For Myself
What’s in this grave is worth your tear;
There’s more than the eye can see;
Folly and Pride and Love lie here
Buried alive with me.
Dikter om ämnet: tear
Dikter om ämnet ”tear” på Poets.by.
December, 1919
Last night I heard your voice, mother,
The words you sang to me
When I, a little barefoot boy,
Knelt down against your knee.
And tears gushed from my heart, mother,
And passed beyond its wall,
But though the fountain reached my throat
The drops refused to fall.
’Tis ten years since you died, mother,
Just ten dark years of pain,
And oh, I only wish that I
Could weep just once again.
To an Icicle
Chilled into a serenity
As rigid as your pose
You linger trustingly,
But a gutter waits for you.
Your elegance does not secure
You favors with the sun.
He is not one to pity fragileness.
He thinks all cheeks should burn
And feel how tears can run.
Protestations
If I tire of you, beautiful woman,
I know that the fault is mine;
Yet not all mine the failure
And not all mine the loss!
In loveliness still you walk;
But I have walked with sorrow!
I have threaded narrows,
And I have passed through perils
That you know nothing of!
And I in my grief have gazed
In eyes that were not yours;
And my emptier hours have known
The sigh of kindlier bosoms,
The kiss of kindlier mouths!
Yet the end of all is written,
And nothing, O rose-leaf woman,
Sung to the Social Reformer
Leave us our sorrows,
Take not our tears,
For long to-morrows
Of too perfect years.
To the New-born can you deny
The world-old solace of a cry;
Or to hot Youth the eternal right
To win his having with a fight?
Leave us our sorrows,
Take not our tears,
For long to-morrows
Of too perfect years.
I Weep
--I weep--
Not as the young do noisily,
Not as the aged rustily,
But quietly.
Drop by drop the great tears
Splash upon my hands,
And save you saw them shine,
You would not know
I wept.
Circumstance
Upon the maple leaves
The dew shines red.
But on the lotus blossom
It has the pale transparence of tears.
The Morning Shadow
I who have never known sorrow
Wait for it morning and evening;
For the footstep of grief on my threshold,
The drip of tears on my hearthstone,
The pitiless hours of lonely, uncomforted woe.
Never a life without sorrow!
But, oh, when will mine be upon me?
When will the years seem long
That now slip happily by me?
The light of the skies be dimmed
To eyes that are weary with weeping?