Sad English Poetries

Dear Teddy

Teddy, I've been bad again,
My Mommy told me so;
I'm not quiet sure what I did wrong.
But I thought that you might know.

When I woke up this morning,
I knew that she was mad;
Cause she was crying awful hard,
And yelling at my dad.

I tried my best to be real good,
And do just what she said;
I cleaned my room all by myself,
I even made my bed.

But I spilled milk on my good shirt,
When she yelled at me to hurry;
And I guess she didn't hear me,
When I told her I was sorry.

Cause she hit me awful hard, you see,
And called me funny names;
And told me I was really bad,
And I should be ashamed!

When I said,"I love you, Mommy,"
I guess she didn't understand;
Cause she yelled at me to shut my mouth.
Or I'd get smacked again.

So, I came up here to talk to you,
Please tell me what to do;
Cause I really love my Mommy,
And I know she loves me, too.

And I don't think my Mommy means,
To hit me quite so hard;
I guess sometimes, grown-ups forget.
How big they really are!

So Teddy, I wish you were real,
And you weren't just a bear;
Then you could help me find a way.
To tell Mommies everywhere.

To please try hard to understand.
How sad it makes us feel;
Cause the outside pain soon goes away,
But the inside never heals!

And if we could make them listen,
Maybe then they'd understand;
So other children just like me,
Wouldn't have to hurt again.
But for now, I guess I'll hold you tight,
And pretend the pain's not there;
I know you 'd never hurt me,
I love you......So Goodnight,
Teddy Bear!

When I Cry

Sometimes when I am alone,
I cry,
Though not a soul knows why.
As the world moves spryly by,
Tears move tediously through my eye.
I cry about life,
I cry about death,
I don't know what is right,
And I don't know what is left.
This makes it hard to carry on,
Because my soul is gone,
What can one do?
There is no Samaritan to help this Jew.
The world would rather walk on the other side,
Than understand what makes me cry.
Because if they knew what made me cry,
They would weep by my side.

The tears roll down my cheek,
The taste of salt bitter on my lips,
Just as the taste of the world leaves me weak,
My tears leave me battered as if from whips.
The whips of pain,
The whips I can not contain.
I cry,
But no one knows why.

I fight through my tears.
The same way I fight my fears.
Because the World does not care,
I continue the journey I can not bare.
I cry during my life here,
But death I do not fear.
Because with death all my fears and tears
Will astray,
As I will enjoy tranquility in heaven on this day.
And when the sun seizes to splash upon the clouds,
A new perspective I have vowed.
I cry,
And now thou knows why.

A Ballade of Suicide


The gallows in my garden, people say,
Is new and neat and adequately tall;
I tie the noose on in a knowing way
As one that knots his necktie for a ball;
But just as all the neighbours on the wall 
Are drawing a long breath to shout "Hurray!"
The strangest whim has seized me. . . After all
I think I will not hang myself to-day.

To-morrow is the time I get my pay
My uncle's sword is hanging in the hall
I see a little cloud all pink and grey
Perhaps the rector's mother will NOT call
I fancy that I heard from Mr. Gall
That mushrooms could be cooked another way
I never read the works of Juvenal
I think I will not hang myself to-day.

The world will have another washing-day;
The decadents decay; the pedants pall;
And H.G. Wells has found that children play,
And Bernard Shaw discovered that they squall;
Rationalists are growing rational
And through thick woods one finds a stream astray,
So secret that the very sky seems small
I think I will not hang myself to-day.


ENVOI

Prince, I can hear the trumpet of Germinal,
The tumbrils toiling up the terrible way;
Even to-day your royal head may fall
I think I will not hang myself to-day.

A BURIAL

Today I had a burial of my dead. 
There was no shroud, no coffin, and no pall, 
No prayers were uttered and no tears were shed 
I only turned a picture to the wall. 

A picture that had hung within my room 
For years and years; a relic of my youth. 
It kept the rose of love in constant bloom 
To see those eyes of earnestness and truth. 

At hours wherein no other dared intrude, 
I had drawn comfort from its smiling grace. 
Silent companion of my solitude, 
My soul held sweet communion with that face. 

I lived again the dream so bright, so brief, 
Though wakened as we all are by some Fate; 
This picture gave me infinite relief, 
And did not leave me wholly desolate. 

To-day I saw an item, quite by chance, 
That robbed me of my pitiful poor dole: 
A marriage notice fell beneath my glance, 
And I became a lonely widowed soul. 

With drooping eyes, and cheeks a burning flame, 
I turned the picture to the blank wall's gloom. 
My very heart had died in me of shame, 
If I had left it smiling in my room. 

Another woman's husband. So, my friend, 
My comfort, my sole relic of the past, 
I bury thee, and, lonely, seek the end. 
Swift age has swept my youth from me at last. 

A Farewell to False Love

Farewell false love, the oracle of lies, 
A mortal foe and enemy to rest, 
An envious boy, from whom all cares arise, 
A bastard vile, a beast with rage possessed, 
A way of error, a temple full of treason, 
In all effects contrary unto reason. 

A poisoned serpent covered all with flowers, 
Mother of sighs, and murderer of repose, 
A sea of sorrows whence are drawn such showers 
As moisture lend to every grief that grows; 
A school of guile, a net of deep deceit, 
A gilded hook that holds a poisoned bait. 

A fortress foiled, which reason did defend, 
A siren song, a fever of the mind, 
A maze wherein affection finds no end, 
A raging cloud that runs before the wind, 
A substance like the shadow of the sun, 
A goal of grief for which the wisest run. 

A quenchless fire, a nurse of trembling fear, 
A path that leads to peril and mishap, 
A true retreat of sorrow and despair, 
An idle boy that sleeps in pleasure's lap, 
A deep mistrust of that which certain seems, 
A hope of that which reason doubtful deems. 

Sith* then thy trains my younger years betrayed,[since] 
And for my faith ingratitude I find; 
And sith repentance hath my wrongs bewrayed*,[revealed] 
Whose course was ever contrary to kind*:[nature] 
False love, desire, and beauty frail, adieu. 
Dead is the root whence all these fancies grew

A Prayer in Time of War

Thou, whose deep ways are in the sea, 
Whose footsteps are not known, 
To-night a world that turned from Thee 
Is waiting at Thy Throne. 

The towering Babels that we raised 
Where scoffing sophists brawl, 
The little Antichrists we praised
The night is on them all. 

The fool hath said . . . The fool hath said. 
And we, who deemed him wise, 
We who believed that Thou wast dead, 
How should we seek Thine eyes? 

How should we seek to Thee for power 
Who scorned Thee yesterday? 
How should we kneel, in this dread hour? 
Lord, teach us how to pray! 

Grant us the single heart, once more, 
That mocks no sacred thing, 
The Sword of Truth our fathers wore 
When Thou wast Lord and King. 

Let darkness unto darkness tell 
Our deep unspoken prayer, 
For, while our souls in darkness dwell, 
We know that Thou art there.

AN EPITAPH


Here lies a most beautiful lady,
Light of step and heart was she:
I think she was the most beautiful lady
That ever was in the West Country.
But beauty vanishes; beauty passes;
However rare, rare it be;
And when I crumble who shall remember
This lady of the West Country?

An Ode, On the Death of Mr. Henry Purcell

I

Mark how the Lark and Linnet Sing, 
With rival Notes 
They strain their warbling Throats, 
To welcome in the Spring. 
But in the close of Night, 
When Philomel begins her Heav'nly lay, 
They cease their mutual spite, 
Drink in her Music with delight, 
And list'ning and silent, and silent and list'ning, 
And list'ning and silent obey.

II

So ceas'd the rival Crew when Purcell came, 
They Sung no more, or only Sung his Fame. 
Struck dumb they all admir'd the God-like Man, 
The God-like Man, 
Alas, too soon retir'd, 
As He too late began. 
We beg not Hell, our Orpheus to restore, 
Had He been there, 
Their Sovereign's fear 
Had sent Him back before. 
The pow'r of Harmony too well they know, 
He long e'er this had Tun'd their jarring Sphere, 
And left no Hell below.

III

The Heav'nly Choir, who heard his Notes from high, 
Let down the Scale of Music from the Sky: 
They handed him along, 
And all the way He taught, and all the way they Sung. 
Ye Brethren of the Lyre, and tuneful Voice, 
Lament his Lot: but at your own rejoice. 
Now live secure and linger out your days, 
The Gods are pleas'd alone with Purcell's Lays, 
Nor know to mend their Choice.

And like a dying lady

And like a dying lady, lean and pale, 
Who totters forth, wrapp'd in a gauzy veil,
Out of her chamber, led by the insane
And feeble wanderings of her fading brain,
The moon arose up in the murky East,
A white and shapeless mass.

Armies in the Fire

The lamps now glitter down the street;
Faintly sound the falling feet;
And the blue even slowly falls
About the garden trees and walls.

Now in the falling of the gloom
The red fire paints the empty room:
And warmly on the roof it looks,
And flickers on the back of books.

Armies march by tower and spire
Of cities blazing, in the fire;
Till as I gaze with staring eyes,
The armies fall, the lustre dies.

Then once again the glow returns;
Again the phantom city burns;
And down the red-hot valley, lo!
The phantom armies marching go!

Blinking embers, tell me true
Where are those armies marching to,
And what the burning city is
That crumbles in your furnaces!

Art thou pale for weariness

Art thou pale for weariness 
Of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth,
Wandering companionless
Among the stars that have a different birth,
And ever changing, like a joyless eye
That finds no object worth its constancy?