10 Best Famous Pining Poems

Here is a collection of the top 10 all-time best famous Pining poems. This is a select list of the best famous Pining poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Pining poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of pining poems.

• All Famous Pining Poems

Who can say

Why her eyes,

Those playmates of the hamlet where Beauty dwells,

Why her eyes smile that way ?

 

When notes arising from her soul,

That Temple-Palace of Music,

And traipsing through the land of glad tidings,

Mirthfully smothering the tinkling of their anklets,

Tip toe up, haltingly, secretively,

To the gates of her lips,

Why her gaze sparkles and smiles ?

 

Leaping over islands of silence

And wastelands of sealed lip pining,

When the silhouettes of desire

Come waltzing in

To nestle in an intimate moment’s nest,

Why her gaze sparkles and smiles ?

 

Her soul, that Sprite-Princess,

Neither lifts her veil

Nor voices her song

And when her heart’s ballad

Passes through distant, unexplored worlds

As the faint, lingering sounds of a flute …

Why her gaze sparkles and smiles !

 Love, indeed thy strength is mighty
Thus, alone, such strife to bear --
Three 'gainst one, and never ceasing --
Death, and Madness, and Despair! 
'Tis not my own strength has saved me;
Health, and hope, and fortitude,
But for love, had long since failed me;
Heart and soul had sunk subdued.

Often, in my wild impatience,
I have lost my trust in Heaven,
And my soul has tossed and struggled,
Like a vessel tempest-driven;

But the voice of my beloved
In my ear has seemed to say --
'O, be patient if thou lov'st me!'
And the storm has passed away.

When outworn with weary thinking,
Sight and thought were waxing dim,
And my mind began to wander,
And my brain began to swim,

Then those hands outstretched to save me
Seemed to call me back again --
Those dark eyes did so implore me
To resume my reason's reign,

That I could not but remember
How her hopes were fixed on me,
And, with one determined effort,
Rose, and shook my spirit free.

When hope leaves my weary spirit --
All the power to hold it gone --
That loved voice so loudly prays me,
'For my sake, keep hoping on,'

That, at once my strength renewing,
Though Despair had crushed me down,
I can burst his bonds asunder,
And defy his deadliest frown.

When, from nights of restless tossing,
Days of gloom and pining care,
Pain and weakness, still increasing,
Seem to whisper 'Death is near,'

And I almost bid him welcome,
Knowing he would bring release,
Weary of this restless struggle --
Longing to repose in peace,

Then a glance of fond reproval
Bids such selfish longings flee
And a voice of matchless music
Murmurs 'Cherish life for me!'

Roused to newborn strength and courage,
Pain and grief, I cast away,
Health and life, I keenly follow,
Mighty Death is held at bay.

Yes, my love, I will be patient!
Firm and bold my heart shall be:
Fear not -- though this life is dreary,
I can bear it well for thee.

Let our foes still rain upon me
Cruel wrongs and taunting scorn;
'Tis for thee their hate pursues me,
And for thee, it shall be borne!

 Deep in th' abyss where frantic horror bides, 
In thickest mists of vapours fell,
Where wily Serpents hissing glare
And the dark Demon of Revenge resides,
At midnight's murky hour
Thy origin began: 
Rapacious MALICE was thy sire;
Thy Dam the sullen witch, Despair;
Thy Nurse, insatiate Ire. 
The FATES conspir'd their ills to twine,
About thy heart's infected shrine;
They gave thee each disastrous spell,
Each desolating pow'r,
To blast the fairest hopes of man. 

Soon as thy fatal birth was known, 
From her unhallow'd throne
With ghastly smile pale Hecate sprung; 
Thy hideous form the Sorc'ress press'd
With kindred fondness to her breast; 
Her haggard eye
Short forth a ray of transient joy, 
Whilst thro' th' infernal shades exulting clamours rung. 

