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Best Famous Bleeding Heart Poems

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Written by Mary Darby Robinson | Create an image from this poem

Ode on Adversity

 WHERE o'er my head, the deaf'ning Tempest blew, 
And Night's cold lamp cast forth a feeble ray; 
Where o'er the woodlands, vivid light'nings flew, 
Cleft the strong oak, and scorch'd the blossom'd spray; 
At morn's approach, I mark the sun's warm glow 
O'er the grey hill a crimson radiance throw; 
I mark the silv'ry fragrant dew, 
Give lustre to the vi'let's hue; 
The shallow rivers o'er their pebbly way, 
In slow meanders murmuring play; 
Day spreads her beams, the lofty forest tree, 
Shakes from its moisten'd head the pearly show'r, 
All nature, feels the renovating hour, 
All, but the sorrowing child of cold ADVERSITY; 
For her, the linnet's downy throat 
Breathes harmony in vain; 
Unmov'd, she hears the warbling note 
In all the melody of song complain; 
By her unmark'd the flowret's bloom, 
In vain the landscape sheds perfume; 
Her languid form, on earth's damp bed, 
In coarse and tatter'd garb reclines; 
In silent agony she pines; 
Or, if she hears some stranger's tread, 
To a dark nook, ashamed she flies, 
And with her scanty robe, o'er-shades her weeping eyes.
Her hair, dishevel'd, wildly plays With every freezing gale; While down her cold cheek, deadly pale, The tear of pensive sorrow strays; She shuns, the PITY of the proud, Her mind, still triumphs, unsubdu'd Nor stoops, its misery to obtrude, Upon the vulgar croud.
Unheeded, and unknown, To some bleak wilderness she flies; And seated on a moss-clad stone, Unwholesome vapours round her rise, And hang their mischiefs on her brow; The ruffian winds, her limbs expose; Still, still, her heart disdains to bow, She cherishes her woes.
NOW FAMINE spreads her sable wings; INGRATITUDE insults her pangs; While from a thousand eager fangs, Madd'ning she flies;­The recreant crew With taunting smiles her steps pursue; While on her burning, bleeding heart, Fresh wounded by Affliction's dart, NEGLECT, her icy poison flings; From HOPE's celestial bosom hurl'd, She seeks oblivion's gloom, Now, now, she mocks the barb'rous world, AND TRIUMPHS IN THE TOMB.


Written by Matthew Arnold | Create an image from this poem

Stanzas from the Grande Chartreuse

 Through Alpine meadows soft-suffused
With rain, where thick the crocus blows,
Past the dark forges long disused,
The mule-track from Saint Laurent goes.
The bridge is cross'd, and slow we ride, Through forest, up the mountain-side.
The autumnal evening darkens round, The wind is up, and drives the rain; While, hark! far down, with strangled sound Doth the Dead Guier's stream complain, Where that wet smoke, among the woods, Over his boiling cauldron broods.
Swift rush the spectral vapours white Past limestone scars with ragged pines, Showing--then blotting from our sight!-- Halt--through the cloud-drift something shines! High in the valley, wet and drear, The huts of Courrerie appear.
Strike leftward! cries our guide; and higher Mounts up the stony forest-way.
At last the encircling trees retire; Look! through the showery twilight grey What pointed roofs are these advance?-- A palace of the Kings of France? Approach, for what we seek is here! Alight, and sparely sup, and wait For rest in this outbuilding near; Then cross the sward and reach that gate.
Knock; pass the wicket! Thou art come To the Carthusians' world-famed home.
The silent courts, where night and day Into their stone-carved basins cold The splashing icy fountains play-- The humid corridors behold! Where, ghostlike in the deepening night, Cowl'd forms brush by in gleaming white.
The chapel, where no organ's peal Invests the stern and naked prayer-- With penitential cries they kneel And wrestle; rising then, with bare And white uplifted faces stand, Passing the Host from hand to hand; Each takes, and then his visage wan Is buried in his cowl once more.
The cells!--the suffering Son of Man Upon the wall--the knee-worn floor-- And where they sleep, that wooden bed, Which shall their coffin be, when dead! The library, where tract and tome Not to feed priestly pride are there, To hymn the conquering march of Rome, Nor yet to amuse, as ours are! They paint of souls the inner strife, Their drops of blood, their death in life.
The garden, overgrown--yet mild, See, fragrant herbs are flowering there! Strong children of the Alpine wild Whose culture is the brethren's care; Of human tasks their only one, And cheerful works beneath the sun.
Those halls, too, destined to contain Each its own pilgrim-host of old, From England, Germany, or Spain-- All are before me! I behold The House, the Brotherhood austere! --And what am I, that I am here? For rigorous teachers seized my youth, And purged its faith, and trimm'd its fire, Show'd me the high, white star of Truth, There bade me gaze, and there aspire.
Even now their whispers pierce the gloom: What dost thou in this living tomb? Forgive me, masters of the mind! At whose behest I long ago So much unlearnt, so much resign'd-- I come not here to be your foe! I seek these anchorites, not in ruth, To curse and to deny your truth; Not as their friend, or child, I speak! But as, on some far northern strand, Thinking of his own Gods, a Greek In pity and mournful awe might stand Before some fallen Runic stone-- For both were faiths, and both are gone.
Wandering between two worlds, one dead, The other powerless to be born, With nowhere yet to rest my head, Like these, on earth I wait forlorn.
Their faith, my tears, the world deride-- I come to shed them at their side.
Oh, hide me in your gloom profound, Ye solemn seats of holy pain! Take me, cowl'd forms, and fence me round, Till I possess my soul again; Till free my thoughts before me roll, Not chafed by hourly false control! For the world cries your faith is now But a dead time's exploded dream; My melancholy, sciolists say, Is a pass'd mode, an outworn theme-- As if the world had ever had A faith, or sciolists been sad! Ah, if it be pass'd, take away, At least, the restlessness, the pain; Be man henceforth no more a prey To these out-dated stings again! The nobleness of grief is gone Ah, leave us not the fret alone! But--if you cannot give us ease-- Last of the race of them who grieve Here leave us to die out with these Last of the people who believe! Silent, while years engrave the brow; Silent--the best are silent now.
Achilles ponders in his tent, The kings of modern thought are dumb, Silent they are though not content, And wait to see the future come.
They have the grief men had of yore, But they contend and cry no more.
Our fathers water'd with their tears This sea of time whereon we sail, Their voices were in all men's ears We pass'd within their puissant hail.
Still the same ocean round us raves, But we stand mute, and watch the waves.
For what avail'd it, all the noise And outcry of the former men?-- Say, have their sons achieved more joys, Say, is life lighter now than then? The sufferers died, they left their pain-- The pangs which tortured them remain.
What helps it now, that Byron bore, With haughty scorn which mock'd the smart, Through Europe to the ?tolian shore The pageant of his bleeding heart? That thousands counted every groan, And Europe made his woe her own? What boots it, Shelley! that the breeze Carried thy lovely wail away, Musical through Italian trees Which fringe thy soft blue Spezzian bay? Inheritors of thy distress Have restless hearts one throb the less? Or are we easier, to have read, O Obermann! the sad, stern page, Which tells us how thou hidd'st thy head From the fierce tempest of thine age In the lone brakes of Fontainebleau, Or chalets near the Alpine snow? Ye slumber in your silent grave!-- The world, which for an idle day Grace to your mood of sadness gave, Long since hath flung her weeds away.
The eternal trifler breaks your spell; But we--we learned your lore too well! Years hence, perhaps, may dawn an age, More fortunate, alas! than we, Which without hardness will be sage, And gay without frivolity.
Sons of the world, oh, speed those years; But, while we wait, allow our tears! Allow them! We admire with awe The exulting thunder of your race; You give the universe your law, You triumph over time and space! Your pride of life, your tireless powers, We laud them, but they are not ours.
We are like children rear'd in shade Beneath some old-world abbey wall, Forgotten in a forest-glade, And secret from the eyes of all.
Deep, deep the greenwood round them waves, Their abbey, and its close of graves! But, where the road runs near the stream, Oft through the trees they catch a glance Of passing troops in the sun's beam-- Pennon, and plume, and flashing lance! Forth to the world those soldiers fare, To life, to cities, and to war! And through the wood, another way, Faint bugle-notes from far are borne, Where hunters gather, staghounds bay, Round some fair forest-lodge at morn.
Gay dames are there, in sylvan green; Laughter and cries--those notes between! The banners flashing through the trees Make their blood dance and chain their eyes; That bugle-music on the breeze Arrests them with a charm'd surprise.
Banner by turns and bugle woo: Ye shy recluses, follow too! O children, what do ye reply?-- 'Action and pleasure, will ye roam Through these secluded dells to cry And call us?--but too late ye come! Too late for us your call ye blow, Whose bent was taken long ago.
'Long since we pace this shadow'd nave; We watch those yellow tapers shine, Emblems of hope over the grave, In the high altar's depth divine; The organ carries to our ear Its accents of another sphere.
'Fenced early in this cloistral round Of reverie, of shade, of prayer, How should we grow in other ground? How can we flower in foreign air? --Pass, banners, pass, and bugles, cease; And leave our desert to its peace!'
Written by Donald Justice | Create an image from this poem

In Bertrams Garden

 Jane looks down at her organdy skirt
As if it somehow were the thing disgraced,
For being there, on the floor, in the dirt,
And she catches it up about her waist,
Smooths it out along one hip,
And pulls it over the crumpled slip.
On the porch, green-shuttered, cool, Asleep is Bertram that bronze boy, Who, having wound her around a spool, Sends her spinning like a toy Out to the garden, all alone, To sit and weep on a bench of stone.
Soon the purple dark must bruise Lily and bleeding-heart and rose, And the little cupid lose Eyes and ears and chin and nose, And Jane lie down with others soon, Naked to the naked moon.
Written by D. H. Lawrence | Create an image from this poem

A Passing Bell

 Mournfully to and fro, to and fro the trees are waving; 
What did you say, my dear?
The rain-bruised leaves are suddenly shaken, as a child
Asleep still shakes in the clutch of a sob— 
Yes, my love, I hear.
One lonely bell, one only, the storm-tossed afternoon is braving, Why not let it ring? The roses lean down when they hear it, the tender, mild Flowers of the bleeding-heart fall to the throb— It is such a little thing! A wet bird walks on the lawn, call to the boy to come and look, Yes, it is over now.
Call to him out of the silence, call him to see The starling shaking its head as it walks in the grass— Ah, who knows how? He cannot see it, I can never show it him, how it shook— Don’t disturb him, darling.
—Its head as it walked: I can never call him to me, Never, he is not, whatever shall come to pass.
No, look at the wet starling.
Written by Sir Philip Sidney | Create an image from this poem

Sonnet XIII: Phoebus Was Judge

 Phoebus was judge between Jove, Mars, and Love, 
Of those three gods, whose arms the fairest were: 
Jove's golden shield did eagle sables bear, 
Whose talons held young Ganymede above: 

But in vert field Mars bare a golden spear, 
Which through a bleeding heart his point did shove: 
Each had his crest; Mars carried Venus' glove, 
Jove in his helm the thunderbolt did rear.
Cupid them smiles, for on his crest there lies Stella's fair hair, her face he makes his shield, Where roses gules are borne in silver field.
Phoebus drew wide the curtains of the skies To blaze these last, and sware devoutly then, The first, thus match'd, were scantly gentlemen.


Written by Isaac Watts | Create an image from this poem

Hymn 71

 Christ found in the street, and brought to the church.
SS 3:1-5 Often I seek my Lord by night, Jesus, my Love, my soul's delight; With warm desire and restless thought I seek him oft, but find him not.
Then I arise and search the street, Till I my Lord, my Savior meet: I ask the watchmen of the night, "Where did you see my soul's delight?" Sometimes I find him in my way, Directed by a heav'nly ray; I leap for joy to see his face, And hold him fast in mine embrace.
[I bring him to my mother's home, Nor does my Lord refuse to come To Zion's sacred chambers, where My soul first drew the vital air.
He gives me there his bleeding heart, Pierced for my sake with deadly smart; I give my soul to him, and there Our loves their mutual tokens share.
] I charge you, all ye earthly toys, Approach not to disturb my joys; Nor sin nor hell come near my heart, Nor cause my Savior to depart.
Written by Paul Laurence Dunbar | Create an image from this poem

THE LESSON

My cot was down by a cypress grove,
And I sat by my window the whole night long,
And heard well up from the deep dark wood
A mocking-bird's passionate song.
And I thought of myself so sad and lone,
And my life's cold winter that knew no spring;
Of my mind so weary and sick and wild,
Of my heart too sad to sing.
But e'en as I listened the mock-bird's song,
A thought stole into my saddened heart,
And I said, "I can cheer some other soul
By a carol's simple art."
For oft from the darkness of hearts and lives
Come songs that brim with joy and light,
As out of the gloom of the cypress grove
The mocking-bird sings at night.
So I sang a lay for a brother's ear
In a strain to soothe his bleeding heart,
And he smiled at the sound of my voice and lyre,
Though mine was a feeble art.
But at his smile I smiled in turn,
And into my soul there came a ray:
In trying to soothe another's woes
Mine own had passed away.
Written by Isaac Watts | Create an image from this poem

Psalm 69 part 2

 v.
14-21,26,29,32 C.
M.
The passion and exaltation of Christ.
Now let our lips with holy fear And mournful pleasure sing The suff'rings of our great High Priest, The sorrows of our King.
He sinks in floods of deep distress; How high the waters rise! While to his heav'nly Father's ear He sends perpetual cries.
"Hear me, O Lord, and save thy Son, Nor hide thy shining face; Why should thy fav'rite look like one Forsaken of thy grace? "With rage they persecute the man That groans beneath thy wound, While for a sacrifice I pour My life upon the ground.
"They tread my honor to the dust, And laugh when I complain; Their sharp insulting slanders add Fresh anguish to my pain.
"All my reproach is known to thee, The scandal and the shame Reproach has broke my bleeding heart, And lies defiled my name.
"I looked for pity, but in vain; My kindred are my grief: I ask my friends for comfort round, But meet with no relief.
"With vinegar they mock my thirst, They give me gall for food; And sporting with my dying groans, They triumph in my blood.
"Shine into my distressed soul, Let thy compassions save; And though my flesh sink down to death, Redeem it from the grave.
"I shall arise to praise thy name, Shall reign in worlds unknown; And thy salvation, O my God, Shall seat me on thy throne.
"

Book: Reflection on the Important Things