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Best Famous Sorry Poems

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

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See also: Best Member Poems

by Robert Frost | |

The Road Not Taken

TWO roads diverged in a yellow wood, 
And sorry I could not travel both 
And be one traveler, long I stood 
And looked down one as far as I could 
To where it bent in the undergrowth; 

Then took the other, as just as fair, 
And having perhaps the better claim 
Because it was grassy and wanted wear; 
Though as for that, the passing there 
Had worn them really about the same, 

And both that morning equally lay 
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I marked the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I, I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.


by Ben Jonson | |

His Excuse for Loving

Let it not your wonder move, 
Less your laughter, that I love.
Though I now write fifty years, I have had, and have, my peers.
Poets, though divine, are men; Some have loved as old again.
And it is not always face, Clothes, or fortune gives the grace, Or the feature, or the youth; But the language and the truth, With the ardor and the passion, Gives the lover weight and fashion.
If you then would hear the story, First, prepare you to be sorry That you never knew till now Either whom to love or how; But be glad as soon with me When you hear that this is she Of whose beauty it was sung, She shall make the old man young, Keep the middle age at stay, And let nothing hide decay, Till she be the reason why All the world for love may die.


by Robert Burns | |

To a Mouse

Wee, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie,
O, what a panic's in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
          Wi' bickering brattle!
I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee,
          Wi' murd'ring pattle!

I'm truly sorry man's dominion
Has broken Nature's social union,
An' justifies that ill opinion
          Which makes thee startle
At me, thy poor, earth-born companion,
          An' fellow mortal!

I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen icker in a thrave
          'S a sma' request;
I'll get a blessin wi' the lave,
          An' never miss't!

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!
Its silly wa's the win's are strewin!
An' naething, now, to big a new ane,
          O' foggage green!
An' bleak December's win's ensuin,
          Baith snell an' keen!

Thou saw the fields laid bare an waste,
An' weary winter comin fast,
An' cozie here, beneath the blast,
          Thou thought to dwell,
Till crash! the cruel coulter past
          Out thro' thy cell.
That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble Has cost thee mony a weary nibble! Now thou's turned out, for a' thy trouble, But house or hald, To thole the winter's sleety dribble, An' cranreuch cauld! But Mousie, thou art no thy lane, In proving foresight may be vain: The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men Gang aft a-gley, An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain For promised joy! Still thou art blest, compared wi' me! The present only toucheth thee: But och! I backward cast my e'e On prospects drear! An' forward, tho I canna see, I guess an' fear!


More great poems below...

by | |

On Salathiel Pavy

A child of Queen Elizabeth's Chapel 
Epitaphs: ii


WEEP with me all you that read 
This little story; 
And know for whom a tear you shed 
Death's self is sorry.
'Twas a child that so did thrive 5 In grace and feature As Heaven and Nature seem'd to strive Which own'd the creature.
Years he number'd scarce thirteen When Fates turn'd cruel 10 Yet three fill'd zodiacs had he been The stage's jewel; And did act (what now we moan) Old men so duly As sooth the Parcae thought him one 15 He play'd so truly.
So by error to his fate They all consented; But viewing him since alas too late! They have repented; 20 And have sought to give new birth In baths to steep him; But being so much too good for earth Heaven vows to keep him.


by Sara Teasdale | |

Longing

 I am not sorry for my soul
That it must go unsatisfied,
For it can live a thousand times,
Eternity is deep and wide.
I am not sorry for my soul, But oh, my body that must go Back to a little drift of dust Without the joy it longed to know.


by Anonymous | |

EVENING.