Above thy fellow fiends thy tyrant hand
Grasp'd with resistless force supreme command: 
The dread terrific crowd
Before thy iron sceptre bow'd. 
Now, seated in thy ebon cave, 
Around thy throne relentless furies rave: 
A wreath of ever-wounding thorn
Thy scowling brows encompass round, 
Thy heart by knawing Vultures torn, 
Thy meagre limbs with deathless scorpions bound. 
Thy black associates, torpid IGNORANCE, 
And pining JEALOUSY­with eye askance,
With savage rapture execute thy will, 
And strew the paths of life with every torturing ill 

Nor can the sainted dead escape thy rage; 
Thy vengeance haunts the silent grave, 
Thy taunts insult the ashes of the brave; 
While proud AMBITION weeps thy rancour to assuage. 
The laurels round the POET's bust, 
Twin'd by the liberal hand of Taste, 
By thy malignant grasp defac'd, 
Fade to their native dust: 
Thy ever-watchful eye no labour tires, 
Beneath thy venom'd touch the angel TRUTH expires. 

When in thy petrifying car
Thy scaly dragons waft thy form, 
Then, swifter, deadlier far 
Than the keen lightning's lance, 
That wings its way across the yelling storm, 
Thy barbed shafts fly whizzing round, 
While every with'ring glance
Inflicts a cureless wound. 

Thy giant arm with pond'rous blow
Hurls genius from her glorious height, 
Bends the fair front of Virtue low, 
And meanly pilfers every pure delight. 
Thy hollow voice the sense appalls, 
Thy vigilance the mind enthralls; 
Rest hast thou none,­by night, by day, 
Thy jealous ardour seeks for prey­
Nought can restrain thy swift career; 
Thy smile derides the suff'rer's wrongs; 
Thy tongue the sland'rers tale prolongs; 
Thy thirst imbibes the victim's tear; 
Thy breast recoils from friendship's flame; 
Sick'ning thou hear'st the trump of Fame; 
Worth gives to thee, the direst pang; 
The Lover's rapture wounds thy heart, 
The proudest efforts of prolific art 
Shrink from thy poisonous fang. 

In vain the Sculptor's lab'ring hand 
Calls fine proportion from the Parian stone; 
In vain the Minstrel's chords command
The soft vibrations of seraphic tone; 
For swift thy violating arm 
Tears from perfection ev'ry charm; 
Nor rosy YOUTH, nor BEAUTY's smiles
Thy unrelenting rage beguiles, 
Thy breath contaminates the fairest name, 
And binds the guiltless brow with ever-blist'ring shame.

 A prisoner in a dungeon deep
Sat musing silently;
His head was rested on his hand,
His elbow on his knee. 
Turned he his thoughts to future times
Or are they backward cast?
For freedom is he pining now
Or mourning for the past?

No, he has lived so long enthralled
Alone in dungeon gloom
That he has lost regret and hope,
Has ceased to mourn his doom.

He pines not for the light of day
Nor sighs for freedom now;
Such weary thoughts have ceased at length
To rack his burning brow.

Lost in a maze of wandering thoughts
He sits unmoving there;
That posture and that look proclaim
The stupor of despair.

Yet not for ever did that mood
Of sullen calm prevail;
There was a something in his eye
That told another tale.

It did not speak of reason gone,
It was not madness quite;
It was a fitful flickering fire,
A strange uncertain light.

And sooth to say, these latter years
Strange fancies now and then
Had filled his cell with scenes of life
And forms of living men.

A mind that cannot cease to think
Why needs he cherish there?
Torpor may bring relief to pain
And madness to despair.

Such wildering scenes, such flitting shapes
As feverish dreams display:
What if those fancies still increase
And reason quite decay?

But hark, what sounds have struck his ear;
Voices of men they seem;
And two have entered now his cell;
Can this too be a dream?

'Orlando, hear our joyful news:
Revenge and liberty!
Your foes are dead, and we are come
At last to set you free.' 

