Sorrow Poems | Poemist

Popular Sorrow Poems

The Power Of The Dog

by Rudyard Kipling

There is sorrow enough in the natural way
From men and women to fill our day;
And when we are certain of sorrow in store,
Why do we always arrange for more?
Brothers and Sisters, I bid you beware
Of giving your heart to a dog to tear.

Buy a pup and your money will buy
Love unflinching that cannot lie--
Perfect passion and worship fed

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A Monumental Column

by John Webster

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE SIR ROBERT CARR, VISCOUNT ROCHESTER, KNIGHT OF THE MOST NOBLE ORDER OF THE GARTER, AND ONE OF HIS MAJESTY'S MOST HONOURABLE PRIVY COUNCIL.

My right noble lord,

I present to your voidest leisure of survey these few sparks found out in our most glorious prince his ashes. I could not have thought this worthy your view, but that it aims at the preservation of his fame, than which I know not anything (but the sacred lives of both their majesties and their sweet issue) that can be dearer unto you. Were my whole life turned into leisure, and that leisure accompanied with all the Muses, it were not able to draw a map large enough of him; for his praise is an high-going sea that wants both shore and bottom. Neither do I, my noble lord, present you with this night-piece to make his death-bed still float in those compassionate rivers of your eyes: you have already, with much lead upon your heart, sounded both the sorrow royal and your own. O, that care should ever attain to so ambitious a title! Only, here though I dare not say you shall find him live, for that assurance were worth many kingdoms, yet you shall perceive him draw a little breath, such as gives us comfort his critical day is past, and the glory of a new life risen, neither subject to physic nor fortune. For my defects in this undertaking, my wish presents itself with that of Martial's;

O utinam mores animumque effingere possem!
Pulchrior in terris nulla tabella foret.

Howsoever, your protection is able to give it noble lustre, and bind me by that honourable courtesy to be ever

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Translation Of Petrarch's Rima, Sonnet 134

by Sir Thomas Wyatt

I FIND no peace, and all my war is done;
I fear and hope; I burn and freeze like ice;
I fly above the wind, yet can I not arise;
And nought I have, and all the world I seize on;
That looseth nor locketh holdeth me in prison
And holdeth me not, yet can I 'scape nowise;
Nor letteth me live nor die at my device,
And yet of death it giveth none occasion.
Withouten eyen, I see; and without tongue I plain;
I desire to perish, and yet I ask health;

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Quan L'Herba Fresqu'El.H Folha

by Bernard de Ventadorn

Can l'erba fresch'e.lh folha par
e la flors boton'el verjan
e.l rossinhols autet e clar
leva sa vots e mou so chan,
joi ai de lui, e joi ai de la flor
e joi de me e de midons major;
daus totas partz sui de joi claus e sens,
mas sel es jois que totz autres jois vens.

Tan am midons e la tenh car,

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Here Follows Some Verses Upon The Burning Of Our House

by Anne Bradstreet

In silent night when rest I took
For sorrow near I did not look
I waked was with thund'ring noise
And piteous shrieks of dreadful voice.
That fearful sound of "Fire!" and "Fire!"
Let no man know is my desire.
I, starting up, the light did spy,
And to my God my heart did cry
To strengthen me in my distress
And not to leave me succorless.

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Recent Sorrow Poems

Cruelty-- Forgiveness-- And Forevermore.

by Nad Sof

Sometimes I wonder, what makes the heart so cruel,
When forgiveness blooms in the soil of a soul’s duel.
If I, broken and bent, can rise from the wreck,
Can bury the ghosts, and silence the wrecked,
Why can’t they let go, leave me in peace,
And allow me the breath of a soft release?

I don’t ask for riches, or a word of praise,
Not even a promise, not even a gaze.
Though they tore from me every spark, every light,

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A Sonnet of 31: The Beauty Had Been Revealed

by Ayatullah Nurjati

In the shadow’s veil, beauty lay concealed
Unseen by those who walk the hurried way
The moonlight whispers secrets softly sealed
While shadows dance, the night turns pale and gray

A fragile bloom awaits the dawn's embrace
Its petals cloaked in night’s cold, tender shroud
Yet beauty thrives in such a quiet place
A truth unveiled when hearts no longer cloud

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Mon Amour, Mon Résurrecteur

by Nad Sof

Le soleil n’est plus lumineux,
Plus ce que j’espérais revoir.
La lune brille plus que jamais,
Dans sa lumière, je trouve mon espoir.

Mon cœur semble ne plus battre,
Mais mon amour, toi seul peux me ressusciter.

Florence

by Nkwachukwu Ogbuagu

Florence has warm blood
and cowrie teeth that seldom clatter,
even in the chilled, fluttering dance of July rain.

She’s an element of Shiloh
in weeping quest of a promising Samuel,
and for this,
walks through long and clammy paths in July rain.

July, a month of sacred yams,

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Shade Of Thee.

by Nad Sof

I will not grant that I yet remember thy scent,
Nor that thy smile once was bright as day.

I will not grant that I recall our first embrace,
The first kiss, the first confession.
I mind it all, but to speak it, I refuse.

Many have said:
"Thou dost seek in each new man the shade of him,"
And though it be true,

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