The Bridge of Sighs
One more Unfortunate,
Weary of breath,
Rashly importunate,
Gone to her death!
Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care;
Fashion'd so slenderly
Young, and so fair!
Look at her garments
Clinging like cerements;
Whilst the wave constantly
Drips from her clothing;
Take her up instantly,
Loving, not loathing.
Touch her not scornfully;
Think of her mournfully,
Gently and humanly;
Not of the stains of her,
All that remains of her
Now is pure womanly.
Make no deep scrutiny
Into her mutiny
Rash and undutiful:
Past all dishonour,
Death has left on her
Only the beautiful.
Still, for all slips of hers,
One of Eve's family—
Wipe those poor lips of hers
Oozing so clammily.
Loop up her tresses
Escaped from the comb,
Her fair auburn tresses;
Whilst wonderment guesses
Where was her home?
Who was her father?
Who was her mother?
Had she a sister?
Had she a brother?
Or was there a dearer one
Still, and a nearer one
Yet, than all other?
Alas! for the rarity
Of Christian charity
Under the sun!
O, it was pitiful!
Near a whole city full,
Home she had none.
Sisterly, brotherly,
Fatherly, motherly
Feelings had changed:
Love, by harsh evidence,
Thrown from its eminence;
Even God's providence
Seeming estranged.
Where the lamps quiver
So far in the river,
With many a light
From window and casement,
From garret to basement,
She stood, with amazement,
Houseless by night.
The bleak wind of March
Made her tremble and shiver;
But not the dark arch,
Or the black flowing river:
Mad from life's history,
Glad to death's mystery,
Swift to be hurl'd—
Anywhere, anywhere
Out of the world!
In she plunged boldly—
No matter how coldly
The rough river ran—
Over the brink of it,
Picture it—think of it,
Dissolute Man!
Lave in it, drink of it,
Then, if you can!
Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care;
Fashion'd so slenderly,
Young, and so fair!
Ere her limbs frigidly
Stiffen too rigidly,
Decently, kindly,
Smooth and compose them;
And her eyes, close them,
Staring so blindly!
Dreadfully staring
Thro' muddy impurity,
As when with the daring
Last look of despairing
Fix'd on futurity.
Perishing gloomily,
Spurr'd by contumely,
Cold inhumanity,
Burning insanity,
Into her rest.—
Cross her hands humbly
As if praying dumbly,
Over her breast!
Owning her weakness,
Her evil behaviour,
And leaving, with meekness,
Her sins to her Saviour!
poem by Thomas Hood
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Related quotes
The Change
She leaned out into the soft June weather,
With her long loose tresses the night breeze played;
Her eyes were as blue as the bells on the heather:
Oh, what is so fair as a fair young maid!
She folded her hands, like the leaves of a lily,
'My life, ' she said, 'is a night in June,
Fair and quiet, and calm and stilly;
Bring me a change, O changeful moon!
'Who would drift on a lake forever?
Young hearts weary - it is not strange,
And sigh for the beautiful bounding river;
New moon, true moon, bring me a change! '
The rose that rivalled her maiden blushes
Dropped from her breast, at a strangers feet;
Only a glance; but the hot blood rushes
To mantle a fair face, shy and sweet.
To and fro, while the moon is waning,
They walk, and the stars shine on above;
And one is in earnest, and one is feigning -
Oh, what is so sweet as a sweet young love?
A young life crushed, and a young heart broken,
A bleak wind blows through the lovely bower,
And all that remains of the love vows spoken -
Is the trampled leaf of a faded flower.
The night is dark, for the moon is failing -
And what is so pale as a pale old moon?
Cold is the wind through the tree tops wailing -
Woe that the change should come so soon.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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TRibute to a long dead poet for My friend Ben
One more unfortunate
weary of breath.
Rashly importunate
gone to her death.
Thomas Hood 1799-1845
Glosa
One more unfortunate
tired of strife.
Sad and disconsolate
flees now from life.
Weary of breath
She can no longer cope.
so chooses death.
Nothing for which to hope.
Rashly importunate
Impulsively
rushes to meet her fate
impatiently.
Gone to her death
in the waters below
she slips beneath
Why? We shall never know.
12-Feb-08
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Beautiful River
And he showed me a pure River of Water of Life, clear as crystal, proceeding out of the Throne of God and of the Lamb." -- Rev. xxii. 1
Shall we gather at the river
Where bright angel feet have trod;
With its crystal tide forever
Flowing by the throne of God?
