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Poems about Sad
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O little mouse, why dost thou cry
While merry stars laugh in the sky?
It seems to me that I have lived alone—
Alone, as one that liveth in a dream:
Lover your beauty, ripe and calm and fresh As eastern summers are,
A WAIL was heard around the bed, the death-bed of the young, Amidst her tears the Funeral Chant a mournful mother sung.
There are tears that fall in grief and sadness;
Slow and mournfully the cheek they stain,
All day they loitered by the resting ships,
Telling their beauties over, taking stock;
On lofty Beysitoun the lingering sun looks down on ceaseless labors, long begun:
'Have you news of my boy Jack?' Not this tide.
Mourn, O you Loves and Cupids and such of you as love beauty:
My great lord
Gave a dread command:
Death? is it death you give? So be it! O Death,
thou hast been long my friend, and now thy pale
This time no one's lookng for love down between the sheds, the old houses, among the twittering
It was about the midnight hour, I heard the wind go by;
Yielding clod lulls iron off to sleep
bloods clot the patches where they oozed
He whom I enclose with my name is weeping in this dungeon.
I am ever busy building this wall all around; and as this wall goes up into
Unfathomable Night! how dost thou sweep Over the flooded earth, and darkly hide
Your eyes go sad. You're not
Listening to what I say.
Twilight ascends the abandoned ramps of noon
Within an ancient land, whose after-time
DAY is dead, and let us sleep, Sleep a while or sleep for aye,
The womb
Rattles its pod, the moon
A child's tiny feet, Blue, blue with cold,
Mournful groans, as when a tempest lowers,
The girl smiled and said: What
is the secret of this gold ring,
In Daly's Bar, when night is come, and the lighted gas-lamps glow,
All red and gold the drinks do shine, and the glittering taps a-r
Dead in the desert! with the great white moon
Above him and around him wastes of sand,
Alone I set out on the road; The flinty path is sparkling in the mist;
Upon my breast
Floats a boat of heartbreak
"Ice," said the bosun, sniffing like a dog
Across the rail to wind'ard in the Cape Horn fog, —
The Jane Price of Swansea
Thirty days out,
We understand a lot of things we never did before,
And it seems that to each other Ma and I are meaning more.
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