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Best Famous Heartbroken Poems


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

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

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by Stephen Vincent Benet |

The Fiddling Wood

 Gods, what a black, fierce day! The clouds were iron, 
Wrenched to strange, rugged shapes; the red sun winked 
Over the rough crest of the hairy wood 
In angry scorn; the grey road twisted, kinked, 
Like a sick serpent, seeming to environ 
The trees with magic. All the wood was still -- 

Cracked, crannied pines bent like malicious cripples 
Before the gusty wind; they seemed to nose, 
Nudge, poke each other, cackling with ill mirth -- 
Enchantment's days were over -- sh! -- Suppose 
That crouching log there, where the white light stipples 
Should -- break its quiet! WAS THAT CRIMSON -- EARTH? 

It smirched the ground like a lewd whisper, "Danger!" -- 
I hunched my cloak about me -- then, appalled, 
Turned ice and fire by turns -- for -- someone stirred 
The brown, dry needles sharply! Terror crawled 
Along my spine, as forth there stepped -- a Stranger! 
And all the pines crooned like a drowsy bird! 

His stock was black. His great shoe-buckles glistened. 
His fur cuffs ended in a sheen of rings. 
And underneath his coat a case bulged blackly -- 
He swept his beaver in a rush of wings! 
Then took the fiddle out, and, as I listened, 
Tightened and tuned the yellowed strings, hung slackly. 

Ping! Pang! The clear notes swooped and curved and darted, 
Rising like gulls. Then, with a finger skinny, 
He rubbed the bow with rosin, said, "Your pardon 
Signor! -- Maestro Nicolo Paganini 
They used to call me! Tchk! -- The cold grips hard on 
A poor musician's fingers!" -- His lips parted. 

A tortured soul screamed suddenly and loud, 
From the brown, quivering case! Then, faster, faster, 
Dancing in flame-like whorls, wild, beating, screaming, 
The music wailed unutterable disaster; 
Heartbroken murmurs from pale lips once proud, 
Dead, choking moans from hearts once nobly dreaming. 

Till all resolved in anguish -- died away 
Upon one minor chord, and was resumed 
In anguish; fell again to a low cry, 
Then rose triumphant where the white fires fumed, 
Terrible, marching, trampling, reeling, gay, 
Hurling mad, broken legions down to die 

Through everlasting hells -- The tears were salt 
Upon my fingers -- Then, I saw, behind 
The fury of the player, all the trees 
Crouched like violinists, boughs crooked, jerking, blind, 
Sweeping mad bows to music without fault, 
Grey cheeks to greyer fiddles, withered knees. 

Gasping, I fled! -- but still that devilish tune 
Stunned ears and brain alike -- till clouds of dust 
Blotted the picture, and the noise grew dim -- 
Shaking, I reached the town -- and turned -- in trust -- 
Wind-smitten, dread, against the sky-line's rim, 
Black, dragon branches whipped below a moon!


by Amy Levy |

Captivity

 The lion remembers the forest,
The lion in chains;
To the bird that is captive a vision
Of woodland remains.

One strains with his strength at the fetter,
In impotent rage;
One flutters in flights of a moment,
And beats at the cage.

If the lion were loosed from the fetter,
To wander again;
He would seek the wide silence and shadow
Of his jungle in vain.

He would rage in his fury, destroying;
Let him rage, let him roam!
Shall he traverse the pitiless mountain,
Or swim through the foam?

If they opened the cage and the casement,
And the bird flew away;
He would come back at evening, heartbroken,
A captive for aye.

Would come if his kindred had spared him,
Free birds from afar--
There was wrought what is stronger than iron
In fetter and bar.

I cannot remember my country,
The land whence I came;
Whence they brought me and chained me and made me
Nor wild thing nor tame.

This only I know of my country,
This only repeat :--
It was free as the forest, and sweeter
Than woodland retreat.

When the chain shall at last be broken,
The window set wide;
And I step in the largeness and freedom
Of sunlight outside ;

Shall I wander in vain for my country?
Shall I seek and not find?
Shall I cry for the bars that encage me
The fetters that bind?


by Lisa Zaran |

Love Is Believable

 love is believable 
in every moment of exhaustion 
in every heartbroken home 
in every dark spirit, 
the meaning unfolds... 

...in every night that sings 
of tomorrow. in every suicide 
i carry deep inside my head. 
in every lonely smile 
that plays across my lips. 
love is believable i tell you, 
in every scrap of history, 
in every sheen of want. 

what can be wrong 
that some days i have a tough time 
believing. 
and in each chamber of my heart 
i pray. 

Copyright © Lisa Zaran, 2006


by William Henry Davies |

The Child and the Mariner

 A dear old couple my grandparents were, 
And kind to all dumb things; they saw in Heaven 
The lamb that Jesus petted when a child; 
Their faith was never draped by Doubt: to them 
Death was a rainbow in Eternity, 
That promised everlasting brightness soon. 
An old seafaring man was he; a rough 
Old man, but kind; and hairy, like the nut 
Full of sweet milk. All day on shore he watched 
The winds for sailors' wives, and told what ships 
Enjoyed fair weather, and what ships had storms; 
He watched the sky, and he could tell for sure 
What afternoons would follow stormy morns, 
If quiet nights would end wild afternoons. 
He leapt away from scandal with a roar, 
And if a whisper still possessed his mind, 
He walked about and cursed it for a plague. 
He took offence at Heaven when beggars passed, 
And sternly called them back to give them help. 
In this old captain's house I lived, and things 
That house contained were in ships' cabins once: 
Sea-shells and charts and pebbles, model ships; 
Green weeds, dried fishes stuffed, and coral stalks; 
Old wooden trunks with handles of spliced rope, 
With copper saucers full of monies strange, 
That seemed the savings of dead men, not touched 
To keep them warm since their real owners died; 
Strings of red beads, methought were dipped in blood, 
And swinging lamps, as though the house might move; 
An ivory lighthouse built on ivory rocks, 
The bones of fishes and three bottled ships. 
And many a thing was there which sailors make 
In idle hours, when on long voyages, 
Of marvellous patience, to no lovely end. 
And on those charts I saw the small black dots 
That were called islands, and I knew they had 
Turtles and palms, and pirates' buried gold. 
There came a stranger to my granddad's house, 
The old man's nephew, a seafarer too; 
A big, strong able man who could have walked 
Twm Barlum's hill all clad in iron mail 
So strong he could have made one man his club 
To knock down others -- Henry was his name, 
No other name was uttered by his kin. 
And here he was, sooth illclad, but oh, 
Thought I, what secrets of the sea are his! 
This man knows coral islands in the sea, 
And dusky girls heartbroken for white men; 
More rich than Spain, when the Phoenicians shipped 
Silver for common ballast, and they saw 
Horses at silver mangers eating grain; 
This man has seen the wind blow up a mermaid's hair 
Which, like a golden serpent, reared and stretched 
To feel the air away beyond her head. 
He begged my pennies, which I gave with joy -- 
He will most certainly return some time 
A self-made king of some new land, and rich. 
Alas that he, the hero of my dreams, 
Should be his people's scorn; for they had rose 
To proud command of ships, whilst he had toiled 
Before the mast for years, and well content; 
Him they despised, and only Death could bring 
A likeness in his face to show like them. 
For he drank all his pay, nor went to sea 
As long as ale was easy got on shore. 
Now, in his last long voyage he had sailed 
From Plymouth Sound to where sweet odours fan 
The Cingalese at work, and then back home -- 
But came not near my kin till pay was spent. 
He was not old, yet seemed so; for his face 
Looked like the drowned man's in the morgue, when it 
Has struck the wooden wharves and keels of ships. 
And all his flesh was pricked with Indian ink, 
His body marked as rare and delicate 
As dead men struck by lightning under trees 
And pictured with fine twigs and curlèd ferns; 
Chains on his neck and anchors on his arms; 
Rings on his fingers, bracelets on his wrist; 
And on his breast the Jane of Appledore 
Was schooner rigged, and in full sail at sea. 
He could not whisper with his strong hoarse voice, 
No more than could a horse creep quietly; 
He laughed to scorn the men that muffled close 
For fear of wind, till all their neck was hid, 
Like Indian corn wrapped up in long green leaves; 
He knew no flowers but seaweeds brown and green, 
He knew no birds but those that followed ships. 
Full well he knew the water-world; he heard 
A grander music there than we on land, 
When organ shakes a church; swore he would make 
The sea his home, though it was always roused 
By such wild storms as never leave Cape Horn; 
Happy to hear the tempest grunt and squeal 
Like pigs heard dying in a slaughterhouse. 
A true-born mariner, and this his hope -- 
His coffin would be what his cradle was, 
A boat to drown in and be sunk at sea; 
Salted and iced in Neptune's larder deep. 
This man despised small coasters, fishing-smacks; 
He scorned those sailors who at night and morn 
Can see the coast, when in their little boats 
They go a six days' voyage and are back 
Home with their wives for every Sabbath day. 
Much did he talk of tankards of old beer, 
And bottled stuff he drank in other lands, 
Which was a liquid fire like Hell to gulp, 
But Paradise to sip. 

And so he talked; 
Nor did those people listen with more awe 
To Lazurus -- whom they had seen stone dead -- 
Than did we urchins to that seaman's voice. 
He many a tale of wonder told: of where, 
At Argostoli, Cephalonia's sea 
Ran over the earth's lip in heavy floods; 
And then again of how the strange Chinese 
Conversed much as our homely Blackbirds sing. 
He told us how he sailed in one old ship 
Near that volcano Martinique, whose power 
Shook like dry leaves the whole Caribbean seas; 
And made the sun set in a sea of fire 
Which only half was his; and dust was thick 
On deck, and stones were pelted at the mast. 
Into my greedy ears such words that sleep 
Stood at my pillow half the night perplexed. 
He told how isles sprang up and sank again, 
Between short voyages, to his amaze; 
How they did come and go, and cheated charts; 
Told how a crew was cursed when one man killed 
A bird that perched upon a moving barque; 
And how the sea's sharp needles, firm and strong, 
Ripped open the bellies of big, iron ships; 
Of mighty icebergs in the Northern seas, 
That haunt the far hirizon like white ghosts. 
He told of waves that lift a ship so high 
That birds could pass from starboard unto port 
Under her dripping keel. 

Oh, it was sweet 
To hear that seaman tell such wondrous tales: 
How deep the sea in parts, that drownèd men 
Must go a long way to their graves and sink 
Day after day, and wander with the tides. 
He spake of his own deeds; of how he sailed 
One summer's night along the Bosphorus, 
And he -- who knew no music like the wash 
Of waves against a ship, or wind in shrouds -- 
Heard then the music on that woody shore 
Of nightingales,and feared to leave the deck, 
He thought 'twas sailing into Paradise. 
To hear these stories all we urchins placed 
Our pennies in that seaman's ready hand; 
Until one morn he signed on for a long cruise, 
And sailed away -- we never saw him more. 
Could such a man sink in the sea unknown? 
Nay, he had found a land with something rich, 
That kept his eyes turned inland for his life. 
'A damn bad sailor and a landshark too, 
No good in port or out' -- my granddad said.