Sad poems

Sad poems — a collection of the best works on PoemShip.

SadRobert Burns

16. A Prayer under the Pressure of Violent Anguish

O THOU Great Being! what Thou art, Surpasses me to know; Yet sure I am, that known to Thee Are all Thy works below. Thy creature here before Thee stands, All wretched and distrest; Yet sure those ills that wring my soul Obey Thy high behest. Sure, Thou, Almighty, canst not act From cruelty or wrath! O, free my weary eyes from tears, Or close them fast in death! But, if I must afflicted be, To suit some wise design, Then man my soul with firm resolves, To bear and not repine!
SadPercy Bysshe Shelley

Fragment: Sufficient Unto the Day

Is not to-day enough? Why do I peer Into the darkness of the day to come? Is not to-morrow even as yesterday? And will the day that follows change thy doom? Few flowers grow upon thy wintry way; And who waits for thee in that cheerless home Whence thou hast fled, whither thou must return Charged with the load that makes thee faint and mourn?
SadRobert Browning

A Toccata of Galuppi's

Oh Galuppi, Baldassaro, this is very sad to find! I can hardly misconceive you; it would prove me deaf and blind; But altho' I take your meaning, 'tis with such a heavy mind! Here you come with your old music, and here's all the good it brings. What, they lived once thus at Venice where the merchants were the kings, Where St. Mark's is, where the Doges used to wed the sea with rings? Ay, because the sea's the street there; and 'tis arched by ... what you call ... Shylock's bridge with houses on it, where they kept the carnival: I was never out of England--it's as if I saw it all. Did young people take their pleasure when the sea was warm in May?
SadRobert Herrick

UPON A CHILD

Here a pretty baby lies Sung asleep with lullabies; Pray be silent, and not stir Th' easy earth that covers her.
SadRobert Herrick

UPON THE LOSS OF HIS MISTRESSES

I have lost, and lately, these Many dainty mistresses:-- Stately Julia, prime of all; Sapho next, a principal: Smooth Anthea, for a skin White, and heaven-like crystalline: Sweet Electra, and the choice Myrha, for the lute and voice. Next, Corinna, for her wit, And the graceful use of it; With Perilla:--All are gone; Only Herrick's left alone, For to number sorrow by Their departures hence, and die.
SadPercy Bysshe Shelley

To Mary Shelley

The world is dreary, And I am weary Of wandering on without thee, Mary; A joy was erewhile In thy voice and thy smile, And 'tis gone, when I should be gone too, Mary.
SadPercy Bysshe Shelley

To Mary Shelley

My dearest Mary, wherefore hast thou gone, And left me in this dreary world alone? Thy form is here indeed--a lovely one-- But thou art fled, gone down the dreary road, That leads to Sorrow's most obscure abode; Thou sittest on the hearth of pale despair, Where For thine own sake I cannot follow thee.
SadPercy Bysshe Shelley

To William Shelley

Thy little footsteps on the sands Of a remote and lonely shore; The twinkling of thine infant hands, Where now the worm will feed no more; Thy mingled look of love and glee When we returned to gaze on thee--
SadRobert Herrick

TO HIS KINSWOMAN, MISTRESS SUSANNA HERRICK

When I consider, dearest, thou dost stay But here awhile, to languish and decay; Like to these garden glories, which here be The flowery-sweet resemblances of thee: With grief of heart, methinks, I thus do cry, Would thou hadst ne'er been born, or might'st not die!
SadPercy Bysshe Shelley

To William Shelley

(With what truth may I say-- Roma! Roma! Roma! Non e piu come era prima!) My lost William, thou in whom Some bright spirit lived, and did That decaying robe consume Which its lustre faintly hid,-- Here its ashes find a tomb, But beneath this pyramid Thou art not--if a thing divine Like thee can die, thy funeral shrine Is thy mother's grief and mine. Where art thou, my gentle child? Let me think thy spirit feeds, With its life intense and mild, The love of living leaves and weeds
SadRobert Burns

494. Song—Farewell thou stream that winding flows

FAREWELL, thou stream that winding flows Around Eliza’s dwelling; O mem’ry! spare the cruel thoes Within my bosom swelling. Condemn’d to drag a hopeless chain And yet in secret languish; To feel a fire in every vein, Nor dare disclose my anguish. Love’s veriest wretch, unseen, unknown, I fain my griefs would cover; The bursting sigh, th’ unweeting groan, Betray the hapless lover. I know thou doom’st me to despair, Nor wilt, nor canst relieve me; But, O Eliza, hear one prayer— For pity’s sake forgive me!

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