Natalia’s Resurrection: Sonnet VI
So he departed angry and in haste,
A bitter wanderer on the ways of life:
He cared not whither so he found a feast
Spread for his hunger which should need no strife.
He went out silent, scornful and alone,
That none might pity him. He would not make
Of his too public grief a public moan,
Nor yet feign laughter for his manhood's sake,
For now that love was lost he less had heart
To cast his pride too on the dunghill there,
And his were griefs where none could bear a part,
And his a cup of pain no lips could share.
He went his way, to Germany some said,
And some to Naples, some that he was dead.
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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Related quotes
Sonnet 111: O, for my sake do you with Fortune chide
O, for my sake do you with Fortune chide,
The guilty goddess of my harmful deeds,
That did not better for my life provide
Than public means which public manners breeds.
Thence comes it that my name receives a brand,
And almost thence my nature is subdued
To what it works in, like the dyer's hand.
Pity me then, and wish I were renewed,
Whilst like a willing patient I will drink
Potions of eisel 'gainst my strong infection;
No bitterness that I will bitter think,
Nor double penance to correct correction.
Pity me then, dear friend, and I assure ye
Even that your pity is enough to cure me.
poem by William Shakespeare
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Life's Harmonies
Let no man pray that he know not sorrow,
Let no soul ask to be free from pain,
For the gall of to-day is the sweet of to-morrow,
And the moment's loss is the lifetime's gain.
Through want of a thing does its worth redouble,
Through hunger's pangs does the feast content,
And only the heart that has harbored trouble,
Can fully rejoice when joy is sent.
Let no man shrink from the bitter tonics
Of grief, and yearning, and need, and strife,
For the rarest chords in the soul's harmonies,
Are found in the minor strains of life.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Love Found
As I weep and wait for you,
From the chill there is no escape,
All night I walk the mist filled hills,
And long for your warm embrace.
I hunger for your kisses,
The pain in my heart to errace,
But I know this won't happen,
For the tomb holds your embrace.
Your lips now stone cold,
To the living do not yield,
My love, a soldier brave,
Now dead on some foreign feild.
My heart is slowly dying,
My mind will never heal,
I look for you in the mist filled hills,
Your love once again to feel.
How can my heart keep beating,
When my mind is dead to life,
My body feels so broken,
How can I bear this strife?
They say I greaved my self to death,
But it only set me free,
For at last I found my soldier,
If only they could see.
So if you walk these hills at night,
And two lovers embraced, you see,
You'll know I found my soldier,
And my love, he did find me.
poem by Teresa Dearing
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With A Pity That You Want
With a pity that you want,
To prove it.
With a pity that you want.
And with a pity that you want,
To prove it.
With a pity that you want.
You weep too deep,
With a pity that you want to prove it.
With a pity that you want.
To realize...
A pain you keep.
With a pity that you want,
To prove it.
With a pity that you want.
Other people who have less,
Do their best to not in public bleed.
But...
You're one of those,
With a pity that you want to prove it.
With a pity that you want.
Yes you're one of those,
With a pity that you want to prove it.
With a pity that you want.
You weep too deep,
With a pity that you want to prove it.
With a pity that you want.
And your wants are weak.
With a pity that you want to prove it.
With a pity that you want.
Other people who have less,
Do their best to not in public bleed.
But...
You're one of those,
With a pity that you want to prove it.
With a pity that you want.
Yes you're one of those,
With a pity that you want to prove it.
With a pity that you want.
You're one of those,
With a pity that you want to prove it.
With a pity that you want.
Yes you're one of those,
With a pity that you want to prove it.
With a pity that you want.
Other people who have less,
Do their best to not in public bleed.
Oh...
But you're one of those,
With a pity that you want to prove it.
With a pity that you want.
Yes you're one of those,
With a pity that you want to prove it.
With a pity that you want.
With a pity that you want,
To prove it.
With a pity that you want.
And with a pity that you want,
To prove it.
With a pity that you want,
To show you're one of those...
With a pity that you want,
To show exposed.
With a pity that you want,
To be one of those!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Ghosts
YES--kiss my forehead where the pain
Is grinding outwards from my brain!
But will not pity teach you, too,
To kiss these lips no fire burns through--
These cheeks, made colourless and thin
By years you had no portion in--
These weary eyes that wake and ache
Not for your sake--not for your sake:
Kiss, child, and let your kisses see
If they can find the heart in me!
There is a heart--or used to be!
I think the pain is growing less
Under your passionless caress--
Ah! could you teach my lips to crave
But just such kisses as you gave,
And could you, treading my life's ways,
But lay these ghosts of dear dead days
That walk my world by day and night,
And bar the way of all delight--
If at your touch should waken--.. . . Vain!
From heaven itself my soul would plain:
'Give me my ghosts, my ghosts again!'
poem by Edith Nesbit
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The Old House
In through the porch and up the silent stair;
Little is changed, I know so well the ways;--
Here, the dead came to meet me; it was there
The dream was dreamed in unforgotten days.
But who is this that hurries on before,
A flitting shade the brooding shades among?--
She turned,--I saw her face,--O God, it wore
The face I used to wear when I was young!
I thought my spirit and my heart were tamed
To deadness; dead the pangs that agonise.
The old grief springs to choke me,--I am shamed
Before that little ghost with eager eyes.
O turn away, let her not see, not know!
How should she bear it, how should understand?
O hasten down the stairway, haste and go,
And leave her dreaming in the silent land.
White-Collar Spaniard
We have no heart for civil strife,
Our burdens we prefer to bear;
We long to live a peaceful life
And claim of happiness our share.
If only to be clothed and fed
And see our children laugh and play -
That means a lot when all is said,
In this grim treadmill of today.
The price of manhood is too high
When leap the sacrificial flames;
For Justice we refuse to die:
Honour and Pride are empty names.
We will not play the martyr's part,
We will not perish for a Cause;
Leave that to fools - with humble heart
We live according to the Laws.
For see! Comes up the city street,
Communion-clad a shining band
Of timy children, angel-sweet,
Singing and holding hand in hand . . .
So let Might triumph over Right;
From sufferance content we take:
We fight because we do not fight,
And it is for our children's sake.
poem by Robert William Service
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Last Post
THE day's high work is over and done,
And these no more will need the sun:
Blow, you bugles of England, blow!
These are gone where all must go,
Mightily gone from the field they won.
So in the workaday wear of battle,
Touched to glory with God's own red,
Bear we our chosen to their bed!
Settle them lovingly where they fell,
In that good lap they loved so well;
And, their deliveries to the dear Lord said,
And the last desperate volleys ranged and sped,
Blow, you bugles of England, blow,
Over the camps of her beaten foe --
Blow glory and pity to the victor Mother,
Sad, O sad in her sacrificial dead!
Labour, and love, and strife, and mirth,
They gave their part in this kindly earth --
Blow, you bugles of England, blow!
That her Name as a sun among stars might glow,
Till the dusk of time, with honour and worth:
That stung by lust and the pain of battle,
The One Race ever might starkly spread,
And the One Flag eagle it overhead!
In a rapture of wrath and faith and pride,
Thus they felt it, and thus they died;
So to the Maker of homes, to the Giver of bread,
For whose dear sake their triumphing souls they shed,
Blow, you bugles of England, blow,
Though you break the heart of her beaten foe,
Glory and praise to the everlasting Mother,
Glory and peace to her lovely and faithful dead!
poem by William Ernest Henley
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Hymn 36
A lovely carriage.
Matt. 10:16.
O 'tis a lovely thing to see
A man of prudent heart,
Whose thoughts, and lips, and life agree
To act a useful part.
When envy, strife, and wars begin
In little angry souls,
Mark how the sons of peace come in,
And quench the kindling coals.
