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The Naiads' Music: From A Faun's Holiday

Come, ye sorrowful, and steep
Your tired brows in a nectarous sleep:
For our kisses lightlier run
Than the traceries of the sun
By the lolling water cast
Up grey precipices vast,
Lifting smooth and waem and steep
Out of the palely shimmering deep.

Come, ye sorrowul, and take
Kisses that are but half awake:
For here are eyes O softer far
Than the blossom of the star
Upon the mothy twilit waters,
And here are mouths whose gentle laughters
Are but the echoes of the deep
Laughing and murmuring in its sleep.

Come, ye sorrowful, and see
The raindrops flaming goldenly

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poem by Robert Nichols
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Spleen

(For Arthur Symons)

I was not sorrowful, I could not weep,
And all my memories were put to sleep.

I watched the river grow more white and strange,
All day till evening I watched it change.

All day till evening I watched the rain
Beat wearily upon the window pane

I was not sorrowful, but only tired
Of everything that ever I desired.

Her lips, her eyes, all day became to me
The shadow of a shadow utterly.

All day mine hunger for her heart became
Oblivion, until the evening came,

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poem by Ernest Christopher Dowson
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The Little Bird

The father sits in his lonely room,
Outside sings a little bird.
But the shadows are laden with death and gloom,
And the song is all unheard.
The father's heart is the home of sorrow;
His breast is the seat of grief!
Who will hunt the paper for him on the morrow -
Who will bring him sweet relief
From wearing his thoughts with innocent chat?
Who will find his slippers and bring his hat?
Still the little bird sings
And flutters her wings;
The refrain of her song is, 'Gos knows best!
He giveth His little children rest.'
What can she know of these sorrowful things?

The mother sits by the desolate hearth,
And weeps o'er a vacant chair.
Sorrow has taken the place of mirth -
Joy has resigned to despair.

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poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Hermann And Dorothea - I. Kalliope

FATE AND SYMPATHY.

'NE'ER have I seen the market and streets so thoroughly empty!
Still as the grave is the town, clear'd out! I verily fancy
Fifty at most of all our inhabitants still may be found there.
People are so inquisitive! All are running and racing
Merely to see the sad train of poor fellows driven to exile.
Down to the causeway now building, the distance nearly a league is,
And they thitherward rush, in the heat and the dust of the noonday.
As for me, I had rather not stir from my place just to stare at
Worthy and sorrowful fugitives, who, with what goods they can carry,
Leaving their own fair land on the further side of the Rhine-stream,
Over to us are crossing, and wander through the delightful
Nooks of this fruitful vale, with all its twistings and windings.
Wife, you did right well to bid our son go and meet them,
Taking with him old linen, and something to eat and to drink too,
Just to give to the poor; the rich are bound to befriend them.
How he is driving along! How well he holds in the horses!
Then the new little carriage looks very handsome; inside it
Four can easily sit, besides the one on the coachbox.

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poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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Beowulf

LO, praise of the prowess of people-kings
of spear-armed Danes, in days long sped,
we have heard, and what honor the athelings won!
Oft Scyld the Scefing from squadroned foes,
from many a tribe, the mead-bench tore,
awing the earls. Since erst he lay
friendless, a foundling, fate repaid him:
for he waxed under welkin, in wealth he throve,
till before him the folk, both far and near,
who house by the whale-path, heard his mandate,
gave him gifts: a good king he!
To him an heir was afterward born,
a son in his halls, whom heaven sent
to favor the folk, feeling their woe
that erst they had lacked an earl for leader
so long a while; the Lord endowed him,
the Wielder of Wonder, with world's renown.
Famed was this Beowulf: far flew the boast of him,
son of Scyld, in the Scandian lands.
So becomes it a youth to quit him well

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poem by Charles Baudelaire
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Evangeline: A Tale of Acadie

This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks,
Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight,
Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic,
Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms.
Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep-voiced neighboring ocean
Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest.

This is the forest primeval; but where are the hearts that beneath it
Leaped like the roe, when he hears in the woodland the voice of the huntsman
Where is the thatch-roofed village, the home of Acadian farmers,--
Men whose lives glided on like rivers that water the woodlands,
Darkened by shadows of earth, but reflecting an image of heaven?
Waste are those pleasant farms, and the farmers forever departed!
Scattered like dust and leaves, when the mighty blasts of October
Seize them, and whirl them aloft, and sprinkle them far o'er the ocean
Naught but tradition remains of the beautiful village of Grand-Pre.

Ye who believe in affection that hopes, and endures, and is patient,
Ye who believe in the beauty and strength of woman's devotion,
List to the mournful tradition still sung by the pines of the forest;

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poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Singing Sorrowful Song

Why hearts all sing sorrowful ditties,
Why nightmares torment dreams pretty,
Why sorrow revels in fate’s kitty,
Why sorrow humbles joy’s uppity,
Why sorrow questions joy’s sanity,
Why sorrow encroach joy’s city,
Why sorrow disrobes nubile pity,
Why hearts all sing sorrowful ditties.

Dr Hitesh C Sheth

04/01/2009

poem by Hitesh Sheth
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Fiancee

Pass me the boat of kindness
which is laying at your heart alongside.
I want to sail to the Love country
crossing the ocean of jealousy
throw your eyes to the sky
as I have lost my way.
sing the dumb song sorrowful
which is sinking
my eyes are paining
and I feel that I am going to be blind
as I did not sleep for the last two thousand five hundred years.
I need a permanent sleep.
sing the dumb song sorrowful
which is sinking.

poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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The Small Nightingale

Nightingale Nightingale
I am a little bird

Nightingale Nightingale
I am a little bird

Oh! god save me!
Oh! lord save me!

I have tried to save myself but i failed to?

Nightingale Nightingale
I am a sorrowful bird

Nightingale Nightingale
I am a sorrowful bird

Oh! god forget about this;
Listen about the frog

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poem by Abhishek Nair
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Gloom

Do you feel sorrowful? I sometimes do,
When busy thought tells me the sufferings
Of some in our south land. Their brows are not
So fair as thine, by much, but yet they are
Our sisters, for the mighty God hath given
To them the boon of an immortal soul.
Yet they are made through life's long years to toil,
Scourge-driven like the brute; and with the fine
And delicate pulses of a human heart,
Stirring to anguish in their bosoms, sold!
Ay, like the meanest household chattel, sold!
Vended from hand to hand, while with each wrench
Their torn hearts bleed at every throbbing pore.
Alas! how can I but feel sorrowful,
To think upon their woes?

poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
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