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Best Famous My Lonely Heart Poems

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

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Written by Claude McKay | Create an image from this poem

Courage

 O lonely heart so timid of approach, 
Like the shy tropic flower that shuts its lips 
To the faint touch of tender finger tips: 
What is your word? What question would you broach? 

Your lustrous-warm eyes are too sadly kind 
To mask the meaning of your dreamy tale, 
Your guarded life too exquisitely frail 
Against the daggers of my warring mind. 

There is no part of the unyielding earth, 
Even bare rocks where the eagles build their nest, 
Will give us undisturbed and friendly rest. 
No dewfall softens this vast belt of dearth. 

But in the socket-chiseled teeth of strife, 
That gleam in serried files in all the lands, 
We may join hungry, understanding hands, 
And drink our share of ardent love and life.


Written by Barry Tebb | Create an image from this poem

Hughes' Voice In My Head

 As soon as we crossed into Yorkshire

Hughes’ voice assailed me, unmistakable

Gravel and honey, a raw celebration of rain

Like a tattered lacework window;

Black glisten on roof slates,

Tarmac turned to shining ice,

Blusters of naked wind whipping

The wavelets of shifting water

To imaginary floating islets

On the turbulent river

Glumly he asked, "Where are the mills?"

Knowing their goneness in his lonely heart.

"Where are the mines with their turning spokes,

Lurking slag heaps, bolts of coal split with

Shimmering fools’ gold tumbling into waiting wagons?

Mostly what I came for was a last glimpse

Of the rock hanging over my cot, that towering

Sheerness fifty fathoms high screed with ferns

And failing tree roots, crumbling footholds

And dour smile. A monument needs to be known

For what it is, not a tourist slot or geological stratum

But the dark mentor loosing wolf’s bane

At my sleeping head."

When the coach lurches over the county boundary,

If not Hughes’ voice then Heaney’s or Hill’s

Ringing like miners’ boots flinging sparks

From the flagstones, piercing the lens of winter,

Jutting like tongues of crooked rock

Lapping a mossed slab, an altar outgrown,

Dumped when the trumpeting hosannas

Had finally riven the air of the valley.

And I, myself, what did I make of it?

The voices coming into my head

Welcoming kin, alive or dead, my eyes

Jerking to the roadside magpie,

Its white tail-bar doing a hop, skip and jump.
Written by Paul Laurence Dunbar | Create an image from this poem

The Paradox

 I am the mother of sorrows, 
I am the ender of grief; 
I am the bud and the blossom, 
I am the late-falling leaf.

I am thy priest and thy poet, 
I am thy serf and thy king; 
I cure the tears of the heartsick, 
When I come near they shall sing.

White are my hands as the snowdrop; 
Swart are my fingers as clay; 
Dark is my frown as the midnight, 
Fair is my brow as the day.

Battle and war are my minions, 
Doing my will as divine; 
I am the calmer of passions, 
Peace is a nursling of mine.

Speak to me gently or curse me, 
Seek me or fly from my sight; 
I am thy fool in the morning, 
Thou art my slave in the night.

Down to the grave I will take thee, 
Out from the noise of the strife, 
Then shalt thou see me and know me-- 
Death, then, no longer, but life.

Then shalt thou sing at my coming, 
Kiss me with passionate breath, 
Clasp me and smile to have thought me 
Aught save the foeman of death.

Come to me, brother, when weary, 
Come when thy lonely heart swells; 
I'll guide thy footsteps and lead thee 
Down where the Dream Woman dwells.
Written by Matthew Arnold | Create an image from this poem

Isolation: To Marguerite

 We were apart; yet, day by day,
I bade my heart more constant be.
I bade it keep the world away,
And grow a home for only thee;
Nor fear'd but thy love likewise grew,
Like mine, each day, more tried, more true.

The fault was grave! I might have known,
What far too soon, alas! I learn'd—
The heart can bind itself alone,
And faith may oft be unreturn'd.
Self-sway'd our feelings ebb and swell—
Thou lov'st no more;—Farewell! Farewell!

Farewell!—and thou, thou lonely heart,
Which never yet without remorse
Even for a moment didst depart
From thy remote and spherèd course
To haunt the place where passions reign—
Back to thy solitude again!

Back! with the conscious thrill of shame
Which Luna felt, that summer-night,
Flash through her pure immortal frame,
When she forsook the starry height
To hang over Endymion's sleep
Upon the pine-grown Latmian steep.

Yet she, chaste queen, had never proved
How vain a thing is mortal love,
Wandering in Heaven, far removed.
But thou hast long had place to prove
This truth—to prove, and make thine own:
"Thou hast been, shalt be, art, alone."

Or, if not quite alone, yet they
Which touch thee are unmating things—
Ocean and clouds and night and day;
Lorn autumns and triumphant springs;
And life, and others' joy and pain,
And love, if love, of happier men.

Of happier men—for they, at least,
Have dream'd two human hearts might blend
In one, and were through faith released
From isolation without end
Prolong'd; nor knew, although not less
Alone than thou, their loneliness.
Written by Paul Laurence Dunbar | Create an image from this poem

The Paradox

I am the mother of sorrows,
I am the ender of grief;
I am the bud and the blossom,
I am the late-falling leaf.
I am thy priest and thy poet,
I am thy serf and thy king;
I cure the tears of the heartsick,
When I come near they shall sing.
White are my hands as the snowdrop;
Swart are my fingers as clay;
Dark is my frown as the midnight,
Fair is my brow as the day.
Battle and war are my minions,
Doing my will as divine;
I am the calmer of passions,
Peace is a nursling of mine.
Speak to me gently or curse me,
Seek me or fly from my sight;
I am thy fool in the morning,
[Pg 90]Thou art my slave in the night.
Down to the grave will I take thee,
Out from the noise of the strife;
Then shalt thou see me and know me—
Death, then, no longer, but life.
Then shalt thou sing at my coming.
Kiss me with passionate breath,
Clasp me and smile to have thought me
Aught save the foeman of Death.
Come to me, brother, when weary,
Come when thy lonely heart swells;
I 'll guide thy footsteps and lead thee
Down where the Dream Woman dwells.


Written by Henry Lawson | Create an image from this poem

At The Beating Of A Drum

 Fear ye not the stormy future, for the Battle Hymn is strong, 
And the armies of Australia shall not march without a song; 
The glorious words and music of Australia's song shall come 
When her true hearts rush together at the beating of a drum. 

We may not be there to hear it – 'twill be written in the night, 
And Australia's foes shall fear it in the hour before the fight. 
The glorious words and music from a lonely heart shall come 
When our sons shall rush to danger at the beating of the drum. 

He shall be unknown who writes it; he shall soon forgotten be, 
But the song shall ring through ages as a song of liberty. 
And I say the words and music of our battle hymn shall come, 
When Australia wakes in anger at the beating of a drum.
Written by George William Russell | Create an image from this poem

Our Thrones Decay

 I SAID my pleasure shall not move;
It is not fixed in things apart:
Seeking not love—but yet to love—
I put my trust in mine own heart.


I knew the fountain of the deep
Wells up with living joy, unfed:
Such joys the lonely heart may keep,
And love grow rich with love unwed.


Still flows the ancient fount sublime;—
But, ah, for my heart, shed tears, shed tears;
Not it, but love, has scorn of time,
It turns to dust beneath the years.

Book: Radiant Verses: A Journey Through Inspiring Poetry