Finis
We seem to have no language,
you and I;
Our words are clothed in silence:
not a sigh
From lips encased in virtues smile;
not a cry
Lest ears not tuned to love, defile
The sanctuary of that smothered breath,
Where hope meets Death.
Search
Search results
Sad, Anna M. Johnson, in English Clear filters
Eyes
I never saw such lovely eyes,
To have no light within them.
To have no thought, no sweet surprise,
No tears to ever dim them.
I never saw such lovely eyes,
So large, so round, and tender,
With lashes lifted to the skies,
But blind — may Heaven defend her !
The Jeep
That little jeep he drove!
Strange — it looks like him —
So strong its power of build —
Empty, it stands above
The mountains crusty rim,
Just as his hand had willed,
Empty — its driver gone —
His medals won!
War Trophies
Homeward thy spirit fled,
Glad to be on its way;
Freed from a field of dead,
My darling — so lately wed —
My love of yesterday.
The Sun Went Down
The Sun went down upon my day;
The Moon came up — its light was dim;
And soon all light had passed away,
For Sun and Moon went out with him
And set for aye.
November
November is the saddest time in all the years;
The shriveled leaves drop from the trees like human tears;
Like thoughts that loose their hold on cherished spot,
Thwarted of life — they, drifting down
On chill November breeze,
Lie still and rot,
Counted as naught — forgot!
Rebuked
Well, push me in the background of your thought —
Perhaps I need to stay there for awhile;
If you can do without a look—a smile—
I can but learn the lesson I am taught.
To the Departed
All things today seem sad,
Since she has gone;
My heart will not be glad,
Altho’ I would not mourn
For one as Heaven-born,
But I’m alone!
Since she has gone I weep,
The tears will flow;
Vain tears—I would not keep
Such signs of grief or woe,
But she is gone!
A Bird With a Broken Wing
I feel such grief o’er a bird with a broken wing;
I feel so sad that the little thing
Has been clipped of its passage through the air;
Bereft of its feathers, its songs of cheer —
Sitting in solitude.
Touch Not My Hands
Touch not my hands, they are so cold, so feverless;
They have no pressure soft or bold, they are expressionless;
They will not yield to love's demands, nor seek your own;
So touch them not — those little hands
Grown cold—like stone.
Describe a feeling — we’ll find a poem
Or try: