Quotes about sorrowful, page 17
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I SOMETIMES think that had I seen Thy face
In those old days when Thou wast with us here,
Clothed with our flesh, a man as we are men,
The very sight had filled my soul with grace;
I should have clung to Thee, and not again
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Moved from Thy side, no lurking doubt or fear
Could drive me from so sweet a hiding-place.
So think I sometimes, and would almost pray
That other age were chosen my faith to prove
More near Thine own (if such a prayer might be),
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Full of Thy memories. But no; each day
Hath its own light, O Christ, and proofs of Thee;
For there was one who saw Thy look of love,
Yet, having wealth, went sorrowful away.
poem by Frederick George Scott
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A Happy Melody in The Kitchenette On My Day Off!
Hey! Darling what are you frying that smells fine?
Shrimps in hot garlic Tonight's menu!
Oh! That sounds very good
But don't be tired
Just a slice of bread
Dip in the last night's chicken gravy is more than enough
With a bottle of King Cobra Beer!
I am scared if the food is not sufficient
You may run to different restaurants for varities?
I understood the sorrowful music and changed the topic.
Darling! I am scared that we have to work here till we die?
Don't bother honey as I read in the paper the horoscope
End of this year Saturn moves somewhere
And bring prospects to Capricorns!
We both are Capricorns and do not forget that?
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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The love and the rain
It was raining and the dark covered every where
The silent nature was watching over them
But they why were so sad and silent
Maybe they were two separated lovers
Here is a little blond girl
With her curly hair covered her shoulders
With sorrowful eyes she were looking around
She was searching for her lost love
The boy had so bright lovely eyes
His eyes were searching for his lost love
He was so sad standing there like a poor
Waiting for the return of his sad love
The rain got worse and the wind begun to shout
The clouds above strongly slept each other
But two lovers were standing still there
Looking to each other innocent and endless
poem by Sossi Khachadourian
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Happiness
Ever again to breathe pure happiness,
So happy that we gave away our toy?
We smiled at nothings, needing no caress?
Have we not laughed too often since with Joy?
Have we not stolen too strange and sorrowful wrongs
For her hands' pardoning? The sun may cleanse,
And time, and starlight. Life will sing great songs,
And gods will show us pleasures more than men's.
Yet heaven looks smaller than the old doll's-home,
No nestling place is left in bluebell bloom,
And the wide arms of trees have lost their scope.
The former happiness is unreturning:
Boys' griefs are not so grievous as our yearning,
Boys have no sadness sadder than our hope.
poem by Wilfred Owen
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I Keep My Griefs
I keep some griefs in
a cascade of my mind,
In hidden corner, with
great care, none can find.
The blurred face of my dead
father, who died immature death,
his love and care, the sweet words,
snatch my present confidence, faith.
What for I fight, what for?
Nothing stays, nothing,
on Time's vast shore.
Who am I to be remembered,
when the Emperors couldn't win,
Time, the atrocious, cruel time,
who can only destroy and ruin?
I open the cascade and
Shed tear for the unshaken days,
of my sorrowful heart.
Read the story of every page.
Knowing fully well,
[...] Read more
poem by Nilakshi Das
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Storm behind the silence!
[Go oft to the house of thy friend, for weeds choke the unused path.]-Ralph Waldo Emerson
Seated roadside
on the pavement
but not a meditation?
No lip movements
and a silent song.
Tin-till stands for alms?
Bony fingers play the mandolin
a melancholy tune.
Coloured vehicles stop
to the red signal light
and move fast
when green winks.
Pedestrians too busy with their
daily activities?
Beautiful beggarmaid
like a sculpture!
Leave the sorrowful music aside
But at least to your unique beauty
[...] Read more
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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My Last words
My love,
When I leave this world,
Be happy, be glad;
Don’t weep, don’t grief.
My love,
When I live for eternity,
Just remember me,
On your mind, and
I remain in your heart.
My love,
When I say last words,
Listen carefully,
I always Love you.
My love,
When I am alive again,
You never see me again,
Because I had gone forever.
[...] Read more
poem by Lawrence Hiung
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Written in Emerson's Essays
“O Monstrous, dead, unprofitable world,
That thou canst hear, and hearing, hold thy way!
A voice oracular hath peal’d to-day,
To-day a hero’s banner is unfurl’d;
Hast thou no lip for welcome?”—So I said.
Man after man, the world smil’d and pass’d by;
A smile of wistful incredulity
As though one spake of life unto the dead—
Scornful, and strange, and sorrowful, and full
Of bitter knowledge. Yet the will is free;
Strong is the soul, and wise, and beautiful;
The seeds of god-like power are in us still;
Gods are we, bards, saints, heroes, if we will!—
Dumb judges, answer, truth or mockery?
poem by Matthew Arnold from Sonnets (1849)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Love's Mourner
'Tis men who say that through all hurt and pain
The woman's love, wife's, mother's, still will hold,
And breathes the sweeter and will more unfold
For winds that tear it, and the sorrowful rain.
So in a thousand voices has the strain
Of this dear patient madness been retold,
That men call woman's love. Ah! they are bold,
Naming for love that grief which does remain.
Love faints that looks on baseness face to face:
Love pardons all; but by the pardonings dies,
With a fresh wound of each pierced through the breast.
And there stand pityingly in Love's void place
Kindness of household wont familiar-wise,
And faith to Love--faith to our dead at rest.
poem by Augusta Davies Webster
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On a Baby Buried by the Hawkesbury
A grace that was lent for a very few hours,
By the bountiful Spirit above us;
She sleeps like a flower in the land of the flowers,
She went ere she knew how to love us.
Her music of Heaven was strange to this sphere,
Her voice is a silence for ever;
In the bitter, wild fall of a sorrowful year,
We buried our bird by the river.
But the gold of the grass, and the green of the vine,
And the music of wind and of water,
And the torrent of song and superlative shine,
Are close to our dear little daughter.
The months of the year are all gracious to her,
A winter breath visits her never;
She sleeps like a bird in a cradle of myrrh,
By the banks of the beautiful river.
poem by Henry Kendall
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