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Sad, Sarah A. Heinzerling, in English Clear filters

SadSarah A. Heinzerling

My Friend Is Dead

My friend is dead! I shall not see her face again, Or hear her soothing voice When I need The comfort of kind words; I shall not meet her on the street; She will not come To visit me at home; My friend is dead! Yet, still she lives, And moves serenely through the halls, The winding, hidden halls Of Memory. Her smile is pictured there As I last saw it, Etched on my brain
SadSarah A. Heinzerling

The Pines

Go walk the columned arcades of the pines, Where giant trees in lofty grandeur loom, Like mighty men who, fearless, meet their doom; Mark well the beauty of their stately lines, Set by the hand of God in rare designs; Breathe that rich fragrance floating through the gloom, As incense rising in some holy room; Behold the radiance that shines: Then pause, and weep, because man in his greed For greater gain, kills, not a single tree, But in his money madness has decreed The death of forests. You, that love to see The splendor of the pines, weep for each friend Whom avarice dooms to swift, untimely end.
SadSarah A. Heinzerling

Deserted

The woods are dim and still, my love, No sound the silence waking, Except the throbbing of my heart That beats while it is breaking. How could you wound it so, my love, Give pain past human bearing, By rending bonds that only death Absolves from mutual wearing ? Night breezes pause in flight, my love, Where withered age is lying, To kiss the pallid cheek of one They know is dying—dying. Goodbye, my love! Goodbye, my love! My soul from earth is going; How dark and lonely is the way,— How chill the wind is blowing!
SadSarah A. Heinzerling

Villanelle

They suffer all the pangs of hell, And sip the dregs of human woe, Who love, and are not loved as well. When first they hear the final knell, Of hopes destroyed at one blow, They suffer all the pangs of hell. The valiant strive their grief to quell, To cover wounds they dare not show, Who love and are not loved as well. No matter in what land they dwell, Or where the broken-hearted go, They suffer all the pangs of hell. While seeking balm that will dispel Their miseries, that dailv grow; Who love, and are not loved as well. When love is born is hard to tell,
SadSarah A. Heinzerling

The Octogenarian

She gropes along the lofty road, The lonely road of age; The friends she loved in youth no more Her pangs of grief assuage; They stopped one at a time beside The long trail left behind; She mounts alone at eighty-odd, Halt—deaf, and nearly blind. She dimly sees the younger folk Go dancing on their way, And catches faint, far echoes of Their mirth, from day to day; But life, for her, has lost its joy, Its laughter and its zest; She meekly waits for death to come And bring its promised rest.

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