CHORUS.
Yes, we'll gather at the river,
The beautiful, the beautiful river --
Gather with the saints at the river
That flows by the throne of God.
On the margin of the river,
Washing up its silver spray,
We will walk and worship ever,
All the happy, golden day.
Yes, we'll gather at the river,
The beautiful, the beautiful river --
Gather with the saints at the river
That flows by the throne of God.
On the bosom of the river,
Where the Saviour-king we own,
We shall meet, and sorrow never
'Neath the glory of the throne. Cho.
Yes, we'll gather at the river,
The beautiful, the beautiful river --
Gather with the saints at the river
That flows by the throne of God.
Ere we reach the shining river,
Lay we every burden down;
Grace our spirits will deliver,
And provide a robe and crown. Cho.
Yes, we'll gather at the river,
The beautiful, the beautiful river --
Gather with the saints at the river
That flows by the throne of God.
At the smiling of the river,
Rippling with the Saviour's face,
Saints, whom death will never sever,
Lift their songs of saving grace. Cho.
Yes, we'll gather at the river,
The beautiful, the beautiful river --
Gather with the saints at the river
That flows by the throne of God.
Soon we'll reach the shining river,
Soon our pilgrimage will cease,
Soon our happy hearts will quiver
With the melody of peace. Cho.
Yes, we'll gather at the river,
The beautiful, the beautiful river --
Gather with the saints at the river
That flows by the throne of God.
poem by Robert Wadsworth Lowry
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Unfortunate
Fold her hands upon her breast,
And let her sweetly sleep.
She has found a perfect rest,
Beneath her winding sheet.
Her weary limbs are now at rest,
And free from toil and pain;
Her weary soul from earth has left,
But in Heaven lives again.
Death has closed her mild blue eyes,
That once was full of mirth,
Her lovely form once full of life,
Will now return to earth.
Touch her gently, let her lie,
This forsaken girl forlorn;
Tears may fall from strangers' eyes,
O'er her silent form.
She was a poor erring girl,
A wanderer alone,
Friends she had none in this world,
Nor a place she could call home.
She's found a home bright and fair
In that world above,
Angels dwell together there,
In perfect peace and love,
Place her gently in her grave,
And let her sweetly sleep.
Judge her not; for he who gave
Her life, her soul will keep.
poem by Julia A Moore
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On His Ladies Waking
My lady woke upon a morning fair,
What time Apollo’s chariot takes the skies,
And, fain to fill with arrows from her eyes
His empty quiver, Love was standing there:
I saw two apples that her breast doth bear
None such the close of the Hesperides
Yields; nor hath Venus any such as these,
Nor she that had of nursling Mars the care.
Even such a bosom, and so fair it was,
Pure as the perfect work of Phidias,
That sad Andromeda’s discomfiture
Left bare, when Perseus passed her on a day,
And pale as Death for fear of Death she lay,
With breast as marble cold, as marble pure.
poem by Pierre Ronsard
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What Am I Doing Here
(Justin Hayward)
Pale the young squire who goes to fight
To die at his master's side
Living is just a dream inside
You ask me why he cried
"What am I doin' here?"
"What am I doin' here?"
Beautiful princess, fair and pale
Stares out across the sea
Alone in her castle dark and grey
Her love she'll never see
"What am I doin' here?"
"What am I doin' here?"
Tenderly bury the fair young dead
Place a wooden cross at his head
All the words you can say
Have been said
It's for you my tears are shed
What can be done, you won't believe
Listen and you may see
Everyone's dream is deep within
Find it and you'll be free
"What am I doin' here?"
"What am I doin' here?"
Tenderly bury the fair young dead
Place a wooden cross at his head
All the words you can say
Have been said
It's for you my tears are shed
Tenderly bury the fair young dead
Place a wooden cross at his head
All the words you can say
Have been said
It's for you my tears are shed
*************************************************************
song performed by by Moody Blues
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Poet's Death is His Life IV
The dark wings of night enfolded the city upon which Nature had spread a pure white garment of snow; and men deserted the streets for their houses in search of warmth, while the north wind probed in contemplation of laying waste the gardens. There in the suburb stood an old hut heavily laden with snow and on the verge of falling. In a dark recess of that hovel was a poor bed in which a dying youth was lying, staring at the dim light of his oil lamp, made to flicker by the entering winds. He a man in the spring of life who foresaw fully that the peaceful hour of freeing himself from the clutches of life was fast nearing. He was awaiting Death's visit gratefully, and upon his pale face appeared the dawn of hope; and on his lops a sorrowful smile; and in his eyes forgiveness.
He was poet perishing from hunger in the city of living rich. He was placed in the earthly world to enliven the heart of man with his beautiful and profound sayings. He as noble soul, sent by the Goddess of Understanding to soothe and make gentle the human spirit. But alas! He gladly bade the cold earth farewell without receiving a smile from its strange occupants.
He was breathing his last and had no one at his bedside save the oil lamp, his only companion, and some parchments upon which he had inscribed his heart's feeling. As he salvaged the remnants of his withering strength he lifted his hands heavenward; he moved his eyes hopelessly, as if wanting to penetrate the ceiling in order to see the stars from behind the veil clouds.
And he said, "Come, oh beautiful Death; my soul is longing for you. Come close to me and unfasten the irons life, for I am weary of dragging them. Come, oh sweet Death, and deliver me from my neighbors who looked upon me as a stranger because I interpret to them the language of the angels. Hurry, oh peaceful Death, and carry me from these multitudes who left me in the dark corner of oblivion because I do not bleed the weak as they do. Come, oh gentle Death, and enfold me under your white wings, for my fellowmen are not in want of me. Embrace me, oh Death, full of love and mercy; let your lips touch my lips which never tasted a mother's kiss, not touched a sister's cheeks, not caresses a sweetheart's fingertips. Come and take me, by beloved Death."
Then, at the bedside of the dying poet appeared an angel who possessed a supernatural and divine beauty, holding in her hand a wreath of lilies. She embraced him and closed his eyes so he could see no more, except with the eye of his spirit. She impressed a deep and long and gently withdrawn kiss that left and eternal smile of fulfillment upon his lips. Then the hovel became empty and nothing was lest save parchments and papers which the poet had strewn with bitter futility.
Hundreds of years later, when the people of the city arose from the diseases slumber of ignorance and saw the dawn of knowledge, they erected a monument in the most beautiful garden of the city and celebrated a feast every year in honor of that poet, whose writings had freed them. Oh, how cruel is man's ignorance!
poem by Khalil Gibran
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My son, your mother left you and me alone......
My son, your mother left you and me alone
and she had flown to the heaven by leaving us in hell
Has she forgotten our love for her?
Her smiling picture on the wall brings me nonstop tears
There is no light or brightness in our house now
Her care for us brought beautiful life and loving nights
But now she left with us miserable life and torturing nights
I am sure she is watching us from the heaven helplessly
My son, your mother have tried to fight with death
and she want to keep us alive with her love and courage
but the heaven gates were opened for her and she felt helpless
I remember the day you were born son
Your mother held you in her arm as a precious gift from God
We had lots of plan for you and you were growing up greatly
Now you are only five years old and she left you and me
My son, as long as I live in this world
I will take care of you and give you fatherly and motherly love
and make her soul happy by up-bringing you as a great man.
poem by Ravi Sathasivam
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Black Muddy River
When the last rose of summer pricks my finger,
And the hot sun chills me to the bone,
When I cant hear the song for the singer,
And I cant tell my pillow from a stone,
I will walk alone by the black muddy river,
And sing me a song of my own,
I will walk alone by the black muddy river,
And sing me a song of my own.
When the last bolt of sunshine hits the mountain,
And the stars start to splatter in the sky,
When the moon hits the southwest horizon,
With the scream of an eagle on the fly,
I will walk alone by the black muddy river,
And listen to the ripples as they moan,
I will walk alone by the black muddy river,
And sing me a song of my own.
Black muddy river, roll on forever,
I dont care how deep or wide, if youve got another side,
Roll muddy river, roll muddy river, black muddy river, roll.
When it seems like the night will last forever,
And theres nothing left to do but count the years,
When the strings of my heart begin to sever,
And stones fall from my eyes instead of tears,
I will walk alone, by the black muddy river,
And dream me a dream of my own,
I will walk alone, by the black muddy river,
And sing me a song of my own, sing me a song of my own.
song performed by by Grateful Dead
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Tenderly Calling
This song appears on two albums, and was first released on the different directions album, and has also been released on the john denver collection - sunshine on my shoulder album.
Home, come on home
Ye who are weary come home
Softly and tenderly calling
Home, come on home
Sometimes when Im feeling lonesome
And no one on earth seems to care
Im all by myself in the darkness
With no one and nothing to share
Just when it feels like its hopeless
And Ill never make it alone
I hear the voices of angels
Tenderly calling me home
Home, come on home
Ye who are weary come home
Softly and tenderly calling
Home, come on home
I try to keep it together
I never let on that Im scared
Still sometimes I fall to pieces
Scattered and lost everywhere
Just when it feels like theres no one
To mend all my broken down dreams
I hear a voice deep inside me
Tenderly calling to me
Home, come on home
Ye who are weary come home
Softly and tenderly calling
Home, come on home
So dont be afraid of the darkness
And dont run away from the storm
Stand up and face your reflection
The feelings you try to ignore
After the tempest is over
Youve let yourself come on through
Youll hear a voice in the silence
Tenderly calling to you
Home, come on home
Ye who are weary come home
Softly and tenderly calling
Home, come on home
Words and music by jan garrett
song performed by by John Denver
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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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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I Will Get There
Ohohah
Hey
Yeah
I've been wanderin' 'round in the dark
Been lost somewhere where no light could shine on my heart
I have known a pain so deep
But I know my faith will free me
[Get there] And I'll get through this
[Get there] I'll find my way again
So don't tell me that it's over
'Cause each step just gets me closer
[chorus]
(I will get there) I will get there
(I will get there) I will get there somehow
Cross that river (Cross that river)
Nothing's stoppin' me now
I will get through the night (Oh, yes, I will)
And make it through to the other side
(Get there) Get there
(Get there) Get there
I've been in these chains for so long
I'll break free and I'll be there where I belong
Hold my head up high, I'll stand tall
And I swear this time I won't fall
[Get there] I will do this
[Get there] No matter what it takes
'Cause I know no limitations
And I'll reach my destination, I will get there
[chorus]
I will get there (I will get there)
I will get there (Ooh) somehow (Somehow)
Cross that river (Cross that river)
Nothing's stoppin' me now
I will get through the night
And make it through to the other side
(Ooh, get there) Get there
(Get there) Get there
Well, the night is cold and dark
But somewhere the sun is shining
And I'll feel it shine on me
I'll keep on tryin', I'll keep on tryin'
I will get there (I will get there)
I will get there somehow
Cross that river (Cross that river)
Nothing's stoppin' me now
I will get through the night
And make it through to the other side
Get there, get there
I will get there (I will get there)
I will get there somehow (Somehow)
Cross that river (I'll cross that river for you)
Nothing's stoppin' me now (OhwhoaI)
I will get through (Through) the night
And make it through to the other side (Ohhoohho)
(Get there) Get there
(Ooh, get there) Get there (Whoaoh)
I will get there (I will get there)
I will get there somehow (Somehow)
Cross that river (I'll cross it for your love)
Nothing's stoppin' me now (No matter what)
I will get through the night (I will get through the night)
And make it through to the other side
(Get there) Get there
(Ooh, get there) Get there
Get there
Ohhooh
I'll get there
song performed by by Boyz II Men
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Cooum
Near the cinema
Stripping women
Of their souls
The river quietly breathes
Stoic like a saint
Though dying of the city's sins
On the bridge the harlot
Too weary to walk the streets
Stands staring at the waters
Mourning the river
She had lost in her hamlet
Where it skipped like a girl
Without a care
Frothing foaming giggling
Unlike the river here
Dying of the city's sins
poem by Prabhakar Subramaniam
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If I Should Die Tonight
If I should die to-night,
My friends would look upon my quiet face
Before they laid it in its resting-place,
And deem that death had left it almost fair;
And, laying snow-white flowers against my hair,
Would smooth it down with tearful tenderness,
And fold my hands with lingering caress, --
Poor hands, so empty and so cold to-night!
If I should die to-night,
My friends would call to mind with loving thought
Some kindly deed the icy hands had wrought,
Some gentle word the frozen lips had said,
Errands on which the willing feet had sped;
The memory of my selfishness and pride,
My hasty words would all be put aside,
And so I should be loved and mourned to-night.
If I should die to-night,
Even hearts estranged would turn once more to me,
Recalling other days remorsefully;
The eyes that chill me with averted glance
Would look upon me as of yore, perchance,
And soften in the old familiar way,
For who could war with dumb, unconscious clay?
So I might rest, forgiven of all to-night.
Oh, friends! I pray to-night,
Keep not your kisses for my dead, cold brow:
The way is lonely, let me feel them now.
Think gently of me; I am travelworn;
My faltering feet are pierced with many a thorn.
Forgive, oh, hearts estranged, forgive, I plead!
When dreamless rest is mine I shall not need
The tenderness for which I long to-night.
poem by Arabella Eugenia Smith
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Hospital Duties
Fold away all your bright-tinted dresses,
Turn the key on your jewels today,
And the wealth of your tendril-like tresses
Braid back in a serious way;
No more delicate gloves, no more laces,
No more trifling in boudoir or bower,
But come with your souls in your faces
To meet the stern wants of the hour.
Look around! By the torchlight unsteady
The dead and the dying seem one -
What! Trembling and paling already,
Before your dear mission's begun?
These wounds are more precious than ghastly -
Time presses her lips to each scar,
While she chants of that glory which vastly
Transcends all the horrors of war.
Pause here by this bedside. How mellow
The light showers down on that brow!
Such a brave, brawny visgage, poor fellow!
Some homestead is missing him now!
Some wife shades her eyes in the clearing,
Some mother sits moaning distressed,
While the loved one lies faint but unfearing,
With the enemy's ball in his breast.
Here's another - a lad - a mere stripling,
Picked up in the field almost dead,
With the blood through his sunny hair rippling
From the horrible gash in his head.
They say he was first in the action;
Gay-hearted, quick-headed, and witty:
He fought till he dropped with exhaustion
At the gates of our fair Southern city.
Fought and fell 'neath the guns of that city,
With a spirit transcending his years -
Lift him up in your large-hearted pity,
And wet his pale lips with your tears.
Touch him gently; most sacred the duty
Of dressing that poor shattered hand!
God spare him to rise in his beauty
And battle once more for his land!
Pass on! it is useless to linger
While others are calling your care;
There is need for your delicate finger,
For your womanly sympathy there.
There are sick ones athirst for caressing,
There are dying ones raving at home,
There are wounds to be bound with a blessing,
And shrouds to make ready for some.
They have gathered about you the harvest
Of death in its ghastliest view;
The nearest as well as the furthest
Is there with the traitor and true.
And crowned with your beautiful patience,
Made sunny with love at the heart,
You must balsam the wounds of the nations,
Nor falter nor shrink from your part.
And the lips of the mother will bless you,
And angels, sweet-visaged and pale,
And the little ones run to caress you,
And the wives and the sisters cry hail!
But e'en if you drop down unheeded,
What matter? God's ways are the best;
You have poured out your life where 'twas needed,
And He will take care of the rest.
poem by Anonymous Americas
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Death Of The Pauper Child
Hush, mourning mother, wan and pale!
No sobs—no grieving now:
No burning tears must thou let fall
Upon that cold still brow;
No look of anguish cast above,
Nor smite thine aching breast,
But clasp thy hands and thank thy God—
Thy darling is at rest.
Close down those dark-fringed, snowy lids
Over the violet eyes,
Whose liquid light was once as clear
As that of summer skies.
Is it not bliss to know what e’er
Thy future griefs and fears,
They will be never dimmed like thine
By sorrow’s scalding tears?
Enfold the tiny fingers fair,
From which life’s warmth has fled,
For ever freed from wearing toil—
The toil for daily bread:
Compose the softly moulded limbs,
The little waxen feet,
Spared wayside journeys long and rough,
Spared many a weary beat.
Draw close around the lifeless form
The shreds of raiment torn,
Her only birthright—just such rags
As thou for years hast worn;
Her earthly dower the bitter crust
She might from pity crave,
Moistened by tears—then, final gift,
A pauper’s lowly grave.
Now, raise thy spirit’s gaze above!
See’st thou yon angel fair,
With flowing robes and starry crown
Gemming her golden hair?
Changed, glorified in every trait,
Still with that beauty mild;
Oh! mourning mother, thou dost know
Thine own, thy late-lost child.
An heir to heaven’s entrancing bliss,
Veiled in its golden glow,
Still thinks she of the lonely heart
Left on this earth below.
Courage!—not long thy weary steps
O’er barren wastes shall roam,
Thy daring prays the Father now
To quickly call thee home!
poem by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
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The Song of the Darling River
The skies are brass and the plains are bare,
Death and ruin are everywhere --
And all that is left of the last year's flood
Is a sickly stream on the grey-black mud;
The salt-springs bubble and the quagmires quiver,
And -- this is the dirge of the Darling River:
`I rise in the drought from the Queensland rain,
`I fill my branches again and again;
`I hold my billabongs back in vain,
`For my life and my peoples the South Seas drain;
`And the land grows old and the people never
`Will see the worth of the Darling River.
