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Best Famous Goodbye Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Goodbye poems. This is a select list of the best famous Goodbye poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Goodbye poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of goodbye poems.

Search for the best famous Goodbye poems, articles about Goodbye poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Goodbye poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

See also: Best Member Poems

by Sergei Yesenin | |

Goodbye my friend goodbye

Goodbye, my friend, goodbye
My love, you are in my heart.
It was preordained we should part And be reunited by and by.
Goodbye: no handshake to endure.
Let's have no sadness — furrowed brow.
There's nothing new in dying now Though living is no newer.


by Tupac Shakur | |

So I Say GOODBYE

Im going in 2 this not knowing what i"ll find
but I've decided 2 follow my heart and abandon my mind
and if there be pain i know that at least i gave my all
and it's better to have loved and lost than 2 not love at all
in the morning i may wake 2 smile or maybe 2 cry
but first to those of my past i must say goodbye 


by Li Bai | |

Yellow Crane Terrace

Here he is, my good old friend!
He's at Yellow Crane Terrace on a western departure.
And--we're saying goodbye, goodbye.
He's in a cloud of third-month blossoms.
He's off downstream to Yang-chou.
That shadow there is his lonely sail.
Now there's nothing left of it.
All the blue is empty now.
All you can see is that long, long river.
It flows to the edge of the sky.


More great poems below...

by Jorge Luis Borges | |

We are the time. We are the famous

 We are the time.
We are the famous metaphor from Heraclitus the Obscure.
We are the water, not the hard diamond, the one that is lost, not the one that stands still.
We are the river and we are that greek that looks himself into the river.
His reflection changes into the waters of the changing mirror, into the crystal that changes like the fire.
We are the vain predetermined river, in his travel to his sea.
The shadows have surrounded him.
Everything said goodbye to us, everything goes away.
Memory does not stamp his own coin.
However, there is something that stays however, there is something that bemoans.


by Adam Lindsay Gordon | |

GONE

 THE last, late guest 
To the gate we followed; 
Goodbye -- and the rest 
The night-wind swallowed.
House, garden, street, Lay tenfold gloomy, Where accents sweet Had made music to me.
It was but a feast With the dark coming on; She was but a guest -- And now, she is gone.


by Marilyn L Taylor | |

Reading the Obituaries

 Now the Barbaras have begun to die,
trailing their older sisters to the grave,
the Helens, Margies, Nans—who said goodbye
just days ago, it seems, taking their leave 
a step or two behind the hooded girls 
who bloomed and withered with the century—
the Dorotheas, Eleanors and Pearls
now swaying on the edge of memory.
Soon, soon, the scythe will sweep for Jeanne and Angela, Patricia and Diane— pause, and return for Karen and Christine while Susan spends a sleepless night again.
Ah, Debra, how can you be growing old? Jennifer, Michelle, your hands are cold.


by Jennifer Reeser | |

Imagining you’d come to say goodbye...

 Imagining you’d come to say goodbye,
I made a doll of raffia and string.
I gave her thatch hair, and a broomstick skirt of patchwork satin rags.
Around each eye I stitched thick lashes.
Such a touching thing she was! That even you could not debate – impassive, undemanding and inert.
Yes, surely she’d cause you yourself to sigh.
Around her breast, I sewed a loden ring to guard her cotton heart from being hurt, then sat down in the fabric scraps to wait, between the rafters and the furnace grate, needle in hand, and never so aware no craft on earth is master to despair.


by Mark Strand | |

The Remains

 I empty myself of the names of others.
I empty my pockets.
I empty my shoes and leave them beside the road.
At night I turn back the clocks; I open the family album and look at myself as a boy.
What good does it do? The hours have done their job.
I say my own name.
I say goodbye.
The words follow each other downwind.
I love my wife but send her away.
My parents rise out of their thrones into the milky rooms of clouds.
How can I sing? Time tells me what I am.
I change and I am the same.
I empty myself of my life and my life remains.


by James Wright | |

Goodbye To The Poetry Of Calcium

 Dark cypresses--
The world is uneasily happy;
It will all be forgotten.
--Theodore Storm Mother of roots, you have not seeded The tall ashes of loneliness For me.
Therefore, Now I go.
If I knew the name, Your name, all trellises of vineyards and old fire Would quicken to shake terribly my Earth, mother of spiraling searches, terrible Fable of calcium, girl.
I crept this afternoon In weeds once more, Casual, daydreaming you might not strike Me down.
Mother of window sills and journeys, Hallower of searching hands, The sight of my blind man makes me want to weep.
Tiller of waves or whatever, woman or man, Mother of roots or father of diamonds, Look: I am nothing.
I do not even have ashes to rub into my eyes.


by Robert William Service | |

Six Feet Of Sod

 This is the end of all my ways,
 My wanderings on earth,
My gloomy and my golden days,
 My madness and my mirth.
I've bought ten thousand blades of grass To bed me down below, And here I wait the days to pass Until I go.
Until I bid good bye to friend, To feast and fast goodbye, And in a stint of soil the end I seek of sun and sky.
My farings far on land and sea, My trails of global girth Sum up to this,--to cover me Six feet of earth.
My home of homes I hold in fee For centuries to pass, When snug my skeleton will be And grin up through the grass; When my grey ghost will bend above, And grieve to gracious God This endless end of life and love,-- Six feet of sod.


by Robert William Service | |

Poets Path

 My garden hath a slender path
With ivy overgrown,
A secret place where once would pace
A pot all alone;
I see him now with fretted brow,
Plunged deep in thought;
And sometimes he would write maybe,
And sometimes he would not.
A verse a day he used to say Keeps worry from the door; Without the stink of printer's ink How life would be a bore! And so from chime of breakfast time To supper he would beat The pathway flat, a mossy mat For his poetic feet.
He wrote, I'm told, of gods of old And mythologic men; Far better he had sung, maybe, Of plain folks now and then; With bitterness he would confess Too lofty was his aim.
.
.
.
And then with woe I saw him throw His poems to the flame.
He went away one bitter day When death was in the sky; No further word I ever heard Beyond his last goodbye.
Did battle grim take toll of him In heaven-rocking wrath? Oh did he write in starry flight His name in flame on hell-brewed night? .
.
.
Well, there's my poet's path.


by Robert William Service | |

The Cuckoo

 No lyric line I ever penned
The praise this parasitic bird;
And what is more, I don't intend
To write a laudatory word,
Since in my garden robins made
A nest with eggs of dainty spot,
And then a callous cuckoo laid
 A lone on on the lot.
Of course the sillies hatched it out Along with their two tiny chicks, And there it threw its weight about, But with the others would not mix.
In fact, it seemed their guts to hate, And crossly kicked them to the ground, So that next morning, sorry fate! Two babes stone dead I found.
These stupid robins, how they strove To gluttonize that young cuckoo! And like a prodigy it throve, And daily greedier it grew.
How it would snap and glup and spit! Till finally it came to pass, Growing too big the nest to fit, It fell out on the grass.
So for a week they fed it there, As in a nook of turf it lay; But it was scornful of their care, for it was twice as big as they.
When lo! one afternoon I heard A flutelike call: Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Then suddenly that foulsome bird Flapped to its feet and flew.
I'm sure it never said goodbye To its fond foster Pa and Ma, Though to their desolated sigh It might have chirruped: "Au revoir.
" But no, it went in wanton mood, Flying the coop for climates new And so I say: "Ingratitude, They name's Cuckoo.
"


by Robert William Service | |

Joey

 I thought I would go daft when Joey died.
He was my first, and wise beyond his years.
For nigh a hundred nights I cried and cried, Until my weary eyes burned up my tears.
Willie and Rosie tried to comfort me: A woeful, weeping family were we.
I was a widow with no friends at all, Ironing men's shirts to buy my kiddies grub; And then one day a lawyer came to call, Me with my arms deep in the washing-tub.
The gentleman who ran poor Joey down Was willing to give us a thousand poun'.
What a godsend! It meant goodbye to care, The fear of being dumped out on the street.
Rosie and Willie could have wool to wear, And more than bread and margerine to eat .
.
.
To Joey's broken little legs we owe Our rescue from a fate of want and woe.
How happily he hurried home to me, Bringing a new-baked, crisp-brown loaf of bread.
The headlights of the car he did not see, And when help came they thought that he was dead.
He stared with wonder from a face so wan .
.
.
A long, last look and he was gone,--was gone.
We've comfort now, and yet it hurts to know We owe our joy to little, laughing Joe.


