Poems on the topic: misery

Poems on the topic “misery” on Poets.by.

SadGerard Manley Hopkins

I Wake And Feel The Fell Of Dark, Not Day

I wake and feel the fell of dark, not day. What hours, O what black hours we have spent This night! what sights you, heart, saw; ways you went! And more must, in yet longer light's delay. With witness I speak this. But where I say Hours I mean years, mean life. And my lament Is cries countless, cries like dead letters sent To dearest him that lives alas! away. I am gall, I am heartburn. God's most deep decrees Bitter would have me taste: my taste was me; Bones built in me, flesh filled, blood brimmed the curse. Selfyeast of spirit a dull dough sours. I see The lost are like this, and their scourge to be As I am mine, their sweating selves, but worse.
SadEmily Dickinson

I got so I could take his name

I got so I could take his name -- Without -- Tremendous gain -- That Stop-sensation -- on my Soul -- And Thunder -- in the Room -- I got so I could walk across That Angle in the floor, Where he turned so, and I turned -- how -- And all our Sinew tore -- I got so I could stir the Box -- In which his letters grew Without that forcing, in my breath -- As Staples -- driven through -- Could dimly recollect a Grace -- I think, they call it "God" -- Renowned to ease Extremity -- When Formula, had failed --
SadEmily Dickinson

A Door just opened on a street --

A Door just opened on a street -- I -- lost -- was passing by -- An instant's Width of Warmth disclosed -- And Wealth -- and Company. The Door as instant shut -- And I -- I -- lost -- was passing by -- Lost doubly -- but by contrast -- most -- Informing -- misery --
ContemplativeEdward Thomas

Early One Morning

EARLY one morning in May I set out, And nobody I knew was about. I'm bound away for ever, Away somewhere, away for ever. There was no wind to trouble the weathercocks. I had burnt my letters and darned my socks. No one knew I was going away, I thought myself I should come back some day. I heard the brook through the town gardens run. O sweet was the mud turned to dust by the sun. A gate banged in a fence and banged in my head. "A fine morning, sir." a shepherd said. I could not return from my liberty, To my youth and my love and my misery. The past is the only dead thing that smells sweet, The only sweet thing that is not also fleet.

Describe a feeling — we’ll find a poem

Or try: