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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.

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Famous poems below this ad
Written 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.


Written 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.


Written 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.


More great poems below...

Written 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 


Written 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.


Written 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.


Written 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.


Written 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?


Written 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


Written 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.


Written by Paul Muldoon | |

Promises Promises

 I am stretched out under the lean-to
Of an old tobacco-shed
On a farm in North Carolina.
A cardinal sings from the dogwood For the love of marijuana.
His song goes over my head.
There is such splendour in the grass I might be the picture of happiness.
Yet I am utterly bereft Of the low hills, the open-ended sky, The wave upon wave of pasture Rolling in, and just as surely Falling short of my bare feet.
Whatever is passing is passing me by.
I am with Raleigh, near the Atlantic, Where we have built a stockade Around our little colony.
Give him his scallop-shell of quiet, His staff of faith to walk upon, His scrip of joy, immortal diet— We are some eighty souls On whom Raleigh will hoist his sails.
He will return, years afterwards, To wonder where and why We might have altogether disappeared, Only to glimpse us here and there As one fair strand in her braid, The blue in an Indian girl's dead eye.
I am stretched out under the lean-to Of an old tobacco-shed On a farm in North Carolina, When someone or other, warm, naked, Stirs within my own skeleton And stands on tip-toe to look out Over the horizon, Through the zones, across the Ocean.
The cardinal sings from a redbud For the love of one slender and shy, The flight after flight of stairs To her room in Bayswater, The damson freckle on her throat That I kissed when we kissed Goodbye.


Written by Ogden Nash | |

The Sunset Years of Samuel Shy

 Master I may be,
But not of my fate.
Now come the kisses, too many too late.
Tell me, O Parcae, For fain would I know, Where were these kisses three decades ago? Girls there were plenty, Mint julep girls, beer girls, Gay younger married and headstrong career girls, The girls of my friends And the wives of my friends, Some smugly settled and some at loose ends, Sad girls, serene girls, Girls breathless and turbulent, Debs cosmopolitan, matrons suburbulent, All of them amiable, All of them cordial, Innocent rousers of instincts primordial, But even though health and wealth Hadn't yet missed me, None of them, Not even Jenny, Once kissed me.
These very same girls Who with me have grown older Now freely relax with a head on my shoulder, And now come the kisses, A flood in full spate, The meaningless kisses, too many too late.
They kiss me hello, They kiss me goodbye, Should I offer a light, there's a kiss for reply.
They kiss me at weddings, They kiss me at wakes, The drop of a hat is less than it takes.
They kiss me at cocktails, They kiss me at bridge, It's all automatic, like slapping a midge.
The sound of their kisses Is loud in my ears Like the locusts that swarm every seventeen years.
I'm arthritic, dyspeptic, Potentially ulcery, And weary of kisses by custom compulsory.
Should my dear ones commit me As senile demential, It's from kisses perfunctory, inconsequential.
Answer, O Parcae, For fain would I know, Where were these kisses three decades ago?


Written by Wilfred Owen | |

S. I. W.

 "I will to the King,
 And offer him consolation in his trouble,
 For that man there has set his teeth to die,
 And being one that hates obedience,
 Discipline, and orderliness of life,
 I cannot mourn him.
" W.
B.
Yeats.
Patting goodbye, doubtless they told the lad He'd always show the Hun a brave man's face; Father would sooner him dead than in disgrace, -- Was proud to see him going, aye, and glad.
Perhaps his Mother whimpered how she'd fret Until he got a nice, safe wound to nurse.
Sisters would wish girls too could shoot, charge, curse, .
.
.
Brothers -- would send his favourite cigarette, Each week, month after month, they wrote the same, Thinking him sheltered in some Y.
M.
Hut, Where once an hour a bullet missed its aim And misses teased the hunger of his brain.
His eyes grew old with wincing, and his hand Reckless with ague.
Courage leaked, as sand From the best sandbags after years of rain.
But never leave, wound, fever, trench-foot, shock, Untrapped the wretch.
And death seemed still withheld For torture of lying machinally shelled, At the pleasure of this world's Powers who'd run amok.
He'd seen men shoot their hands, on night patrol, Their people never knew.
Yet they were vile.
"Death sooner than dishonour, that's the style!" So Father said.
One dawn, our wire patrol Carried him.
This time, Death had not missed.
We could do nothing, but wipe his bleeding cough.
Could it be accident? -- Rifles go off .
.
.
Not sniped? No.
(Later they found the English ball.
) It was the reasoned crisis of his soul.
Against the fires that would not burn him whole But kept him for death's perjury and scoff And life's half-promising, and both their riling.
With him they buried the muzzle his teeth had kissed, And truthfully wrote the Mother "Tim died smiling.
"


Written by Ruth Padel | |

Kiss

 He's gone.
She can't believe it, can't go on.
She's going to give up painting.
So she paints Her final canvas, total-turn-off Black.
One long Obsidian goodbye.
A charcoal-burner's Smirnoff, The mirror of Loch Ness Reflecting the monster back to its own eye.
But something's wrong.
Those mad Black-body particles don't sing Her story of despair, the steel and Garnet spindle Of the storm.
This black has everything its own sweet way, Where's the I'd-like-to-kill-You conflict? Try once more, but this time add A curve to all that straight.
And opposition White.
She paints black first.
A grindstone belly Hammering a smaller shape Beneath a snake Of in-betweening light.
"I feel like this.
I hope that you do, too, Black crater.
Screw you.
Kiss" And sees a voodoo flicker, where two worlds nearly touch And miss.
That flash, where white Lets black get close, that dagger of not-quite contact, Catspaw panic, quiver on the wheat Field before thunder - There.
That's it.
That's her own self, in paint, Splitting what she was from what she is.
As if everything that separates, unites.
Copyright from Voodoo Shop (Chatto, 2002), copyright © Ruth Padel 2002, used by permission of the author and the publisher


Written by Grace Paley | |

This Life

 My friend tells me
a man in my house jumped off the roof
the roof is the eighth floor of this building
the roof door was locked how did he manage?
his girlfriend had said goodbye I'm leaving
he was 22
his mother and father were hurrying
at that very moment
from upstate to help him move out of Brooklyn
they had heard about the girl

the people who usually look up
and call jump jump did not see him
the life savers who creep around the back staircases
and reach the roof's edge just in time
never got their chance he meant it he wanted
only one person to know

did he imagine that she would grieve
all her young life away tell everyone
this boy I kind of lived with last year
he died on account of me

my friend was not interested he said you're always
inventing stuff what I want to know how could he throw
his life away how do these guys do it
just like that and here I am fighting this
ferocious insane vindictive virus day and
night day and night and for what? for only
one thing this life this life