by Robert William Service | |

Gentle Gaoler

 Being a gaoler I'm supposed
 To be a hard-boiled guy;
Yet never prison walls enclosed
 A kinder soul than I:
Passing my charges precious pills
 To end their ills.
And if in gentle sleep they die, And pass to pleasant peace, No one suspects that it is I Who gave them their release: No matter what the Doctor thinks, The Warden winks.
A lifer's is a fearful fate; It wrings the heart of me.
And what a saving to the State A sudden death must be! Doomed men should have the legal right To end their plight.
And so my veronel they take, And bid goodbye to pain; And sleep, and never, never wake To living hell again: Oh call me curst or call me blest,-- I give them rest.


by Mark Twain | |

To Jennie

 Good-bye! a kind good-bye,
I bid you now, my friend,
And though 'tis sad to speak the word,
To destiny I bend

And though it be decreed by Fate
That we ne'er meet again,
Your image, graven on my heart,
Forever shall remain.
Aye, in my heart thoult have a place, Among the friends held dear,- Nor shall the hand of Time efface The memories written there.
Goodbye, S.
L.
C.


by Constantine P Cavafy | |

The God Abandons Antony

 When suddenly, at midnight, you hear
an invisible procession going by
with exquisite music, voices,
don't mourn your luck that's failing now,
work gone wrong, your plans
all proving deceptive -- don't mourn them uselessly.
As one long prepared, and graced with courage, say goodbye to her, the Alexandria that is leaving.
Above all, don't fool yourself, don't say it was a dream, your ears deceived you: don't degrade yourself with empty hopes like these.
As one long prepared, and graced with courage, as is right for you who were given this kind of city, go firmly to the window And listen with deep emotion, but not with whining, the pleas of a coward; listen -- your final delectation -- to the voices, to the exquisite music of that strange procession, and say goodbye to her, to the Alexandria you are losing.


by Algernon Charles Swinburne | |

In Harbour

 I.
Goodnight and goodbye to the life whose signs denote us As mourners clothed with regret for the life gone by; To the waters of gloom whence winds of the dayspring float us Goodnight and goodbye.
A time is for mourning, a season for grief to sigh; But were we not fools and blind, by day to devote us As thralls to the darkness, unseen of the sundawn's eye? We have drunken of Lethe at length, we have eaten of lotus; What hurts it us here that sorrows are born and die? We have said to the dream that caressed and the dread that smote us Goodnight and goodbye.
II.
Outside of the port ye are moored in, lying Close from the wind and at ease from the tide, What sounds come swelling, what notes fall dying Outside? They will not cease, they will not abide: Voices of presage in darkness crying Pass and return and relapse aside.
Ye see not, but hear ye not wild wings flying To the future that wakes from the past that died? Is grief still sleeping, is joy not sighing Outside?


by Galway Kinnell | |

The Correspondence School Instructor Says Goodbye To His Poetry Students

 Goodbye, lady in Bangor, who sent me
snapshots of yourself, after definitely hinting
you were beautiful; goodbye,
Miami Beach urologist, who enclosed plain
brown envelopes for the return of your very
Clinical Sonnet; goodbye, manufacturer
of brassieres on the Coast, whose eclogues
give the fullest treatment in literature yet
to the sagging-breast motif; goodbye, you in San Quentin,
who wrote, "Being German my hero is Hitler,"
instead of "Sincerely yours," at the end of long,
neat-scripted letter demolishing
the pre-Raphaelites:

I swear to you, it was just my way
of cheering myself up, as I licked
the stamped, self-addressed envelopes,
the game I had
of trying to guess which one of you, this time,
had poisoned his glue.
I did care.
I did read each poem entire.
I did say what I thought was the truth in the mildest words I know.
And now, in this poem, or chopped prose, not any better, I realize, than those troubled lines I kept sending back to you, I have to say I am relieved it is over: at the end I could feel only pity for that urge toward more life your poems kept smothering in words, the smell of which, days later, would tingle in your nostrils as new, God-given impulses to write.
Goodbye, you who are, for me, the postmarks again of shattered towns-Xenia, Burnt Cabins, Hornell- their loneliness given away in poems, only their solitude kept.


by Spike Milligan | |

Goodbye S.S.

