Year after year the grass grows green Above the dust where thou hast been. I will not name thy blighted name, Tarnished by unforgotten shame, Though not because my bosom torn Joins the mad world in all its scorn. Thy phantom face is dark with woe, Tears have left ghastly traces there, Those ceaseless tears!
I wish their flow Could quench thy wild despair. They deluge my heart like the rain On cursed Zamornah's howling plain. Yet when I hear thy foes deride, I must cling closely to thy side. Our mutual foes! They will not rest From trampling on thy buried breast. Glutting their hatred with the doom, They picture thine beyond the tomb.
Then do not in this night of grief, This time of overwhelming fear, O do not think that God can leave Forget, forsake, refuse to hear!
What have I dreamt? He lies asleep, With whom my heart would vainly weep; He rests, and I endure the woe, That left his spirit long ago. March April May 18, But lonely in her distant cave She heard the river's restless wave Chafing its banks with dreamy flow, Music for mirth and wail for woe. Palm trees and cedars towering high Deepened the gloom of evening's sky, And thick did raven ringlets veil Her forehead, drooped like lily pale. Yet I could hear my lady sing; I knew she did not mourn; For never yet from sorrow's spring Such witching notes were born.
Thus poured she in that cavern wild The voice of feelings warm, As bending o'er her beauteous child She clasped its sleeping form. I was not tired, my darling one, Of gazing in thine eyes. My whole heart centred there; I breathed not but to send above One gush of ardent prayer. My gracious God! Speak, in Thy mercy, Maker, speak, And seal it safe from woe. The revellers in the city slept, My lady in her woodland bed; I watching o'er her slumber wept, As one who mourns the dead. August 17 I see around me piteous tombstones grey Stretching their shadows far away.
Beneath the turf my footsteps tread Lie low and lone the silent dead; Beneath the turf, beneath the mould, Forever dark, forever cold. And my eyes cannot hold the tears That memory hoards from vanished years. For time and Death and mortal pain Give wounds that will not heal again. Let me remember half the woes I've seen and heard and felt below, And heaven itself, so pure and blest, Could never give my spirit rest. Sweet land of light! Thy children fair Know nought akin to our despair; Nor have they felt, nor can they tell What tenants haunt each mortal cell, What gloomy guests we hold within, Torments and madness, tear and sin!
Well, may they live in ectasy Their long eternity of joy; At least we would not bring them down With us to weep, with us to groan. No, Earth would wish no other sphere To taste her cup of suffering drear; She turns from heaven with a tearless eye And only mourns that we must die! To cheer our eager eyes awhile We see thee smile, how fondly smile!
But who reads not through the tender glow Thy deep, unutterable woe? Indeed no darling land above Can cheat thee of thy children's love.
'Sea' poems - Hello Poetry
We all in life's departing shine, Our last dear longings blend with thine, And struggle still and strive to trace With clouded gaze thy darling face. We would not leave our nature home For any world beyond the tomb.
No, mother, on thy kindly breast Let us be laid in lasting rest, Or waken but to share with thee A mutual immortality. September 1, May 17, Daughter divine! No; turn towards the western side. In all her glory, all her pride! O come away! February 6, And hark! What do these brazen tongues proclaim? And all have failed! For now might Faith decay. Now might we doubt God's guardian power And curse instead of pray.
He will not even let us die, Not let us die at home; The foe must see our soldiers fly As they had feared the tomb! Because we dare not stay to gain Those longed-for, glorious graves, We dare not shrink from slavery's chain To leave our children slaves! But when this scene of awful woe Has neared its final close, As God forsook our armies, so May He forsake our foes! February 24, May 1, O waken, dearest, wake! May 4, July 28, December 18, December 19, March 2, But, oh!
With her own hand she bent the bow, That laid my best affections low, Then mocked my grief and scorned my prayers, And drowned my bloom of youth in tears. Warnings, reproaches, both were vain; What recked she of another's pain? My dearer self she would not spare; From Honour's voice she turned his ear; First made her love his only stay, And then snatched the treacherous prop away.
Back maddening thought! Unarmed, as helpless as a child, She slumbered on a sunny lea; Two friends; no other guard had she; And they were wandering on the braes; And chasing, in regardless glee, The wild goat o'er his dangerous ways. Her friends fade first, that she may drain A deeper cup of bitterer pain; Yonder they stand and watch the waves Dash in among the echoing caves. Their farewell sight of earth and sea; Come, Douglas, rise and go with me. The lark sang clearly overhead, And sweetly hummed the bee; And softly round their dying bed The wind blew from the sea.
Fair Surry would have raised her eyes To see that water shine; To see once more in mountain skies The summer sun decline;. But ever on her fading cheek The languid lid would close, As weary that such sight should break Its much-desired repose.
And hardly could her mind recall The thought of joy or pain; That cloud was gathering over all Which never clears again;. In vain—in vain—you need not gaze Upon those features now! That sinking head you need not raise, Nor kiss that pulseless brow. Let out the grief that shakes your breath; Lord Lesley, let it free; The sternest eye for such a death Might fill with sympathy.
The tresses, o'er her bosom spread, Were by a faint breeze blown; 'Her heart is beating,' Lesley said, 'She is not really gone. And still that form he fondly pressed, And still of hope he dreamed, Nor marked how from his own young breast Life's crimson current streamed. The corse grew heavy on his arm, The starry heaven grew dim, The summer night so mild and warm Felt wintry chill to him. A troubled shadow o'er his eye Came down, and rested there; The moors and sky went swimming by, Confused and strange and drear.
He faintly prayed, 'O Death, delay Thy last fell dart to throw, Till I can hear my sovereign say The traitors' heads are low! Then came the cry of agony, The pang of parting pain; And he had overpassed the sea, That none can pass again. Heather banks around him rose; Bright and warm the sunshine fell On that spot of sweet repose.
First World War poetry described the terror of the trenches and the futility of war
With the blue heaven bending o'er And the soft wind singing by, And the clear stream evermore Mingling harmony. On the shady side reclined He watched its waters play, And sound and sight had well combined To banish gloom away. A voice spoke near. They wait not long, the rustling heath Betrays their royal foe; With hurried step and panting breath, And cheek almost as white as death, Augusta sprang below.
I have wrongs to pay,' she said; 'Give life, give vigour now. And brightly with that draught came back The glory of her matchless eye As glancing o'er the moorland track, She shook her head impatiently.
Nor shape—nor shade—the mountain flocks Quietly fed in grassy dells; Nor sound, except the distant rocks Echoing to their bells. She turns—she meets the murderer's gaze; Her own is scorched with a sudden blaze.
The blood streams down her brow; The blood streams through her coal-black hair, She strikes it off with little care; She scarcely feels the flow; For she has marked and known him too, And his own heart's ensanguined dew Must slake her vengeance now! False friend!
The Eight Greatest Poems of William Wordsworth
False Love! Was it a deadly swoon? Or was her spirit really gone? And the cold corse beneath the moon Laid like another mass of dust and stone? The moon was full that night, The sky was almost light like day; You might have seen the pulses play Upon her forehead white;. You might have seen the dear, dear light of life In her uncovered eye; And her cheek changing in the mortal strife Betwixt the pain to live and agony to die.
But nothing mutable was there! Long he gazed and held his breath, Kneeling on the blood-stained heath; Long he gazed those lids beneath, Looking into Death! Not a word from his followers fell; They stood by mute and pale; That black treason uttered well Its own heart-harrowing tale. But earth was bathed in other gore; There were crimson drops across the moor, And Lord Eldred glancing round, Saw those tokens on the ground. Nothing of heaven or earth to show One sign of sympathising woe, And nothing but that agony In her now unconscious eye, To weigh upon the labouring breast And prove she did not pass at rest.
But he who watched in thought had gone, Retracing back her lifetime flown; Like sudden ghosts, to memory came Full many a face, and many a name, Full many a heart, that in the tomb, He almost deemed, might have throbbed again Had they but known her dreary doom, Had they but seen their idol then, A wreck of desolate despair, Left to the wild birds of the air, And mountain winds and rain!
For him—no tear his stern eye shed As he looked down upon the dead. Cold as the earth, unweeting now Of love, or joy, or mortal woe.