`I drown dry gullies and lave bare hills,
`I turn drought-ruts into rippling rills --
`I form fair island and glades all green
`Till every bend is a sylvan scene.
`I have watered the barren land ten leagues wide!
`But in vain I have tried, ah! in vain I have tried
`To show the sign of the Great All Giver,
`The Word to a people: O! lock your river.
`I want no blistering barge aground,
`But racing steamers the seasons round;
`I want fair homes on my lonely ways,
`A people's love and a people's praise --
`And rosy children to dive and swim --
`And fair girls' feet in my rippling brim;
`And cool, green forests and gardens ever' --
Oh, this is the hymn of the Darling River.
The sky is brass and the scrub-lands glare,
Death and ruin are everywhere;
Thrown high to bleach, or deep in the mud
The bones lie buried by last year's flood,
And the Demons dance from the Never Never
To laugh at the rise of the Darling River.
poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Not My Concern tissue warning
The night was dark and damp and cold.
The match girl’s matches still unsold.
The passers by ignored her pleas
what she was selling failed to please.
An orphan child without a home.
By circumstances forced to roam
She earns enough to pay her way
but not today, but not today.
Ill clad in rags and frozen through
her tiny hands and feet are blue.
The freezing rain turns into snow
The match girl has nowhere to go.
Without money, she cannot buy
a night in somewhere warm and dry.
She tries in vain to sell her wares
Without success, nobody cares.
The falling snow was getting deep
and still she had no place to sleep.
Although she tried in vain to find
some shelter from the freezing wind.
This was the night the match girl died.
They found her frozen stiff beside
the local convents well barred door.
The little Sisters of the Poor.
Had not been very sisterly.
Ignored the orphans misery
because they did not choose to see.
Now kindly death has set her free.
No longer needs the charity
which they denied so easily
by pious women who profess
to proffer aid to the helpless.
I do not claim to be guilt free
but I make no pretence to be
a Little sister of the poor
and let a child freeze at my door.
I am quite sure they will
deny any responsibility
and call her death an accident.
They could nothing to prevent.
I should not judge but feel I must
express my feelings of disgust
That this child was allowed to die
for lack of Christian charity.
Although this happened long ago
There’s very little changed I know.
We’re still prepared to pass them by
and care not if they live or die.
We can pretend they don’t exist
an attitude which will persist
As long as we don’t choose to see
They’re our responsibility.
12-Aug-08
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Lines To A Married Friend
There are flowers that never wither,
There are skies that never fade,
There are trees that cast forever
Cooling bowers of leafy shade.
There are silver wavelets flowing,
With a lulling sound of rest,
Where the west wind softly blowing
Fans the far lands of the blest.
Thitherward our steps are tending,
Oft through dim, oppressive fears,
More of grief than pleasure blending
In the darkening woof of years.
Often would our footsteps weary
Sink upon the winding way,
But that, when all looks most dreary,
O'er us beams a cheering ray.
Thus the Father who hath made us
Tenants of this world of care,
Knoweth how to kindly aid us,
With the burdens we must bear.
Knoweth how to cause the spirit
Hopefully to raise its eyes
Toward the home it doth inherit
Far beyond the azure skies.
There's a voice that whispers lowly,
Down within this heart of mine,
Where emotions the most holy
Ever make their sacred shrine;
And it tells a thrilling story
Of the Great Redeemer's love,
And the all-bewildering glory
Of the better land above.
O, this life, with all its sorrows,
Hasteth onward to a close!
In a few more brief to-morrows
Will have ended all our woes.
Then o'er death the part immortal
Shall sublimely rise and soar
O'er the star-resplendent portal,
There to dwell for evermore.
May we meet, no more to sever,
Where the weary are at rest,
Far beyond dark Jordan's river,
In the Canaan of the blest.
Guard the treasures God hath given
To thy tenderest nurturing care,
And upon the fields of heaven
Thou shalt see them blooming fair.
poem by Frances Ellen Watkins Harper
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Story Of Survival
his mother wore white
he was young and compliant
she took him to the river
tied his hands with a blanket
as he woke up from sleep
and then she threw him there
what his mother did not know
was that he already
knew how to swim
and the depth and rage of the river
are no threat to him
his mother did not smile
she meant death
it was over
he knew how to get out from the
tie of the white blanket
he escaped and swam
to the other side of the river
climbed the mountain
and then to the eyes of his mother
he was gone
he started life all over again
with another name.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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