Search

Search results

Sad, Rolfe Humphries, in English Clear filters

SadRolfe Humphries

The Jaded

They have come from far; they have come from very far, And they are wearier than they are wise. Their manliness is spent; their cheekbones are Hollow below their old beleaguered eyes Which seek, once more, the cities of the plain With dubious nostalgia, and in vain. Listening, they have seen confusion darken, And, watching, they have heard disaster sound; They do not, any longer, care to hearken To oracles and prophets, having found Belief a stimulus which made them strong For a few moments, never very long. And now their will is tenuous as smoke Or veils of mist from vales of mist arising; Their courage, thin as any beggar's cloak, Shrinks from advice, and shudders at advising;
SadRolfe Humphries

Willow Grove

Still the dissembling music floats, Corrupt, deciduous, and gay. The leaves come down like notes, the notes Like leaves; the players put away Their racks and instruments; they hurry, Faster than usual; the park, For once, lacks dawdlers; people worry; The air is prematurely dark. Dark, and a storm may come. The wind Lifts for a moment, sweeps the square Of litter, leaves, and leaflets, thinned By the low rush of restless air. While one, reluctant, from his scene Of triumph, snaps his case, and goes Down the brief stair, across the green, Unhappy at the season's close.
SadRolfe Humphries

The Lament of Llywarch Hen

Wooden staff, the time has come Of the fall of leaf, autumn. Bracken reddens; all those men Who praised Llywarch Hen are dumb. Ere my back was bent, I led Men in war; that is ended. Straight and tough, my spear was good, Sure to draw first blood, bright red. Wooden staff, now I have no Smooth white arm for my pillow. Not one slender one, or sly, Waits to watch where I might go. Ere my back was bent, I had More than one canty comrade. All the lusty men of Wales Drew me free what ales they had.
SadRolfe Humphries

Song from the Gaelic, Maybe

The fond summer numbers Fade from eye and ear; The angler in the stream Is no more there. For all one remembers The sigh comes easy, The long-drawn sigh For the green wish of summer Going by, gone by— Dream and illusion, Illusion and dream, And the fisherman gone Like the fly from the stream. In the streets of the town People appear Dressed for the season
SadRolfe Humphries

Winter, Old Style

Keen is the wind, Barren the land. A man could stand On a single stalk. Cattle are lean, The stag is thin, All color wan On the frozen lake. Idle the shield On an old man's shoulder. Halls are cold. I have a wound. Where warriors go I cannot follow Through flying snow In this wild wind.

Describe a feeling — we’ll find a poem

Or try: