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Best Famous A Broken Heart Poems

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Written by Nazim Hikmet | Create an image from this poem


 I was born in 1902
I never once went back to my birthplace
I don't like to turn back
at three I served as a pasha's grandson in Aleppo
at nineteen as a student at Moscow Communist University
at forty-nine I was back in Moscow as the Tcheka Party's guest
and I've been a poet since I was fourteen
some people know all about plants some about fish
 I know separation
some people know the names of the stars by heart
 I recite absences
I've slept in prisons and in grand hotels
I've known hunger even a hunger strike and there's almost no food
 I haven't tasted
at thirty they wanted to hang me
at forty-eight to give me the Peace Prize
 which they did
at thirty-six I covered four square meters of concrete in half a year
at fifty-nine I flew from Prague to Havana in eighteen hours
I never saw Lenin I stood watch at his coffin in '24
in '61 the tomb I visit is his books
they tried to tear me away from my party
 it didn't work
nor was I crushed under the falling idols
in '51 I sailed with a young friend into the teeth of death
in '52 I spent four months flat on my back with a broken heart
 waiting to die
I was jealous of the women I loved
I didn't envy Charlie Chaplin one bit
I deceived my women
I never talked my friends' backs
I drank but not every day
I earned my bread money honestly what happiness
out of embarrassment for others I lied
I lied so as not to hurt someone else
 but I also lied for no reason at all
I've ridden in trains planes and cars
most people don't get the chance
I went to opera
 most people haven't even heard of the opera
and since '21 I haven't gone to the places most people visit
 mosques churches temples synagogues sorcerers
 but I've had my coffee grounds read
my writings are published in thirty or forty languages
 in my Turkey in my Turkish they're banned
cancer hasn't caught up with me yet
and nothing says it will
I'll never be a prime minister or anything like that
and I wouldn't want such a life
nor did I go to war
or burrow in bomb shelters in the bottom of the night
and I never had to take to the road under diving planes
but I fell in love at almost sixty
in short comrades
even if today in Berlin I'm croaking of grief
 I can say I've lived like a human being
and who knows
 how much longer I'll live
 what else will happen to me

 This autobiography was written 
 in east Berlin on 11 September 1961

Written by Robert Browning | Create an image from this poem

The Italian In England

 That second time they hunted me
From hill to plain, from shore to sea,
And Austria, hounding far and wide
Her blood-hounds through the countryside,
Breathed hot and instant on my trace,— 
I made six days a hiding-place
Of that dry green old aqueduct
Where I and Charles, when boys, have plucked
The fire-flies from the roof above,
Bright creeping throuoh the moss they love.
—How long it seems since Charles was lost! Six days the soldiers crossed and crossed The country in my very sight; And when that peril ceased at night, The sky broke out in red dismay With signal-fires; well, there I lay Close covered o'er in my recess, Up to the neck in ferns and cress, Thinking on Metternich our friend, And Charles's miserable end, And much beside, two days; the third, Hunger o'ercame me when I heard The peasants from the village go To work among the maize; you know, With us, in Lombardy, they bring Provisions packed on mules, a string With little bells that cheer their task, And casks, and boughs on every cask To keep the sun's heat from the wine; These I let pass in jingling line, And, close on them, dear noisy crew, The peasants from the village too; For at the very rear would troop Their wives and sisters in a group To help, I knew; when these had passed, I threw my glove to strike the last, Taking the chance: she did not start, Much less cry out, but stooped apart One instant, rapidly glanced round, And saw me beckon from the ground; A wild bush grows and hides my crypt, She picked my glove up while she stripped A branch off, then rejoined the rest With that; my glove lay in her breast: Then I drew breath: they disappeared; It was for Italy I feared.
An hour, and she returned alone Exactly where my glove was thrown.
Meanwhile come many thoughts; on me Rested the hopes of Italy; I had devised a certain tale Which, when 'twas told her, could not fail Persuade a peasant of its truth; I meant to call a freak of youth This hiding, and give hopes of pay, And no temptation to betray.
But when I saw that woman's face, Its calm simplicity of grace, Our Italy's own attitude In which she walked thus far, and stood, Planting each naked foot so firm, To crush the snake and spare the worm— At first sight of her eyes, I said, "I am that man upon whose head They fix the price, because I hate The Austrians over us: the State Will give you gold—oh, gold so much, If you betray me to their clutch! And be your death, for aught I know, If once they find you saved their foe.
Now, you must bring me food and drink, And also paper, pen, and ink, And carry safe what I shall write To Padua, which you'll reach at night Before the Duomo shuts; go in, And wait till Tenebrae begin; Walk to the Third Confessional, Between the pillar and the wall, And Kneeling whisper whence comes peace? Say it a second time; then cease; And if the voice inside returns, From Christ and Freedom: what concerns The cause of Peace?—for answer, slip My letter where you placed your lip; Then come back happy we have done Our mother service—I, the son, As you daughter of our land!" Three mornings more, she took her stand In the same place, with the same eyes: I was no surer of sunrise Than of her coming: we conferred Of her own prospects, and I heard She had a lover—stout and tall, She said—then let her eyelids fall, "He could do much"—as if some doubt Entered her heart,—then, passing out, "She could not speak for others—who Had other thoughts; herself she knew:" And so she brought me drink and food.
After four days, the scouts pursued Another path: at last arrived The help my Paduan friends contrived To furnish me: she brought the news: For the first time I could not choose But kiss her hand and lay my own Upon her head—"This faith was shown To Italy, our mother;—she Uses my hand and blesses thee!" She followed down to the seashore; I left and never saw her more.
How very long since I have thought Concerning—much less wished for—aught Beside the good of Italy, For which I live and mean to die! I never was in love; and since Charles proved false, nothing could convince My inmost heart I had a friend; However, if I pleased to spend Real wishes on myself—say, Three— I know at least what one should be; I would grasp Metternich until I felt his red wet throat distil In blood through these two hands; and next, —Nor much for that am I perplexed— Charles, perjured traitor, for his part, Should die slow of a broken heart Under his new employers; last —Ah, there, what should I wish? For fast Do I grow old and out of strength.
— If I resolved to seek at length My father's house again, how scared They all would look, and unprepared! My brothers live in Austria's pay —Disowned me long ago, men say; And all my early mates who used To praise me so—perhaps induced More than one early step of mine— Are turning wise; while some opine "Freedom grows License," some suspect "Haste breeds Delay," and recollect They always said, such premature Beginnings never could endure! So, with a sullen "All's for best," The land seems settling to its rest.
I think, then, I should wish to stand This evening in that dear, lost land, Over the sea the thousand miles, And know if yet that woman smiles With the calm smile; some little farm She lives in there, no doubt; what harm If I sate on the door-side bench, And, while her spindle made a trench Fantastically in the dust, Inquired of all her fortunes—just Her children's ages and their names, And what may be the husband's aims For each of them—I'd talk this out, And sit there, for and hour about, Then kiss her hand once more, and lay Mine on her head, and go my way.
So much for idle wishing—how It steals the time! To business now.
Written by Friedrich von Schiller | Create an image from this poem

Feast Of Victory

 Priam's castle-walls had sunk,
Troy in dust and ashes lay,
And each Greek, with triumph drunk,
Richly laden with his prey,
Sat upon his ship's high prow,
On the Hellespontic strand,
Starting on his journey now,
Bound for Greece, his own fair land.
Raise the glad exulting shout! Toward the land that gave them birth Turn they now the ships about, As they seek their native earth.
And in rows, all mournfully, Sat the Trojan women there,-- Beat their breasts in agony, Pallid, with dishevelled hair.
In the feast of joy so glad Mingled they the song of woe, Weeping o'er their fortunes sad, In their country's overthrow.
"Land beloved, oh, fare thee well! By our foreign masters led, Far from home we're doomed to dwell,-- Ah, how happy are the dead!" Soon the blood by Calchas spilt On the altar heavenward smokes; Pallas, by whom towns are built And destroyed, the priest invokes; Neptune, too, who all the earth With his billowy girdle laves,-- Zeus, who gives to terror birth, Who the dreaded Aegis waves.
Now the weary fight is done, Ne'er again to be renewed; Time's wide circuit now is run, And the mighty town subdued! Atreus' son, the army's head, Told the people's numbers o'er, Whom he, as their captain, led To Scamander's vale of yore.
Sorrow's black and heavy clouds Passed across the monarch's brow: Of those vast and valiant crowds, Oh, how few were left him now! Joyful songs let each one raise, Who will see his home again, In whose veins the life-blood plays, For, alas! not all remain! "All who homeward wend their way, Will not there find peace of mind; On their household altars, they Murder foul perchance may find.
Many fall by false friend's stroke, Who in fight immortal proved:"-- So Ulysses warning spoke, By Athene's spirit moved.
Happy he, whose faithful spouse Guards his home with honor true! Woman ofttimes breaks her vows, Ever loves she what is new.
And Atrides glories there In the prize he won in fight, And around her body fair Twines his arms with fond delight.
Evil works must punished be.
Vengeance follows after crime, For Kronion's just decree Rules the heavenly courts sublime.
Evil must in evil end; Zeus will on the impious band Woe for broken guest-rights send, Weighing with impartial hand.
"It may well the glad befit," Cried Olleus' valiant son, "To extol the Gods who sit On Olympus' lofty throne! Fortune all her gifts supplies, Blindly, and no justice knows, For Patroclus buried lies, And Thersites homeward goes! Since she blindly throws away Each lot in her wheel contained, Let him shout with joy to-day Who the prize of life has gained.
" "Ay, the wars the best devour! Brother, we will think of thee, In the fight a very tower, When we join in revelry! When the Grecian ships were fired, By thine arm was safety brought; Yet the man by craft inspired Won the spoils thy valor sought.
Peace be to thine ashes blest! Thou wert vanquished not in fight: Anger 'tis destroys the best,-- Ajax fell by Ajax' might!" Neoptolemus poured then, To his sire renowned the wine-- "'Mongst the lots of earthly men, Mighty father, prize I thine! Of the goods that life supplies, Greatest far of all is fame; Though to dust the body flies, Yet still lives a noble name.
Valiant one, thy glory's ray Will immortal be in song; For, though life may pass away, To all time the dead belong!" "Since the voice of minstrelsy Speaks not of the vanquished man, I will Hector's witness be,"-- Tydeus' noble son began: "Fighting bravely in defence Of his household-gods he fell.
Great the victor's glory thence, He in purpose did excel! Battling for his altars dear, Sank that rock, no more to rise; E'en the foemen will revere One whose honored name ne'er dies.
" Nestor, joyous reveller old, Who three generations saw, Now the leaf-crowned cup of gold Gave to weeping Hecuba.
"Drain the goblet's draught so cool, And forget each painful smart! Bacchus' gifts are wonderful,-- Balsam for a broken heart.
Drain the goblet's draught so cool, And forget each painful smart! Bacchus' gifts are wonderful,-- Balsam for a broken heart.
"E'en to Niobe, whom Heaven Loved in wrath to persecute, Respite from her pangs was given, Tasting of the corn's ripe fruit.
Whilst the thirsty lip we lave In the foaming, living spring, Buried deep in Lethe's wave Lies all grief, all sorrowing! Whilst the thirsty lip we lave In the foaming, living spring, Swallowed up in Lethe's wave Is all grief, all sorrowing!" And the Prophetess inspired By her God, upstarted now,-- Toward the smoke of homesteads fired, Looking from the lofty prow.
"Smoke is each thing here below; Every worldly greatness dies, As the vapory columns go,-- None are fixed but Deities! Cares behind the horseman sit-- Round about the vessel play; Lest the morrow hinder it, Let us, therefore, live to-day.
Written by Walter de la Mare | Create an image from this poem

At Ease

 Most wounds can Time repair;
But some are mortal -- these:
For a broken heart there is no balm,
No cure for a heart at ease --

At ease, but cold as stone,
Though the intellect spin on,
And the feat and practiced face may show
Nought of the life that is gone;

But smiles, as by habit taught;
And sighs, as by custom led;
And the soul within is safe from damnation,
Since it is dead.
Written by George William Russell | Create an image from this poem

A New Being

 I KNOW myself no more, my child,
 Since thou art come to me,
Pity so tender and so wild
 Hath wrapped my thoughts of thee.
These thoughts, a fiery gentle rain, Are from the Mother shed, Where many a broken heart hath lain And many a weeping head.

Written by Robert William Service | Create an image from this poem

You Cant Can Love

 I don't know how the fishes feel, but I can't help thinking it odd,
That a gay young flapper of a female eel should fall in love with a cod.
Yet - that's exactly what she did and it only goes to prove, That' what evr you do you can't put the lid on that crazy feeling Love.
Now that young tom-cod was a dreadful rake, and he had no wish to wed, But he feared that her foolish heart would break, so this is what he said: "Some fellows prize a woman's eyes, and some admire her lips, While some have a taste for a tiny waist, but - me, what I like is HIPS.
" "So you see, my dear," said that gay tom-cod, "Exactly how I feel; Oh I hate to be unkind but I know my mind, and there ain't no hips on an eel.
" "Alas! that's true," said the foolish fish, as she blushed to her finny tips: "And with might and main, though it gives me pain, I'll try to develop hips.
" So day and night with all her might she physical culturized; But alas and alack, in the middle of her back no hump she recognized.
So - then she knew that her love eclipse was fated from the start; For you never yet saw an eel with hips, so she died of a broken heart.
Chorus: Oh you've gotta hand it out to Love, to Love you can't can Love You'll find it from the bottom of the briny deep to the blue above.
From the Belgin hare to the Polar Bear, and the turtle dove, You can look where you please, But from elephant to fleas, You'll never put the lid on Love.
You can look where you choose, But from crabs to kangaroos, You'll never put the lid on Love.
You can look where you like, But from polywogs to pike, You'll never put the lid on Love.
You can look where you please, But from buffalo to bees, You'll never put the lid on Love.
Written by Emily Dickinson | Create an image from this poem

Unto a broken heart

 Unto a broken heart
No other one may go
Without the high prerogative
Itself hath suffered too.
Written by Andrew Barton Paterson | Create an image from this poem

In the Droving Days

 "Only a pound," said the auctioneer, 
"Only a pound; and I'm standing here 
Selling this animal, gain or loss -- 
Only a pound for the drover's horse? 
One of the sort that was ne'er afraid, 
One of the boys of the Old Brigade; 
Thoroughly honest and game, I'll swear, 
Only a little the worse for wear; 
Plenty as bad to be seen in town, 
Give me a bid and I'll knock him down; 
Sold as he stands, and without recourse, 
Give me a bid for the drover's horse.
" Loitering there in an aimless way Somehow I noticed the poor old grey, Weary and battered and screwed, of course; Yet when I noticed the old grey horse, The rough bush saddle, and single rein Of the bridle laid on his tangled mane, Straighway the crowd and the auctioneer Seemed on a sudden to disappear, Melted away in a kind if haze -- For my heart went back to the droving days.
Back to the road, and I crossed again Over the miles of the saltbush plain -- The shining plain that is said to be The dried-up bed of an inland sea.
Where the air so dry and so clear and bright Refracts the sun with a wondrous light, And out in the dim horizon makes The deep blue gleam of the phantom lakes.
At dawn of day we could feel the breeze That stirred the boughs of the sleeping trees, And brought a breath of the fragrance rare That comes and goes in that scented air; For the trees and grass and the shrubs contain A dry sweet scent on the saltbush plain.
for those that love it and understand The saltbush plain is a wonderland, A wondrous country, were Nature's ways Were revealed to me in the droving days.
We saw the fleet wild horses pass, And kangaroos through the Mitchell grass; The emu ran with her frightened brood All unmolested and unpursued.
But there rose a shout and a wild hubbub When the dingo raced for his native scrub, And he paid right dear for his stolen meals With the drovers' dogs at his wretched heels.
For we ran him down at a rattling pace, While the pack-horse joined in the stirring chase.
And a wild halloo at the kill we'd raise -- We were light of heart in the droving days.
'Twas a drover's horse, and my hand again Made a move to close on a fancied rein.
For I felt a swing and the easy stride Of the grand old horse that I used to ride.
In drought or plenty, in good or ill, The same old steed was my comrade still; The old grey horse with his honest ways Was a mate to me in the droving days.
When we kept our watch in the cold and damp, If the cattle broke from the sleeping camp, Over the flats and across the plain, With my head bent down on his waving mane, Through the boughs above and the stumps below, On the darkest night I could let him go At a racing speed; he would choose his course, And my life was safe with the old grey horse.
But man and horse had a favourite job, When an outlaw broke from the station mob; With a right good will was the stockwhip plied, As the old horse raced at the straggler's side, And the greenhide whip such a weal would raise -- We could use the whip in the droving days.
----------------- "Only a pound!" and was this the end -- Only a pound for the drover's friend.
The drover's friend that has seen his day, And now was worthless and cast away With a broken knee and a broken heart To be flogged and starved in a hawker's cart.
Well, I made a bid for a sense of shame And the memories of the good old game.
"Thank you? Guinea! and cheap at that! Against you there in the curly hat! Only a guinea, and one more chance, Down he goes if there's no advance, Third, and last time, one! two! three!" And the old grey horse was knocked down to me.
And now he's wandering, fat and sleek, On the lucerne flats by the Homestead Creek; I dare not ride him for fear he's fall, But he does a journey to beat them all, For though he scarcely a trot can raise, He can take me back to the droving days.
Written by Henry Lawson | Create an image from this poem

The Things We Dare Not Tell

 The fields are fair in autumn yet, and the sun's still shining there, 
But we bow our heads and we brood and fret, because of the masks we wear; 
Or we nod and smile the social while, and we say we're doing well, 
But we break our hearts, oh, we break our hearts! for the things we must not tell.
There's the old love wronged ere the new was won, there's the light of long ago; There's the cruel lie that we suffer for, and the public must not know.
So we go through life with a ghastly mask, and we're doing fairly well, While they break our hearts, oh, they kill our hearts! do the things we must not tell.
We see but pride in a selfish breast, while a heart is breaking there; Oh, the world would be such a kindly world if all men's hearts lay bare! We live and share the living lie, we are doing very well, While they eat our hearts as the years go by, do the things we dare not tell.
We bow us down to a dusty shrine, or a temple in the East, Or we stand and drink to the world-old creed, with the coffins at the feast; We fight it down, and we live it down, or we bear it bravely well, But the best men die of a broken heart for the things they cannot tell.
Written by Edgar Lee Masters | Create an image from this poem

Doctor Meyers

 No other man, unless it was Doc Hill,
Did more for people in this town than l.
And all the weak, the halt, the improvident And those who could not pay flocked to me.
I was good-hearted, easy Doctor Meyers.
I was healthy, happy, in comfortable fortune, Blest with a congenial mate, my children raised, All wedded, doing well in the world.
And then one night, Minerva, the poetess, Came to me in her trouble, crying.
I tried to help her out -- she died -- They indicted me, the newspapers disgraced me, My wife perished of a broken heart.
And pneumonia finished me.