wife.
Randy L. McClave
poem by Randy McClave
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Without Just Cause.
My maiden aunt had little chance.
Because the man she was to wed
Was one of those who fell in France
listed as missing presumed dead.
Her happiness a casualty
which never figured in the news
She had to face reality
a future which she did not choose.
She was condemned to life alone
Because so many young men died
all chance of motherhood was gone.
She bore her fate with stoic pride.
She helped to raise her sister’s brood.
Her husband too unfit to go.
She mothered them as best she could
the only joy she’d ever know.
She was a treasure left unclaimed
a mother she would never be.
Only the Great War could be blamed
for many women’s misery.
She lived to see a ripe old age.
She died in nineteen forty one
just long enough to see the stage
prepared for another one.
Another war to end all wars
Just as the first Great War had been.
To her it was a hopeless cause
she saw the slaughter as obscene.
Young men will answer to the call
but womenfolk are left behind
To mourn their menfolk when they fall
A fate that’s very far from kind.
I think that she was glad to go
she knew from hard experience.
What other girls would come to know
when sorrow takes up residence.
20-Jan-08
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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William Upson
Air -- "The Major's Only Son"
Come all good people, far and near,
Oh, come and see what you can hear,
It's of a young man, true and brave,
Who is now sleeping in his grave.
Now, William Upson was his name --
If it's not that it's all the same --
He did enlist in the cruel strife,
And it caused him to lose his life.
He was Jesse Upson's eldest son,
His father loved his noble son;
This son was nineteen years of age,
In the rebellion he engaged.
His father said that he might go,
But his dear mother she said no.
"Stay at home, dear Billy," she said,
But oh, she could not turn his head.
For go he would, and go he did --
He would not do as his mother bid,
For he went away down South, there
Where he could not have his mother's care.
He went to Nashville, Tennessee,
There his kind friends he could not see;
He died among strangers, far away,
They knew not where his body lay.
He was taken sick and lived four weeks,
And oh, how his parents weep,
But now they must in sorrow mourn,
Billy has gone to his heaven home.
If his mother could have seen her son,
For she loved him, her darling one,
If she could heard his dying prayer,
It would ease her heart till she met him there.
It would relieved his mother's heart,
To have seen her son from this world depart,
And hear his noble words of love,
As he left this world for that above.
It will relieve his mother's heart,
That her son is laid in our grave yard;
Now she knows that his grave is near,
She will not shed so many tears.
She knows not that it was her son,
His coffin could not be opened --
It might be some one in his place,
For she could not see his noble face.
He enrolled in eighteen sixty-three,
The next day after Christmas eve;
He died in eighteen sixty-four,
Twenty-third of March, as I was told.
poem by Julia A Moore
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