 Go away girl, go away 
and let me pack my dreams 
Now where did I put those yesteryears 
made up with broken seams 
Where shall I sweep the pieces 
my God they still look new 
There's a taxi waiting at the door 
but there's only room for you


by Spike Milligan | |

Have A Nice Day

 'Help, help, ' said a man.
'I'm drowning.
' 'Hang on, ' said a man from the shore.
'Help, help, ' said the man.
'I'm not clowning.
' 'Yes, I know, I heard you before.
Be patient dear man who is drowning, You, see I've got a disease.
I'm waiting for a Doctor J.
Browning.
So do be patient please.
' 'How long, ' said the man who was drowning.
'Will it take for the Doc to arrive? ' 'Not very long, ' said the man with the disease.
'Till then try staying alive.
' 'Very well, ' said the man who was drowning.
'I'll try and stay afloat.
By reciting the poems of Browning And other things he wrote.
' 'Help, help, ' said the man with the disease, 'I suddenly feel quite ill.
' 'Keep calm.
' said the man who was drowning, ' Breathe deeply and lie quite still.
' 'Oh dear, ' said the man with the awful disease.
'I think I'm going to die.
' 'Farewell, ' said the man who was drowning.
Said the man with the disease, 'goodbye.
' So the man who was drowning, drownded And the man with the disease past away.
But apart from that, And a fire in my flat, It's been a very nice day.


by David Lehman | |

January 24

 I was about to be mugged by a man 
with a chain so angry he growled
at the Lincoln Center subway station
when out of nowhere appeared a tall
chubby-faced Hasidic Jew with peyot
and a black hat a black coat white shirt
with prayer-shawl fringes showing 
we walked together out of the station
and when we got outside and shook hands 
I noticed he was blind.
Goodbye, I said, as giddy as a man waking from an anesthetic in the recovery room, happy, with a hard-on.
The cabs were on strike on Broadway so beautiful a necklace of yellow beads I breathed in the fumes impossibly happy


by David Lehman | |

Eleventh Hour

 The bloom was off the economic recovery.
"I just want to know one thing," she said.
What was that one thing? He'll never know, Because at just that moment he heard the sound Of broken glass in the bathroom, and when he got there, It was dark.
His hand went to the wall But the switch wasn't where it was supposed to be Which felt like déjà vu.
And then she was gone.
And now he knew how it felt to stand On the local platform as the express whizzes by With people chatting in a dialect Of English he couldn't understand, because his English Was current as of 1968 and no one speaks that way except In certain books.
So the hours spent in vain Were minutes blown up into comic-book balloons full Of Keats's odes.
"Goodbye, kid.
" Tears streamed down The boy's face.
It was a great feeling, Like the feeling you get when you throw things away After a funeral: clean and empty in the morning dark.
There was no time for locker-room oratory.
They knew they were facing a do-or-die situation, With their backs to the wall, and no tomorrow.


by James Schuyler | |

Closed Gentian Distances

 A nothing day full of
wild beauty and the
timer pings.
Roll up the silver off the bay take down the clouds sort the spruce and send to laundry marked, more starch.
Goodbye golden- and silver- rod, asters, bayberry crisp in elegance.
Little fish stream by, a river in water.


by Anne Sexton | |

The Inventory Of Goodbye

 I have a pack of letters,
I have a pack of memories.
I could cut out the eyes of both.
I could wear them like a patchwork apron.
I could stick them in the washer, the drier, and maybe some of the pain would float off like dirt? Perhaps down the disposal I could grind up the loss.
Besides -- what a bargain -- no expensive phone calls.
No lengthy trips on planes in the fog.
No manicky laughter or blessing from an odd-lot priest.
That priest is probably still floating on a fog pillow.
Blessing us.
Blessing us.
Am I to bless the lost you, sitting here with my clumsy soul? Propaganda time is over.
I sit here on the spike of truth.
No one to hate except the slim fish of memory that slides in and out of my brain.
No one to hate except the acute feel of my nightgown brushing my body like a light that has gone out.
It recalls the kiss we invented, tongues like poems, meeting, returning, inviting, causing a fever of need.
Laughter, maps, cassettes, touch singing its path - all to be broken and laid away in a tight strongbox.
The monotonous dead clog me up and there is only black done in black that oozes from the strongbox.
I must disembowel it and then set the heart, the legs, of two who were one upon a large woodpile and ignite, as I was once ignited, and let it whirl into flame, reaching the sky making it dangerous with its red.


by Anne Sexton | |

The Fury Of Gods Goodbye

 One day He 
tipped His top hat 
and walked 
out of the room, 
ending the argument.
He stomped off saying: I don't give guarantees.
I was left quite alone using up the darkness I rolled up my sweater, up in a ball, and took it to bed with me, a kind of stand-in for God, that washerwoman who walks out when you're clean but not ironed.
When I woke up the sweater had turned to bricks of gold.
I'd won the world but like a forsaken explorer, I'd lost my map.