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Best Famous Misfortune Poems

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Written by Tupac Shakur | Create an image from this poem

Ambition Over Adversity

Take one's adversity
Learn from their misfortune
Learn from their pain
Believe in something
Believe in yourself
Turn adversity into ambition
Now blossom into wealth


Written by Anna Akhmatova | Create an image from this poem

Requiem

 Not under foreign skies
 Nor under foreign wings protected -
 I shared all this with my own people
 There, where misfortune had abandoned us.
 [1961]

INSTEAD OF A PREFACE

During the frightening years of the Yezhov terror, I
spent seventeen months waiting in prison queues in
Leningrad. One day, somehow, someone 'picked me out'.
On that occasion there was a woman standing behind me,
her lips blue with cold, who, of course, had never in
her life heard my name. Jolted out of the torpor
characteristic of all of us, she said into my ear
(everyone whispered there) - 'Could one ever describe
this?' And I answered - 'I can.' It was then that
something like a smile slid across what had previously
been just a face.
[The 1st of April in the year 1957. Leningrad]

DEDICATION

Mountains fall before this grief,
A mighty river stops its flow,
But prison doors stay firmly bolted
Shutting off the convict burrows
And an anguish close to death.
Fresh winds softly blow for someone,
Gentle sunsets warm them through; we don't know this,
We are everywhere the same, listening
To the scrape and turn of hateful keys
And the heavy tread of marching soldiers.
Waking early, as if for early mass,
Walking through the capital run wild, gone to seed,
We'd meet - the dead, lifeless; the sun,
Lower every day; the Neva, mistier:
But hope still sings forever in the distance.
The verdict. Immediately a flood of tears,
Followed by a total isolation,
As if a beating heart is painfully ripped out, or,
Thumped, she lies there brutally laid out,
But she still manages to walk, hesitantly, alone.
Where are you, my unwilling friends,
Captives of my two satanic years?
What miracle do you see in a Siberian blizzard?
What shimmering mirage around the circle of the moon?
I send each one of you my salutation, and farewell.
[March 1940]

INTRODUCTION
[PRELUDE]

It happened like this when only the dead
Were smiling, glad of their release,
That Leningrad hung around its prisons
Like a worthless emblem, flapping its piece.
Shrill and sharp, the steam-whistles sang
Short songs of farewell
To the ranks of convicted, demented by suffering,
As they, in regiments, walked along -
Stars of death stood over us
As innocent Russia squirmed
Under the blood-spattered boots and tyres
Of the black marias.

I

You were taken away at dawn. I followed you
As one does when a corpse is being removed.
Children were crying in the darkened house.
A candle flared, illuminating the Mother of God. . .
The cold of an icon was on your lips, a death-cold
sweat
On your brow - I will never forget this; I will gather

To wail with the wives of the murdered streltsy (1)
Inconsolably, beneath the Kremlin towers.
[1935. Autumn. Moscow]

II

Silent flows the river Don
A yellow moon looks quietly on
Swanking about, with cap askew
It sees through the window a shadow of you
Gravely ill, all alone
The moon sees a woman lying at home
Her son is in jail, her husband is dead
Say a prayer for her instead.

III

It isn't me, someone else is suffering. I couldn't.
Not like this. Everything that has happened,
Cover it with a black cloth,
Then let the torches be removed. . .
Night.

IV

Giggling, poking fun, everyone's darling,
The carefree sinner of Tsarskoye Selo (2)
If only you could have foreseen
What life would do with you -
That you would stand, parcel in hand,
Beneath the Crosses (3), three hundredth in
line,
Burning the new year's ice
With your hot tears.
Back and forth the prison poplar sways
With not a sound - how many innocent
Blameless lives are being taken away. . .
[1938]

V

For seventeen months I have been screaming,
Calling you home.
I've thrown myself at the feet of butchers
For you, my son and my horror.
Everything has become muddled forever -
I can no longer distinguish
Who is an animal, who a person, and how long
The wait can be for an execution.
There are now only dusty flowers,
The chinking of the thurible,
Tracks from somewhere into nowhere
And, staring me in the face
And threatening me with swift annihilation,
An enormous star.
[1939]

VI

Weeks fly lightly by. Even so,
I cannot understand what has arisen,
How, my son, into your prison
White nights stare so brilliantly.
Now once more they burn,
Eyes that focus like a hawk,
And, upon your cross, the talk
Is again of death.
[1939. Spring]

VII
THE VERDICT

The word landed with a stony thud
Onto my still-beating breast.
Nevermind, I was prepared,
I will manage with the rest.

I have a lot of work to do today;
I need to slaughter memory,
Turn my living soul to stone
Then teach myself to live again. . .

But how. The hot summer rustles
Like a carnival outside my window;
I have long had this premonition
Of a bright day and a deserted house.
[22 June 1939. Summer. Fontannyi Dom (4)]

VIII
TO DEATH

You will come anyway - so why not now?
I wait for you; things have become too hard.
I have turned out the lights and opened the door
For you, so simple and so wonderful.
Assume whatever shape you wish. Burst in
Like a shell of noxious gas. Creep up on me
Like a practised bandit with a heavy weapon.
Poison me, if you want, with a typhoid exhalation,
Or, with a simple tale prepared by you
(And known by all to the point of nausea), take me
Before the commander of the blue caps and let me
glimpse
The house administrator's terrified white face.
I don't care anymore. The river Yenisey
Swirls on. The Pole star blazes.
The blue sparks of those much-loved eyes
Close over and cover the final horror.
[19 August 1939. Fontannyi Dom]

IX

Madness with its wings
Has covered half my soul
It feeds me fiery wine
And lures me into the abyss.

That's when I understood
While listening to my alien delirium
That I must hand the victory
To it.

However much I nag
However much I beg
It will not let me take
One single thing away:

Not my son's frightening eyes -
A suffering set in stone,
Or prison visiting hours
Or days that end in storms

Nor the sweet coolness of a hand
The anxious shade of lime trees
Nor the light distant sound
Of final comforting words.
[14 May 1940. Fontannyi Dom]

X
CRUCIFIXION

Weep not for me, mother.
I am alive in my grave.

1.
A choir of angels glorified the greatest hour,
The heavens melted into flames.
To his father he said, 'Why hast thou forsaken me!'
But to his mother, 'Weep not for me. . .'
[1940. Fontannyi Dom]

2.
Magdalena smote herself and wept,
The favourite disciple turned to stone,
But there, where the mother stood silent,
Not one person dared to look.
[1943. Tashkent]

EPILOGUE

1.
I have learned how faces fall,
How terror can escape from lowered eyes,
How suffering can etch cruel pages
Of cuneiform-like marks upon the cheeks.
I know how dark or ash-blond strands of hair
Can suddenly turn white. I've learned to recognise
The fading smiles upon submissive lips,
The trembling fear inside a hollow laugh.
That's why I pray not for myself
But all of you who stood there with me
Through fiercest cold and scorching July heat
Under a towering, completely blind red wall.

2.
The hour has come to remember the dead.
I see you, I hear you, I feel you:
The one who resisted the long drag to the open window;
The one who could no longer feel the kick of familiar
soil beneath her feet;
The one who, with a sudden flick of her head, replied,

'I arrive here as if I've come home!'
I'd like to name you all by name, but the list
Has been removed and there is nowhere else to look.
So,
I have woven you this wide shroud out of the humble
words
I overheard you use. Everywhere, forever and always,
I will never forget one single thing. Even in new
grief.
Even if they clamp shut my tormented mouth
Through which one hundred million people scream;
That's how I wish them to remember me when I am dead
On the eve of my remembrance day.
If someone someday in this country
Decides to raise a memorial to me,
I give my consent to this festivity
But only on this condition - do not build it
By the sea where I was born,
I have severed my last ties with the sea;
Nor in the Tsar's Park by the hallowed stump
Where an inconsolable shadow looks for me;
Build it here where I stood for three hundred hours
And no-one slid open the bolt.
Listen, even in blissful death I fear
That I will forget the Black Marias,
Forget how hatefully the door slammed and an old woman
Howled like a wounded beast.
Let the thawing ice flow like tears
From my immovable bronze eyelids
And let the prison dove coo in the distance
While ships sail quietly along the river.
[March 1940. Fontannyi Dom]

FOOTNOTES

1 An elite guard which rose up in rebellion
 against Peter the Great in 1698. Most were either
 executed or exiled.
2 The imperial summer residence outside St
 Petersburg where Ahmatova spent her early years.
3 A prison complex in central Leningrad near the
 Finland Station, called The Crosses because of the
 shape of two of the buildings.
4 The Leningrad house in which Ahmatova lived.
Written by Robert Hayden | Create an image from this poem

Middle Passage

 I 

Jesús, Estrella, Esperanza, Mercy: 

Sails flashing to the wind like weapons, 
sharks following the moans the fever and the dying; 
horror the corposant and compass rose. 

Middle Passage: 
voyage through death 
to life upon these shores. 

"10 April 1800-- 
Blacks rebellious. Crew uneasy. Our linguist says 
their moaning is a prayer for death, 
our and their own. Some try to starve themselves. 
Lost three this morning leaped with crazy laughter 
to the waiting sharks, sang as they went under." 

Desire, Adventure, Tartar, Ann: 

Standing to America, bringing home 
black gold, black ivory, black seed. 

Deep in the festering hold thy father lies, of his bones 
New England pews are made, those are altar lights that were his eyes. 

Jesus Saviour Pilot Me 
Over Life's Tempestuous Sea 


We pray that Thou wilt grant, O Lord, 
safe passage to our vessels bringing 
heathen souls unto Thy chastening. 

Jesus Saviour 

"8 bells. I cannot sleep, for I am sick 
with fear, but writing eases fear a little 
since still my eyes can see these words take shape 
upon the page & so I write, as one 
would turn to exorcism. 4 days scudding, 
but now the sea is calm again. Misfortune 
follows in our wake like sharks (our grinning 
tutelary gods). Which one of us 
has killed an albatross? A plague among 
our blacks--Ophthalmia: blindness--& we 
have jettisoned the blind to no avail. 
It spreads, the terrifying sickness spreads. 
Its claws have scratched sight from the Capt.'s eyes 
& there is blindness in the fo'c'sle 
& we must sail 3 weeks before we come 
to port." 

What port awaits us, Davy Jones' or home? I've 
heard of slavers drifting, drifting, playthings of wind and storm and 
chance, their crews gone blind, the jungle hatred crawling 
up on deck. 

Thou Who Walked On Galilee 

"Deponent further sayeth The Bella J 
left the Guinea Coast 
with cargo of five hundred blacks and odd 
for the barracoons of Florida: 

"That there was hardly room 'tween-decks for half 
the sweltering cattle stowed spoon-fashion there; 
that some went mad of thirst and tore their flesh 
and sucked the blood: 

"That Crew and Captain lusted with the comeliest 
of the savage girls kept naked in the cabins; 
that there was one they called The Guinea Rose 
and they cast lots and fought to lie with her: 

"That when the Bo's'n piped all hands, the flames 
spreading from starboard already were beyond 
control, the ******* howling and their chains 
entangled with the flames: 

"That the burning blacks could not be reached, 
that the Crew abandoned ship, 
leaving their shrieking negresses behind, 
that the Captain perished drunken with the wenches: 

"Further Deponent sayeth not." 

Pilot Oh Pilot Me 


II 

Aye, lad, and I have seen those factories, 
Gambia, Rio Pongo, Calabar; 
have watched the artful mongos baiting traps 
of war wherein the victor and the vanquished 

Were caught as prizes for our barracoons. 
Have seen the ****** kings whose vanity 
and greed turned wild black hides of Fellatah, 
Mandingo, Ibo, Kru to gold for us. 

And there was one--King Anthracite we named him-- 
fetish face beneath French parasols 
of brass and orange velvet, impudent mouth 
whose cups were carven skulls of enemies: 

He'd honor us with drum and feast and conjo 
and palm-oil-glistening wenches deft in love, 
and for tin crowns that shone with paste, 
red calico and German-silver trinkets 

Would have the drums talk war and send 
his warriors to burn the sleeping villages 
and kill the sick and old and lead the young 
in coffles to our factories. 

Twenty years a trader, twenty years, 
for there was wealth aplenty to be harvested 
from those black fields, and I'd be trading still 
but for the fevers melting down my bones. 


III 

Shuttles in the rocking loom of history, 
the dark ships move, the dark ships move, 
their bright ironical names 
like jests of kindness on a murderer's mouth; 
plough through thrashing glister toward 
fata morgana's lucent melting shore, 
weave toward New World littorals that are 
mirage and myth and actual shore. 

Voyage through death, 
voyage whose chartings are unlove. 

A charnel stench, effluvium of living death 
spreads outward from the hold, 
where the living and the dead, the horribly dying, 
lie interlocked, lie foul with blood and excrement. 

Deep in the festering hold thy father lies, the corpse of mercy 
rots with him, rats eat love's rotten gelid eyes. But, oh, the 
living look at you with human eyes whose suffering accuses you, whose 
hatred reaches through the swill of dark to strike you like a leper's 
claw. You cannot stare that hatred down or chain the fear that stalks 
the watches and breathes on you its fetid scorching breath; cannot 
kill the deep immortal human wish, the timeless will. 

"But for the storm that flung up barriers 
of wind and wave, The Amistad, señores, 
would have reached the port of Príncipe in two, 
three days at most; but for the storm we should 
have been prepared for what befell. 
Swift as a puma's leap it came. There was 
that interval of moonless calm filled only 
with the water's and the rigging's usual sounds, 
then sudden movement, blows and snarling cries 
and they had fallen on us with machete 
and marlinspike. It was as though the very 
air, the night itself were striking us. 
Exhausted by the rigors of the storm, 
we were no match for them. Our men went down 
before the murderous Africans. Our loyal 
Celestino ran from below with gun 
and lantern and I saw, before the cane- 
knife's wounding flash, Cinquez, 
that surly brute who calls himself a prince, 
directing, urging on the ghastly work. 
He hacked the poor mulatto down, and then 
he turned on me. The decks were slippery 
when daylight finally came. It sickens me 
to think of what I saw, of how these apes 
threw overboard the butchered bodies of 
our men, true Christians all, like so much jetsam. 
Enough, enough. The rest is quickly told: 
Cinquez was forced to spare the two of us 
you see to steer the ship to Africa, 
and we like phantoms doomed to rove the sea 
voyaged east by day and west by night, 
deceiving them, hoping for rescue, 
prisoners on our own vessel, till 
at length we drifted to the shores of this 
your land, America, where we were freed 
from our unspeakable misery. Now we 
demand, good sirs, the extradition of 
Cinquez and his accomplices to La 
Havana. And it distresses us to know 
there are so many here who seem inclined 
to justify the mutiny of these blacks. 
We find it paradoxical indeed 
that you whose wealth, whose tree of liberty 
are rooted in the labor of your slaves 
should suffer the august John Quincey Adams 
to speak with so much passion of the right 
of chattel slaves to kill their lawful masters 
and with his Roman rhetoric weave a hero's 
garland for Cinquez. I tell you that 
we are determined to return to Cuba 
with our slaves and there see justice done. 
Cinquez-- 
or let us say 'the Prince'--Cinquez shall die." 

The deep immortal human wish, 
the timeless will: 

Cinquez its deathless primaveral image, 
life that transfigures many lives. 

Voyage through death 
to life upon these shores.
Written by Alexander Pushkin | Create an image from this poem

An Elegy

 The senseless years' extinguished mirth and laughter
Oppress me like some hazy morning-after.
But sadness of days past, as alcohol -
The more it age, the stronger grip the soul.
My course is dull. The future's troubled ocean
Forebodes me toil, misfortune and commotion.

But no, my friends, I do not wish to leave;
I'd rather live, to ponder and to grieve -
And I shall have my share of delectation
Amid all care, distress and agitation:
Time and again I'll savor harmony,
Melt into tears about some fantasy,
And on my sad decline, to ease affliction,
May love yet show her smile of valediction.
Written by Robert Burns | Create an image from this poem

25. My Father was a Farmer: A Ballad

 MY father was a farmer upon the Carrick border, O,
And carefully he bred me in decency and order, O;
He bade me act a manly part, though I had ne’er a farthing, O;
For without an honest manly heart, no man was worth regarding, O.


Then out into the world my course I did determine, O;
Tho’ to be rich was not my wish, yet to be great was charming, O;
My talents they were not the worst, nor yet my education, O:
Resolv’d was I at least to try to mend my situation, O.


In many a way, and vain essay, I courted Fortune’s favour, O;
Some cause unseen still stept between, to frustrate each endeavour, O;
Sometimes by foes I was o’erpower’d, sometimes by friends forsaken, O;
And when my hope was at the top, I still was worst mistaken, O.


Then sore harass’d and tir’d at last, with Fortune’s vain delusion, O,
I dropt my schemes, like idle dreams, and came to this conclusion, O;
The past was bad, and the future hid, its good or ill untried, O;
But the present hour was in my pow’r, and so I would enjoy it, O.


No help, nor hope, nor view had I, nor person to befriend me, O;
So I must toil, and sweat, and moil, and labour to sustain me, O;
To plough and sow, to reap and mow, my father bred me early, O;
For one, he said, to labour bred, was a match for Fortune fairly, O.


Thus all obscure, unknown, and poor, thro’ life I’m doom’d to wander, O,
Till down my weary bones I lay in everlasting slumber, O:
No view nor care, but shun whate’er might breed me pain or sorrow, O;
I live to-day as well’s I may, regardless of to-morrow, O.


But cheerful still, I am as well as a monarch in his palace, O,
Tho’ Fortune’s frown still hunts me down, with all her wonted malice, O:
I make indeed my daily bread, but ne’er can make it farther, O:
But as daily bread is all I need, I do not much regard her, O.


When sometimes by my labour, I earn a little money, O,
Some unforeseen misfortune comes gen’rally upon me, O;
Mischance, mistake, or by neglect, or my goodnatur’d folly, O:
But come what will, I’ve sworn it still, I’ll ne’er be melancholy, O.


All you who follow wealth and power with unremitting ardour, O,
The more in this you look for bliss, you leave your view the farther, O:
Had you the wealth Potosi boasts, or nations to adore you, O,
A cheerful honest-hearted clown I will prefer before you, O.


Written by Robert Lowell | Create an image from this poem

Homecoming

What was is...since 1930;
The boys in my old gang
are senior partners. They start up
bald like baby birds
to embrace retirement.

At the altar of surrender 
I met you
in the hour of credulity.
How your misfortune came our clearly
to us at twenty.

At the gingerbread casino 
how innocent the nights we made it.
on our Vesuvio martinis
with no vermouth but vodka
to sweeten the dry gin-

the lash across my face
that night we adored...
soon every night and all 
when your sweet amorous
repetition changed.
Written by Henry Lawson | Create an image from this poem

When Your Pants Begin to Go

 When you wear a cloudy collar and a shirt that isn't white, 
And you cannot sleep for thinking how you'll reach to-morrow night, 
You may be a man of sorrows, and on speaking terms with Care, 
And as yet be unacquainted with the Demon of Despair; 
For I rather think that nothing heaps the trouble on your mind 
Like the knowledge that your trousers badly need a patch behind. 

I have noticed when misfortune strikes the hero of the play, 
That his clothes are worn and tattered in a most unlikely way; 
And the gods applaud and cheer him while he whines and loafs around, 
And they never seem to notice that his pants are mostly sound; 
But, of course, he cannot help it, for our mirth would mock his care, 
If the ceiling of his trousers showed the patches of repair. 

You are none the less a hero if you elevate your chin 
When you feel the pavement wearing through the leather, sock, and skin; 
You are rather more heroic than are ordinary folk 
If you scorn to fish for pity under cover of a joke; 
You will face the doubtful glances of the people that you know; 
But -- of course, you're bound to face them when your pants begin to go. 

If, when flush, you took your pleasures -- failed to make a god of Pelf, 
Some will say that for your troubles you can only thank yourself -- 
Some will swear you'll die a beggar, but you only laugh at that, 
While your garments hand together and you wear a decent hat; 
You may laugh at their predictions while your soles are wearing low, 
But -- a man's an awful coward when his pants begin to go. 

Though the present and the future may be anything but bright, 
It is best to tell the fellows that you're getting on all right, 
And a man prefers to say it -- 'tis a manly lie to tell, 
For the folks may be persuaded that you're doing very well; 
But it's hard to be a hero, and it's hard to wear a grin, 
When your most important garment is in places very thin. 

Get some sympathy and comfort from the chum who knows you best, 
That your sorrows won't run over in the presence of the rest; 
There's a chum that you can go to when you feel inclined to whine, 
He'll declare your coat is tidy, and he'll say: `Just look at mine!' 
Though you may be patched all over he will say it doesn't show, 
And he'll swear it can't be noticed when your pants begin to go. 

Brother mine, and of misfortune! times are hard, but do not fret, 
Keep your courage up and struggle, and we'll laugh at these things yet, 
Though there is no corn in Egypt, surely Africa has some -- 
Keep your smile in working order for the better days to come! 
We shall often laugh together at the hard times that we know, 
And get measured by the tailor when our pants begin to go. 

...... 

Now the lady of refinement, in the lap of comfort rocked, 
Chancing on these rugged verses, will pretend that she is shocked. 
Leave her to her smelling-bottle; 'tis the wealthy who decide 
That the world should hide its patches 'neath the cruel look of pride; 
And I think there's something noble, and I swear there's nothing low, 
In the pride of Human Nature when its pants begin to go.
Written by Conrad Aiken | Create an image from this poem

Improvisations: Light And Snow

 I

The girl in the room beneath 
Before going to bed 
Strums on a mandolin 
The three simple tunes she knows. 
How inadequate they are to tell how her heart feels! 
When she has finished them several times 
She thrums the strings aimlessly with her finger-nails 
And smiles, and thinks happily of many things.

II

I stood for a long while before the shop window 
Looking at the blue butterflies embroidered on tawny silk. 
The building was a tower before me, 
Time was loud behind me, 
Sun went over the housetops and dusty trees; 
And there they were, glistening, brilliant, motionless, 
Stitched in a golden sky 
By yellow patient fingers long since turned to dust.

III

The first bell is silver, 
And breathing darkness I think only of the long scythe of time. 
The second bell is crimson, 
And I think of a holiday night, with rockets 
Furrowing the sky with red, and a soft shatter of stars. 
The third bell is saffron and slow, 
And I behold a long sunset over the sea 
With wall on wall of castled cloud and glittering balustrades. 
The fourth bell is color of bronze, 
I walk by a frozen lake in the dun light of dusk: 
Muffled crackings run in the ice, 
Trees creak, birds fly. 
The fifth bell is cold clear azure, 
Delicately tinged with green: 
One golden star hangs melting in it, 
And towards this, sleepily, I go. 
The sixth bell is as if a pebble 
Had been dropped into a deep sea far above me . . . 
Rings of sound ebb slowly into the silence.

IV

On the day when my uncle and I drove to the cemetery, 
Rain rattled on the roof of the carriage; 
And talkng constrainedly of this and that 
We refrained from looking at the child's coffin on the seat before us. 
When we reached the cemetery 
We found that the thin snow on the grass 
Was already transparent with rain; 
And boards had been laid upon it 
That we might walk without wetting our feet.

V

When I was a boy, and saw bright rows of icicles 
In many lengths along a wall 
I was dissappointed to find 
That I could not play music upon them: 
I ran my hand lightly across them 
And they fell, tinkling. 
I tell you this, young man, so that your expectations of life 
Will not be too great.

VI

It is now two hours since I left you, 
And the perfume of your hands is still on my hands. 
And though since then 
I have looked at the stars, walked in the cold blue streets, 
And heard the dead leaves blowing over the ground 
Under the trees, 
I still remember the sound of your laughter. 
How will it be, lady, when there is none left to remember you 
Even as long as this? 
Will the dust braid your hair?

VII

The day opens with the brown light of snowfall 
And past the window snowflakes fall and fall. 
I sit in my chair all day and work and work 
Measuring words against each other. 
I open the piano and play a tune 
But find it does not say what I feel, 
I grow tired of measuring words against each other, 
I grow tired of these four walls, 
And I think of you, who write me that you have just had a daughter 
And named her after your first sweetheart, 
And you, who break your heart, far away, 
In the confusion and savagery of a long war, 
And you who, worn by the bitterness of winter, 
Will soon go south. 
The snowflakes fall almost straight in the brown light 
Past my window, 
And a sparrow finds refuge on my window-ledge. 
This alone comes to me out of the world outside 
As I measure word with word.

VIII

Many things perplex me and leave me troubled, 
Many things are locked away in the white book of stars 
Never to be opened by me. 
The starr'd leaves are silently turned, 
And the mooned leaves; 
And as they are turned, fall the shadows of life and death. 
Perplexed and troubled, 
I light a small light in a small room, 
The lighted walls come closer to me, 
The familiar pictures are clear. 
I sit in my favourite chair and turn in my mind 
The tiny pages of my own life, whereon so little is written, 
And hear at the eastern window the pressure of a long wind, coming 
From I know not where.

How many times have I sat here, 
How many times will I sit here again, 
Thinking these same things over and over in solitude 
As a child says over and over 
The first word he has learned to say.

IX

This girl gave her heart to me, 
And this, and this. 
This one looked at me as if she loved me, 
And silently walked away. 
This one I saw once and loved, and never saw her again.

Shall I count them for you upon my fingers? 
Or like a priest solemnly sliding beads? 
Or pretend they are roses, pale pink, yellow, and white, 
And arrange them for you in a wide bowl 
To be set in sunlight? 
See how nicely it sounds as I count them for you—
'This girl gave her heart to me 
And this, and this, . . . ! 
And nevertheless, my heart breaks when I think of them, 
When I think their names, 
And how, like leaves, they have changed and blown 
And will lie, at last, forgotten, 
Under the snow. 

X

It is night time, and cold, and snow is falling, 
And no wind grieves the walls. 
In the small world of light around the arc-lamp 
A swarm of snowflakes falls and falls. 
The street grows silent. The last stranger passes. 
The sound of his feet, in the snow, is indistinct.

What forgotten sadness is it, on a night like this, 
Takes possession of my heart? 
Why do I think of a camellia tree in a southern garden, 
With pink blossoms among dark leaves, 
Standing, surprised, in the snow? 
Why do I think of spring?

The snowflakes, helplessly veering,, 
Fall silently past my window; 
They come from darkness and enter darkness. 
What is it in my heart is surprised and bewildered 
Like that camellia tree, 
Beautiful still in its glittering anguish? 
And spring so far away!

XI

As I walked through the lamplit gardens, 
On the thin white crust of snow, 
So intensely was I thinking of my misfortune, 
So clearly were my eyes fixed 
On the face of this grief which has come to me, 
That I did not notice the beautiful pale colouring 
Of lamplight on the snow; 
Nor the interlaced long blue shadows of trees;

And yet these things were there, 
And the white lamps, and the orange lamps, and the lamps of lilac were there, 
As I have seen them so often before; 
As they will be so often again 
Long after my grief is forgotten.

And still, though I know this, and say this, it cannot console me.

XII

How many times have we been interrupted 
Just as I was about to make up a story for you! 
One time it was because we suddenly saw a firefly 
Lighting his green lantern among the boughs of a fir-tree. 
Marvellous! Marvellous! He is making for himself 
A little tent of light in the darkness! 
And one time it was because we saw a lilac lightning flash 
Run wrinkling into the blue top of the mountain,—
We heard boulders of thunder rolling down upon us 
And the plat-plat of drops on the window, 
And we ran to watch the rain 
Charging in wavering clouds across the long grass of the field! 
Or at other times it was because we saw a star 
Slipping easily out of the sky and falling, far off, 
Among pine-dark hills; 
Or because we found a crimson eft 
Darting in the cold grass!

These things interrupted us and left us wondering; 
And the stories, whatever they might have been, 
Were never told. 
A fairy, binding a daisy down and laughing? 
A golden-haired princess caught in a cobweb? 
A love-story of long ago? 
Some day, just as we are beginning again, 
Just as we blow the first sweet note, 
Death itself will interrupt us.

XIII

My heart is an old house, and in that forlorn old house, 
In the very centre, dark and forgotten, 
Is a locked room where an enchanted princess 
Lies sleeping. 
But sometimes, in that dark house, 
As if almost from the stars, far away, 
Sounds whisper in that secret room—
Faint voices, music, a dying trill of laughter? 
And suddenly, from her long sleep, 
The beautiful princess awakes and dances.

Who is she? I do not know. 
Why does she dance? Do not ask me!—
Yet to-day, when I saw you, 
When I saw your eyes troubled with the trouble of happiness, 
And your mouth trembling into a smile, 
And your fingers pull shyly forward,—
Softly, in that room, 
The little princess arose 
And danced; 
And as she danced the old house gravely trembled 
With its vague and delicious secret.

XIV

Like an old tree uprooted by the wind 
And flung down cruelly 
With roots bared to the sun and stars 
And limp leaves brought to earth—
Torn from its house—
So do I seem to myself 
When you have left me.

XV

The music of the morning is red and warm; 
Snow lies against the walls; 
And on the sloping roof in the yellow sunlight 
Pigeons huddle against the wind. 
The music of evening is attenuated and thin—
The moon seen through a wave by a mermaid; 
The crying of a violin. 
Far down there, far down where the river turns to the west, 
The delicate lights begin to twinkle 
On the dusky arches of the bridge: 
In the green sky a long cloud, 
A smouldering wave of smoky crimson, 
Breaks in the freezing wind: and above it, unabashed, 
Remote, untouched, fierly palpitant, 
Sings the first star.
Written by Robert Burns | Create an image from this poem

128. The Farewell

 FAREWELL, old Scotia’s bleak domains,
Far dearer than the torrid plains,
 Where rich ananas blow!
Farewell, a mother’s blessing dear!
A borther’s sigh! a sister’s tear!
 My Jean’s heart-rending throe!
Farewell, my Bess! tho’ thou’rt bereft
 Of my paternal care.
A faithful brother I have left,
 My part in him thou’lt share!
 Adieu, too, to you too,
 My Smith, my bosom frien’;
 When kindly you mind me,
 O then befriend my Jean!


What bursting anguish tears my heart;
From thee, my Jeany, must I part!
 Thou, weeping, answ’rest—“No!”
Alas! misfortune stares my face,
And points to ruin and disgrace,
 I for thy sake must go!
Thee, Hamilton, and Aiken dear,
 A grateful, warm adieu:
I, with a much-indebted tear,
 Shall still remember you!
 All hail then, the gale then,
 Wafts me from thee, dear shore!
 It rustles, and whistles
 I’ll never see thee more!
Written by Constantine P Cavafy | Create an image from this poem

Darius

 The poet Phernazis is composing
the important part of his epic poem.
How Darius, son of Hystaspes,
assumed the kingdom of the Persians. (From him
is descended our glorious king
Mithridates, Dionysus and Eupator). But here
philosophy is needed; he must analyze
the sentiments that Darius must have had:
maybe arrogance and drunkenness; but no -- rather
like an understanding of the vanity of grandeurs.
The poet contemplates the matter deeply.

But he is interrupted by his servant who enters
running, and announces the portendous news.
The war with the Romans has begun.
The bulk of our army has crossed the borders.

The poet is speechless. What a disaster!
No time now for our glorious king
Mithridates, Dionysus and Eupator,
to occupy himself with greek poems.
In the midst of a war -- imagine, greek poems.

Phernazis is impatient. Misfortune!
Just when he was positive that with "Darius"
he would distinguish himself, and shut the mouths
of his critics, the envious ones, for good.
What a delay, what a delay to his plans.

And if it were only a delay, it would still be all right.
But it yet remains to be seen if we have any security
at Amisus. It is not a strongly fortified city.
The Romans are the most horrible enemies.
Can we hold against them
we Cappadocians? It is possible at all?
It is possible to pit ourselves against the legions?
Mighty Gods, protectors of Asia, help us.--

But in all his turmoil and trouble,
the poetic idea too comes and goes persistently--
the most probable, surely, is arrogance and drunkenness;
Darius must have felt arrogance and drunkenness.

Book: Reflection on the Important Things