Their minds are humble, mild, and meek,
Nor let their fury rise;
Nor passion moves their lips to speak,
Nor pride exalts their eyes.
Their frame is prudence mixed with love,
Good works fulfil their day;
They join the serpent with the dove,
But cast the sting away.
Such was the Savior of mankind,
Such pleasures he pursued;
His flesh and blood were all refined,
His soul divinely good.
Lord, can these plants of virtue grow
In such a heart as mine?
Thy grace my nature can renew,
And make my soul like thine.
poem by Isaac Watts
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Weeping Mary
Mary to her Saviour's tomb
Hasted at the early dawn;
Spice she brought, and sweet perfume,
But the Lord, The loved, was gone.
For awhile she weeping stood,
Struck with sorrow and surprise;
Shedding tears, a plenteous flood,
For her heart supplied her eyes.
Jesus, who is always near,
Though too often unperceived
Came, his drooping child to cheer,
And enquired, Why she grieved?
Though at first she knew him not,
When he called her by her name,
Then her griefs were all forgot,
For she found he was the same.
Grief and sighing quickly fled
When she heard his welcome voice;
Just before she thought him dead,
Now he bids her heart rejoice:
What a change his word can make,
Turning darkness into day!
You who weep for Jesus' sake;
He will wipe your tears away.
He who came to comfort her,
When she thought her all was lost;
Will for your relief appear,
Though you now are tempest-tossed:
On his word your burden cast,
On his love your thoughts employ;
Weeping for awhile may last,
But the morning brings the joy.
poem by John Newton
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The Depth Of Grief
The depth of grief is hard to measure
For the pain inside it that is treasures
Is so much and so bitter and hard
That everone wants it to totally discard
But one thing taht we must keep in mind
Is to always seek ways with others to be kind
No matter what we are going through
We must be honest and sincere too
And always remember these pain and grief
Are only let out and gets a relief
If they are given a chance to drop
From inside painful injured heart's top
And then all life's pain and sigh
Will leave your soul and will say goodbye
And then in your heart all pain and grief
Will not get a place, not even brief.
poem by Seema Chowdhury
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Lost in Love.....
Lost in love
with the innocense of your eyes when i first saw you,
Lost in love
with your humble voice that made me crave for it even more,
Lost in love
when being friends we came to know the incompleteness in our lives,
Lost in love
with the nervousness i felt when i first expressed my love and emotions,
Lost in love
with the smell of your hairs that mesmerized me,
Lost in love
with the gulabi lips that took me to a dream world,
Lost in love
with the kissable hands that i always want to hold till eternal love,
Lost in love
with the sensuous touch of yours which made me feel heavenly,
Lost in love
with your heartbeat that made me feel very close to your heart,
Lost in love
with the ticklish tummy of yours that lightened my senses,
Lost in love
with the hug of yours which made me feel complete,
Lost in love
with the kiss of yours that lessened the gap between our souls,
Lost in love
with the pain you took to keep our relation,
Lost in love
when we were departed and alone,
Lost in love
with the undying feeling of yours that kept me awake all night,
Lost in love
when we have found our WAY BACK INTO LOVE.
poem by Villager Gulabo
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Rococo
TAKE HANDS and part with laughter;
Touch lips and part with tears;
Once more and no more after,
Whatever comes with years.
We twain shall not remeasure
The ways that left us twain;
Nor crush the lees of pleasure
From sanguine grapes of pain.
We twain once well in sunder,
What will the mad gods do
For hate with me, I wonder,
Or what for love with you?
Forget them till November,
And dream there’s April yet;
Forget that I remember,
And dream that I forget.
Time found our tired love sleeping,
And kissed away his breath;
But what should we do weeping,
Though light love sleep to death?
We have drained his lips at leisure,
Till there’s not left to drain
A single sob of pleasure,
A single pulse of pain.
Dream that the lips once breathless
Might quicken if they would;
Say that the soul is deathless;
Dream that the gods are good;
Say March may wed September,
And time divorce regret;
But not that you remember,
And not that I forget.
