Sad poems
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Buried Life, The
© Matthew Arnold
Ah! well for us, if even we,
Even for a moment, can get free
Our heart, and have our lips unchain'd;
For that which seals them hath been deep-ordain'd!
Flight into Reality
© Rowley Rosemarie
Dedicated to the memory of my best friend Georgina, (1942-74)and to her husband Alex Burns and their childrenNulles laides amours ne belles prison -Lord Herbert of Cherbury
White Flock
© Anna Akhmatova
Copyright Anna Akhmatova
Copyright English translation by Ilya Shambat (ilya_shambat@yahoo.com)
Origin: http://www.geocities.com/ilya_shambat/akhmatova.html
A Word From a Petitioner
© Pierpont John
What! our petitions spurned! The prayerOf thousands, -- tens of thousands, -- castUnheard, beneath your Speaker's chair!But ye will hear us, first or last
Bleinheim, a Poem
© Philips John
From low and abject themes the grov'ling museNow mounts aërial, to sing of armsTriumphant, and emblaze the martial actsOf Britain's hero; may the verse not sinkBeneath his merits, but detain a whileThy ear, O Harley, (though thy country's wealDepends on thee, though mighty Anne requiresThy hourly counsels) since with ev'ry artThy self adorn'd, the mean essays of youthThou wilt not damp, but guide, wherever found,The willing genius to the muses' seat:Therefore thee first, and last, the muse shall sing
The Smoker
© John Payne
Upon a faggot set, with pipe in hand and pot.Loins 'gainst a chimney-back disconsolately leant,Soul in revolt and eyes to earth in sadness bent,I chew the cruel cud of my inhuman lot.
Where the Brumbies Come to Water
© William Henry Ogilvie
There's a lonely grave half hidden where the blue-grass droops above,And the slab is rough that marks it, but we planted it for love;There's a well-worn saddle hanging in the harness-room at homeAnd a good old stock-horse waiting for the steps that never come;There's a mourning rank of riders closing in on either handO'er the vacant place he left us -- he, the best of all the band,Who is lying cold and silent with his hoarded hopes unwonWhere the brumbies come to water at the setting of the sun
The Empty Places
© Nicholls Marjory
A wind is sighing wistfullyDown the valley quiet and lonely,No green leaves to stir and quicken,Blowing over gray grass only.
The Erotic Civilization
© Moritz Albert Frank
The infinite erotic civilization we createdis declining now. Breast and penis wag in publicas in primitive times, when nothing was erotic but the gods,
The Dean’s Provocation for Writing the Dressing-Room
© Lady Mary Wortley Montagu
The Doctor, in a clean starch'd band,His golden snuff box in his hand,With care his diamond ring displays,And artful shows its various Rays;While grave he stalks down -- StreetHis dearest -- to meet
The Toll-gate Man
© MacDonald Wilson Pugsley
They tore down the toll-gate By the songless mill,But the gray gate-man Takes toll there still;And he takes from all Whether or not they will.