The day is gone,—the silent night
Invites me to my peaceful bed;
But, Lord, I know that it is right
To thank Thee, ere I rest my head.
For my good meals and pleasant hours,
That I have had this present day,
Let me exert my infant powers
To praise Thee, nor forget to pray.
Thou art most good.
I can’t tell all
That Thou hast ever done for me;
My Shepherd, now on Thee I call,
From dangers still preserve me free.
[Pg 020]
If I’ve been naughty on this day,
Oh! make me sorry for my fault;
Do Thou forgive, and teach the way
To follow Jesus as I ought.
And now I’ll lay me down to rest,
Myself,—my friends,—all safely keep;
May Thy great name be ever blest,
Both when we wake, and when we sleep.


by Dimitris P Kraniotis | |

To the dead poet of obscurity

 (In honor of the dead unpublished poet)

Well done!
You have won!
You should not feel sorry.
Your unpublished poems -always remember- have not been buried, haven’t bent under the strength of time.
Like gold inside the soil they remain, they never melt.
They may be late but they will be given to their people someday, to offer their sweet, eternal essence.


by Edna St Vincent Millay | |

The Penitent

 I had a little Sorrow,
Born of a little Sin,
I found a room all damp with gloom
And shut us all within;
And, "Little Sorrow, weep," said I,
"And, Little Sin, pray God to die,
And I upon the floor will lie
And think how bad I've been!"

Alas for pious planning—
It mattered not a whit!
As far as gloom went in that room,
The lamp might have been lit!
My little Sorrow would not weep,
My little Sin would go to sleep—
To save my soul I could not keep
My graceless mind on it!

So I got up in anger,
And took a book I had,
And put a ribbon on my hair
To please a passing lad,
And, "One thing there's no getting by—
I've been a wicked girl," said I:
"But if I can't be sorry, why,
I might as well be glad!"


by Edna St Vincent Millay | |

Oh Oh You Will Be Sorry

 Oh, oh, you will be sorry for that word!
Give me back my book and take my kiss instead.
Was it my enemy or my friend I heard, "What a big book for such a little head!" Come, I will show you now my newest hat, And you may watch me purse my mouth and prink! Oh, I shall love you still, and all of that.
I never again shall tell you what I think.
I shall be sweet and crafty, soft and sly; You will not catch me reading any more: I shall be called a wife to pattern by; And some day when you knock and push the door, Some sane day, not too bright and not too stormy, I shall be gone, and you may whistle for me.


by Edna St Vincent Millay | |

The Penitent

 I had a little Sorrow,
Born of a little Sin,
I found a room all damp with gloom
And shut us all within;
And, "Little Sorrow, weep," said I,
"And, Little Sin, pray God to die,
And I upon the floor will lie
And think how bad I've been!"

Alas for pious planning - -
It mattered not a whit!
As far as gloom went in that room,
The lamp might have been lit!
My little Sorrow would not weep,
My little Sin would go to sleep --
To save my soul I could not keep
My graceless mind on it!

So I got up in anger,
And took a book I had,
And put a ribbon on my my hair
To please a passing lad,
And, "One thing there's no getting by --
I've been a wicked girl," said I:
"But if I can't be sorry, why,
I might as well be glad!"


by Edna St Vincent Millay | |

Indifference

 I said,—for Love was laggard, O, Love was slow to come,—
 "I'll hear his step and know his step when I am warm in
 bed;
But I'll never leave my pillow, though there be some
 As would let him in—and take him in with tears!" I said.
I lay,—for Love was laggard, O, he came not until dawn,— I lay and listened for his step and could not get to sleep; And he found me at my window with my big cloak on, All sorry with the tears some folks might weep!


by Godfrey Mutiso Gorry | |

THE GARDEN OF DEATH

 Weak but alive
dying yet still alive
huge eyes
round like golf balls 
white as bones
Bony framed
fleshless
Pus in orifices
worms
teeth, white teeth
skull and bones.
Am sorry for life Oh this pain deeper than Only death can save My friend, I am sorry That you pain When you sleep, wake Pain, blindness Damn anguish – no thoughts emerge When engulfed by pain Such heart is dead Am sorry; Oh this life! A taboo You will die so Potstones thrown In the garden of death.
The nurse is no artist A greater artist has shown the nurse An art of degeneration A human form sculptured By an ailment of our time A thousand diseases in one.
And then these sufferings There will be no heaven here… Can’t eat – wounds in mouth Cant pee – balls on fire Weak and dizzy As thin as bones – is bones Skin and foul air Do not pity- There will be no heaven here A body ravaged beyond .
.
.
When looking for hell You will find it here.


by R S Thomas | |

Sorry

 Dear parents,
I forgive you my life,
Begotten in a drab town,
The intention was good;
Passing the street now,
I see still the remains of sunlight.
It was not the bone buckled; You gave me enough food To renew myself.
It was the mind's weight Kept me bent, as I grew tall.
It was not your fault.
What should have gone on, Arrow aimed from a tried bow At a tried target, has turned back, Wounding itself With questions you had not asked.


by R S Thomas | |

Death Of A Poet

 Laid now on his smooth bed
For the last time, watching dully
Through heavy eyelids the day's colour
Widow the sky, what can he say
Worthy of record, the books all open,
Pens ready, the faces, sad,
Waiting gravely for the tired lips
To move once -- what can he say?

His tongue wrestles to force one word
Past the thick phlegm; no speech, no phrases
For the day's news, just the one word ‘sorry';
Sorry for the lies, for the long failure
In the poet's war; that he preferred 
The easier rhythms of the heart 
To the mind's scansion; that now he dies
Intestate, having nothing to leave
But a few songs, cold as stones
In the thin hands that asked for bread.


by Katherine Mansfield | |

The Man with the Wooden Leg

 There was a man lived quite near us;
He had a wooden leg and a goldfinch in a green cage.
His name was Farkey Anderson, And he'd been in a war to get his leg.
We were very sad about him, Because he had such a beautiful smile And was such a big man to live in a very small house.
When he walked on the road his leg did not matter so much; But when he walked in his little house It made an ugly noise.
Little Brother said his goldfinch sang the loudest of all birds, So that he should not hear his poor leg And feel too sorry about it.


by Robert William Service | |

Dunce

 At school I never gained a prize,
Proving myself the model ass;
Yet how I watched the wistful eyes,
And cheered my mates who topped the class.
No envy in my heart I found, Yet bone was worthier to own Those precious books in vellum bound, Than I, a dreamer and a drone.
No prize at school I ever gained (Shirking my studies, I suppose): Yes, I remember being caned For lack of love of Latin prose.
For algebra I won no praise, In grammar I was far from bright: Yet, oh, how Poetry would raise In me a rapture of delight! I never gained a prize at school; The dullard's cap adorned my head; My masters wrote me down a fool, And yet - I'm sorry they are dead.
I'd like to go to them and say: "Yours is indeed a tricky trade.
My honoured classmates, where are they? Yet I, the dunce, brave books have made.
" Oh, I am old and worn and grey, And maybe have not long to live; Yet 'tis my hope at some Prize Day At my old school the Head will give A tome or two of mine to crown Some pupil's well-deserved success - Proving a scapegrace and a clown May win at last to worthiness.


by Robert William Service | |

Robert William Service - Laughter

 I Laugh at Life: its antics make for me a giddy games,
Where only foolish fellows take themselves with solemn aim.
I laugh at pomp and vanity, at riches, rank and pride; At social inanity, at swager, swank and side.
At poets, pastry-cooks and kings, at folk sublime and small, Who fuss about a thousand things that matter not at all; At those who dream of name and fame, at those who scheme for pelf.
.
.
.
But best of all the laughing game - is laughing at myself.
Some poet chap had labelled man the noblest work of God: I see myself a charlatan, a humbug and a fraud.
Yea, 'spite of show and shallow wit, an sentimental drool, I know myself a hypocrite, a coward and a fool.
And though I kick myself with glee profoundly on the pants, I'm little worse, it seems to me, than other human ants.
For if you probe your private mind, impervious to shame, Oh, Gentle Reader, you may find you're much about the same.
Then let us mock with ancient mirth this comic, cosmic plan; The stars are laughing at the earth; God's greatest joke is man.
For laughter is a buckler bright, and scorn a shining spear; So let us laugh with all our might at folly, fraud and fear.
Yet on our sorry selves be spent our most sardonic glee.
Oh don't pay life a compliment to take is seriously.
For he who can himself despise, be surgeon to the bone, May win to worth in others' eyes, to wisdom in his own.


by Robert William Service | |

Two Blind Men

 Two blind men met.
Said one: "This earth Has been a blackout from my birth.
Through darkness I have groped my way, Forlorn, unknowing night from day.
But you - though War destroyed your sight, Still have your memories of Light, And to allay your present pain Can live your golden youth again.
" Then said the second: "Aye, it's true, It must seem magical to you To know the shape of things that are, A women's lips, a rose, a star.
But therein lies the hell of it; Better my eyes had never lit to love of bluebells in a wood, Or daffodils in dancing mood.
"You do not know what you have lost, But I, alas! can count the cost - Than memories that goad and gall, Far better not to see at all.
And as for love, you know it not, For pity is our sorry lot.
So there you see my point of view: 'Tis I, my friend, who envy you.
And which was right still puzzles me: Perhaps one should be blind to see.


by Robert William Service | |

My Neighbors

 To rest my fagged brain now and then,
When wearied of my proper labors,
I lay aside my lagging pen
And get to thinking on my neighbors;
For, oh, around my garret den
There's woe and poverty a-plenty,
And life's so interesting when
A lad is only two-and-twenty.
Now, there's that artist gaunt and wan, A little card his door adorning; It reads: "Je ne suis pour personne", A very frank and fitting warning.
I fear he's in a sorry plight; He starves, I think, too proud to borrow, I hear him moaning every night: Maybe they'll find him dead to-morrow.


by Robert William Service | |

White Christmas

 My folks think I'm a serving maid
Each time I visit home;
They do not dream I ply a trade
As old as Greece or Rome;
For if they found I'd fouled their name
And was not white as snow,
I'm sure that they would die of shame .
.
.
Please, God, they'll never know.
I clean the paint from off my face, In sober black I dress; Of coquetry I leave no trace To give them vague distress; And though it causes me a pang To play such sorry tricks, About my neck I meekly hang A silver crufix.
And so with humble step I go Just like a child again, To greet their Christmas candle-glow, A soul without a stain; So well I play my contrite part I make myself believe There's not a stain within my heart On Holy Christmas Eve.
With double natures we are vext, And what we feel, we are; A saint one day, a sinner next, A red light or a star; A prostitute or proselyte, And in each part sincere: So I become a vestal white One week in every year.
For this I say without demur From out life's lurid lore, Each righteous women has in her A tincture of the whore; While every harpy of the night, As I have learned too well; Holds in her heart a heaven-light To ransom her from hell.
So I'll go home and sweep and dust; I'll make the kitchen fire, And be a model of daughters just The best they could desire; I'll fondle them and cook their food, And Mother dear will say: "Thank God! my darling is as good As when she went away.
" But after New Year's Day I'll fill My bag and though they grieve, I'll bid them both good-bye until Another Christmas Eve; And then .
.
.
a knock upon the door: I'll find them waiting there, And angel-like I'll come once more In answer to their prayer.
Then Lo! one night when candle-light Gleams mystic on the snow, And music swells of Christmas bells, I'll come, no more to go: The old folks need my love and care, Their gold shall gild my dross, And evermore my breast shall bear My little silver cross.


by Robert William Service | |

Innocence

 The height of wisdom seems to me
 That of a child;
So let my ageing vision be
 Serene and mild.
The depth of folly, I aver, Is to fish deep In that dark pool of science where Truth-demons sleep.
Let me not be a bearded sage Seeing too clear; In issues of the atom age Man-doom I fear.
So long as living's outward show To me is fair, What lies behind I do not know, And do not care.
Of woeful fears of future ill That earth-folk haunt, Let me, as radiant meadow rill, Be ignorant.
Aye, though a sorry dunce I be In learning's school, Lord, marvellously make of me Your Happy Fool!


by Robert William Service | |

Sentimental Shark

 Give me a cabin in the woods
Where not a human soul intrudes;
Where I can sit beside a stream
Beneath a balsam bough and deam,
And every morning see arise
The sun like bird of paradise;
Then go down to the creek and fish
A speckled trout for breakfast dish,
And fry it in an ember fire -
Ah! there's the life of my desire.
Alas! I'm tied to Wall Street where They reckon me a millionaire, And sometimes in a day alone I gain a fortune o'er the 'phone.
Yet I to be a man was made, And here I ply this sorry trade Of Company manipulation, Of selling short and stock inflation: I whom God meant to rope a steer, Fate mad a Wall Street buccaneer.
Old Time, how I envy you Who do the things I long to do.
Oh, I would swap you all my riches To step into your buckskin britches.
Your ragged shirt and rugged health I'd take in trade for all my wealth.
Then shorn of fortune you would see How drunk with freedom I would be; I'd kick so hard, I'd kick so high, I'd kick the moon clean from the sky.
Aye, gold to me is less than brass, And jewels mean no more than glass.
My gold is sunshine and my gems The glint of dew on grassy stems .
.
.
Yet though I hate my guts its true Time sorta makes you used to you; And so I will not gripe too much Because I have the Midas touch, But doodle on my swivel chair, Resigned to be a millionaire.


by Robert William Service | |

Longevity

 Said Brown: 'I can't afford to die
 For I have bought annuity,
And every day of living I
 Have money coming in to me:
While others toil to make their bread
 I make mine by not being dead.
' Said Jones: 'I can't afford to die, For I have books and books to write.
I do not care for pelf but I Would versify my visions bright; Emotions noble in my breast By worthy words should be expressed.
' Said Smith: 'I can't afford to die, Because my life is kindly planned; So many on my care rely, For comfort and a helping hand.
Too many weak ones need me so, And will be woeful when I go.
' Then Death appraisingly looked down, Saying: 'Your time's up, Mister Brown.
And I am sorry, Mister Jones, The earth is ready for your bones.
Friend Smith, although you're overdue Your lease of living we'll renew .
.
.
Both fame and fortune far above, What matters in the end is--Love.
'


by Robert William Service | |

My Inner Life

 'Tis true my garments threadbare are,
 And sorry poor I seem;
But inly I am richer far
 Than any poet's dream.
For I've a hidden life no one Can ever hope to see; A sacred sanctuary none May share with me.
Aloof I stand from out the strife, Within my heart a song; By virtue of my inner life I to myself belong.
Against man-ruling I rebel, Yet do not fear defeat, For to my secret citadel I may retreat.
Oh you who have an inner life Beyond this dismal day With wars and evil rumours rife, Go blessedly your way.
Your refuge hold inviolate; Unto yourself be true, And shield serene from sordid fate The Real You.


by Robert William Service | |

Beak-Bashing Boy

 But yesterday I banked on fistic fame,
Figgerin' I'd be a champion of the Ring.
Today I've half a mind to quit the Game, For all them rosy dreams have taken wing, Since last night a secondary bout I let a goddam nigger knock me out.
It must have been that T-bone steak I ate; They might have doped it, them smart gambling guys, For round my heart I felt a heavy weight, A stab of pain that should have put me wise.
But oh the cheering of the fans was sweet, And never once I reckoned on defeat.
I had the nigger licked - twice he went down, And there was just another round to go.
I played with him, I made him look a clown, Yet he was game, and traded blow for blow.
And then that piston pain, the dark of doom .
.
.
Like meat they lugged me to my dressing-room.
So that's the pay-off to my bid for fame.
But yesterday my head was in the sky, And now I slink and sag in sorry shame, And hate to look my backers in the eye.
They think I threw the fight; I sorto' feel The ringworms rate me for a lousy heel.
Oh sure I could go on - but gee! it's rough To be a pork-and-beaner at the best; To beg for bouts, yet getting not enough To keep a decent feed inside my vest; To go on canvas-kissing till I come To cadge for drinks just like a Bowery bum.
Hell no! I'll slug my guts out till I die.
I'll be no bouncer in a cheap saloon.
I'll give them swatatorium scribes the lie, I'll make a come-back, aye and pretty soon.
I'll show them tinhorn sports; I'll train and train, I'll hear them cheer - oh Christ! the pain, the PAIN .
.
.
Stable-Boss: "Poor punk! you're sunk - you'll never scrap again.
"