We have heard from hidden places
What love scarce lives and hears:
We have seen on fervent faces
The pallor of strange tears:
We have trod the wine-vat’s treasure,
Whence, ripe to steam and stain,
Foams round the feet of pleasure
The blood-red must of pain.
Remembrance may recover
And time bring back to time
The name of your first lover,
The ring of my first rhyme;
But rose-leaves of December
The frosts of June shall fret,
The day that you remember,
The day that I forget.
The snake that hides and hisses
In heaven we twain have known;
The grief of cruel kisses,
The joy whose mouth makes moan;
The pulse’s pause and measure,
Where in one furtive vein
Throbs through the heart of pleasure
The purpler blood of pain.
We have done with tears and treasons
And love for treason’s sake;
Room for the swift new seasons,
The years that burn and break,
Dismantle and dismember
Men’s days and dreams, Juliette;
For love may not remember,
But time will not forget.
Life treads down love in flying,
Time withers him at root;
Bring all dead things and dying,
Reaped sheaf and ruined fruit,
Where, crushed by three days’ pressure,
Our three days’ love lies slain;
And earlier leaf of pleasure,
And latter flower of pain.
Breathe close upon the ashes,
It may be flame will leap;
Unclose the soft close lashes,
Lift up the lids, and weep.
Light love’s extinguished ember,
Let one tear leave it wet
For one that you remember
And ten that you forget.
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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We Need Some Laughter In Our Lives
We need some laughter in our lives since laughter makes us happy
I know this bloke he never smiles like baby with wet nappy
He always seems so close to tears for him I do feel pity
Financially well to do and spiritually poor many like him in this City
With a lovely school going daughter and a beautiful wife he ought to feel lighthearted
But happinness out of his life 'twould seem has long departed
A millionaire many times over his business it is thriving
But about him he has the sad look of one barely surviving
He needs some laughter in his life since by laughter he's forsaken
Without laughter happiness sleeps on and never does awaken
Materially wealthy but spiritually poor he always looks sad and lonely
But such is life as some do say and he is not the only
Wealthy person for to feel this way for him I feel some pity
For he is a poor man in some ways one of many in this City.
poem by Francis Duggan
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At Parting II
AND you could leave me now--
After the first remembered whispered vow
Which sings for ever and ever in my ears--
The vow which God among His Angels hears--
After the long-drawn years,
The slow hard tears,
Could break new ground, and wake
A new strange garden to blossom for your sake,
And leave me here alone,
In the old garden that was once our own?
How should I learn to bear
Our garden's pleasant ways and pleasant air,
Her flowers, her fruits, her lily, her rose and thorn,
When only in a picture these appear--
These, once alive, and always over-dear?
Ah--think again: the rose you used to wear
Must still be more than other roses be
The flower of flowers. Ah, pity, pity me!
For in my acres is no plot of ground
Whereon could any garden site be found,
I have but little skill
To water weed and till
And make the desert blossom like the rose;
Yet our old garden knows
If I have loved its ways and walks and kept
The garden watered, and the pleasance swept.
Yet--if you must--go now:
Go, with my blessing filling both your hands,
And, mid the desert sands
Which life drifts deep round every garden wall,
Make your new festival
Of bud and blossom--red rose and green leaf.
No blight born of my grief
Shall touch your garden, love; but my heart's prayer
Shall draw down blessings on you from the air,
And all we learned of leaf and plant and tree
Shall serve you when you walk no more with me
In garden ways; and when with her you tread
The pleasant ways with blossoms overhead
And when she asks, 'How did you come to know
The secrets of the ways these green things grow?'
Then you will answer--and I, please God, hear,
'I had another garden once, my dear'.
poem by Edith Nesbit
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Overstaying to Unpack More Anxieties
I've come to love and appreciate life.
Even that part of it,
That makes one grieve.
That part of it that seems to sit,
To drive pain into a heart without novocaine.
