Sad Poems

A Ballade of Suicide a poem by G.K.Chesterton A Burial a sad poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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.
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 a sad poem by Sir Walter Raleigh A Prayer in Time of War a sad poem by Alfred Noyes 
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. 
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 a sad poem by Walter de la Mare Bereavement a sad poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
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?
How stern are the woes of the desolate mourner
As he bends in still grief o'er the hallowed bier,
As enanguished he turns from the laugh of the scorner,
And drops to perfection's remembrance a tear;
When floods of despair down his pale cheeks are streaming,
When no blissful hope on his bosom is beaming,
Or, if lulled for a while, soon he starts from his dreaming,
And finds torn the soft ties to affection so dear.
Ah, when shall day dawn on the night of the grave,
Or summer succeed to the winter of death?
Rest awhle, hapless victim! and Heaven will save
The spirit that hath faded away with the breath.
Eternity points, in its amaranth bower
Where no clouds of fate o'er the sweet prospect lour,
Unspeakable pleasure, of goodness the dower,
When woe fades away like the mist of the heath.
Border Ballad a sad poem by Sir Walter Scott Death a sad poem by William Butler Yeats
Arch, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale, 
Why the deil dinna ye march forward in order! 
March, march, Eskdale and Liddesdale, 
All the Blue Bonnets are bound for the Border. 
Many a banner spread, 
Flutters above your head, 
Many a crest that is famous in story. 
Mount and make ready then, 
Sons of the mountain glen, 
Fight for the Queen and our old Scottish glory. 

Come from the hills where your hirsels are grazing, 
Come from the glen of the buck and the roe; 
Come to the crag where the beacon is blazing, 
Come with the buckler, the lance, and the bow. 
Trumpets are sounding, 
War-steeds are bounding, 
Stand to your arms, then, and march in good order; 
England shall many a day 
Tell of the bloody fray, 
When the Blue Bonnets came over the Border. 
Nor dread nor hope attend
A dying animal;
A man awaits his end
Dreading and hoping all;
Many times he died,
Many times rose again.
A great man in his pride
Confronting murderous men
Casts derision upon
Supersession of breath;
He knows death to the bone
Man has created death. 
Death is a Fisherman a sad poem by Benjamin Franklin 'Farewell, Love' a sad poem by Thomas Wyatt
Death is a fisherman, the world we see 
His fish-pond is, and we the fishes be; 
His net some general sickness; howe'er he 
Is not so kind as other fishers be; 
For if they take one of the smaller fry, 
They throw him in again, he shall not die: 
But death is sure to kill all he can get, 
And all is fish with him that comes to net. 
Farewell, Love, and all thy laws for ever: 
Thy baited hooks shall tangle me no more. 
Senec and Plato call me from thy lore, 
To perfect wealth my wit for to endeavour. 
In blind error when I did persever, 
Thy sharp repulse, that pricketh aye so sore, 
Hath taught me to set in trifles no store, 
And scape forth, since liberty is lever. 
Therefore farewell, go trouble younger hearts, 
And in me claim no more authority; 
With idle youth go use thy property, 
And thereon spend thy many brittle darts. 
For, hitherto though I've lost my time, 
Me lusteth no longer rotten boughs to climb.