No matter how long the screaming is done for it!
With a heartbreaking that never leaves.
I've come to love and appreciate life.
Even that part of it that muddies my boots.
That part where BS has to be dealt with and walked through.
When a smile is easier to offer...
Than explaining a pain that numbs the senses.
Or a joke is told to keep the tears from flowing.
I've come to love and appreciate life.
Even that part of it,
That makes one grieve.
That part of it that seems to sit,
To drive pain into a heart without novocaine.
No matter how long the screaming is done for it!
With a heartbreaking that never leaves.
I've come to love and appreciate life.
Even that part of it that comes with pieces of bittersweetness!
Coated sometimes with loads of anger and strife.
But what would life be...
Without tragedies to darken.
And a bit of comedy to spark one into laughter,
That frees one from a temporary emptiness...
Coming to visit and overstaying,
To unpack more anxieties to lay unrested.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Love's Chastening
Once Love grew bold and arrogant of air,
Proud of the youth that made him fresh and fair;
So unto Grief he spake, 'What right hast thou
To part or parcel of this heart?' Grief's brow
Was darkened with the storm of inward strife;
Thrice smote he Love as only he might dare,
And Love, pride purged, was chastened all his life.
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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The Things We Dare Not Tell
The fields are fair in autumn yet, and the sun's still shining there,
But we bow our heads and we brood and fret, because of the masks we wear;
Or we nod and smile the social while, and we say we're doing well,
But we break our hearts, oh, we break our hearts! for the things we must not tell.
There's the old love wronged ere the new was won, there's the light of long ago;
There's the cruel lie that we suffer for, and the public must not know.
So we go through life with a ghastly mask, and we're doing fairly well,
While they break our hearts, oh, they kill our hearts! do the things we must not tell.
We see but pride in a selfish breast, while a heart is breaking there;
Oh, the world would be such a kindly world if all men's hearts lay bare!
We live and share the living lie, we are doing very well,
While they eat our hearts as the years go by, do the things we dare not tell.
We bow us down to a dusty shrine, or a temple in the East,
Or we stand and drink to the world-old creed, with the coffins at the feast;
We fight it down, and we live it down, or we bear it bravely well,
But the best men die of a broken heart for the things they cannot tell.
poem by Henry Lawson
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A dialogue between Sir Henry Wootton and Mr. Donne
[W.]
IF her disdain least change in you can move,
You do not love,
For when that hope gives fuel to the fire,
You sell desire.
Love is not love, but given free ;
And so is mine ; so should yours be.
[D.]
Her heart, that weeps to hear of others' moan,
To mine is stone.
Her eyes, that weep a stranger's eyes to see,
Joy to wound me.
Yet I so well affect each part,
As—caused by them—I love my smart.
[W.]
Say her disdainings justly must be graced
With name of chaste ;
And that she frowns lest longing should exceed,
And raging breed ;
So her disdains can ne'er offend,
Unless self-love take private end.
[D.]
'Tis love breeds love in me, and cold disdain
Kills that again,
As water causeth fire to fret and fume,
Till all consume.
Who can of love more rich gift make,
That to Love's self for love's own sake?
I'll never dig in quarry of an heart
To have no part,
Nor roast in fiery eyes, which always are
Canicular.
Who this way would a lover prove,
May show his patience, not his love.
A frown may be sometimes for physic good,
But not for food ;
And for that raging humour there is sure
A gentler cure.
Why bar you love of private end,
Which never should to public tend?
poem by John Donne
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Of the Seven Deadly Sins, anger is possibly the most fun. To lick your wounds, to smack your lips over grievances long past, to roll over your tongue the prospect of bitter confrontations still to come, to savor to the last toothsome morsel both the pain you are given and the pain you are giving back--in many ways it is a feast fit for a king. The chief drawback is that what you are wolfing down is yourself. The skeleton at the feast is you.
Frederick Buechner in Wishful Thinking (1973)
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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