So spoke the elder of the two,
And in the captive's eyes
He looked for gleaming ecstasy
But only found surprise. 

'My foes are dead! It must be then
That all mankind are gone.
For they were all my deadly foes
And friends I had not one.'

 Unwillingly Miranda wakes, 
Feels the sun with terror, 
One unwilling step she takes, 
Shuddering to the mirror. 

Miranda in Miranda's sight 
Is old and gray and dirty; 
Twenty-nine she was last night; 
This morning she is thirty. 

Shining like the morning star, 
Like the twilight shining, 
Haunted by a calendar, 
Miranda is a-pining. 

Silly girl, silver girl, 
Draw the mirror toward you; 
Time who makes the years to whirl 
Adorned as he adored you. 

Time is timelessness for you; 
Calendars for the human; 
What's a year, or thirty, to 
Loveliness made woman? 

Oh, Night will not see thirty again, 
Yet soft her wing, Miranda; 
Pick up your glass and tell me, then-- 
How old is Spring, Miranda?

 I'm buried now; I've done with life;
I've done with hate, revenge and strife;
I've done with joy, and hope and love
And all the bustling world above. 
Long have I dwelt forgotten here
In pining woe and dull despair;
This place of solitude and gloom
Must be my dungeon and my tomb.

No hope, no pleasure can I find:
I am grown weary of my mind;
Often in balmy sleep I try
To gain a rest from misery,

And in one hour of calm repose
To find a respite from my woes,
But dreamless sleep is not for me
And I am still in misery.

I dream of liberty, 'tis true,
But then I dream of sorrow too,
Of blood and guilt and horrid woes,
Of tortured friends and happy foes;

I dream about the world, but then
I dream of fiends instead of men;
Each smiling hope so quickly fades
And such a lurid gloom pervades

That world -- that when I wake and see
Those dreary phantoms fade and flee,
Even in my dungeon I can smile,
And taste of joy a little while.

And yet it is not always so;
I dreamt a little while ago
That all was as it used to be:
A fresh free wind passed over me;

It was a pleasant summer's day,
The sun shone forth with cheering ray,
Methought a little lovely child
Looked up into my face and smiled.

My heart was full, I wept for joy,
It was my own, my darling boy;
I clasped him to my breast and he
Kissed me and laughed in childish glee.

Just them I heard in whisper sweet
A well known voice my name repeat.
His father stood before my eyes;
I gazed at him in mute surprise,

I thought he smiled and spoke to me,
But still in silent ecstasy
I gazed at him; I could not speak;
I uttered one long piercing shriek.

Alas! Alas! That cursed scream
Aroused me from my heavenly dream;
I looked around in wild despair,
I called them, but they were not there;
The father and the child are gone,
And I must live and die alone.

 On Tiber's banks, Tiber, whose waters glide 
In slow meanders down to Gaigra's side; 
And circling all the horrid mountain round, 
Rushes impetuous to the deep profound; 
Rolls o'er the ragged rocks with hideous yell; 
Collects its waves beneath the earth's vast shell; 
There for a while in loud confusion hurl'd, 
It crumbles mountains down and shakes the world. 
Till borne upon the pinions of the air, 
Through the rent earth the bursting waves appear; 
Fiercely propell'd the whiten'd billows rise, 
Break from the cavern, and ascend the skies; 
Then lost and conquered by superior force, 
Through hot Arabia holds its rapid coursel 
On Tiber's banks where scarlet jas'mines bloom, 
And purple aloes shed a rich perfume; 
Where, when the sun is melting in his heat, 
The reeking tygers find a cool retreat; 
Bask in the sedges, lose the sultry beam, 
And wanton with their shadows in the stream; 
On Tiber's banks, by sacred priests rever'd, 
Where in the days of old a god appear'd; 
'Twas in the dead of night, at Chalma's feast, 
The tribe of Alra slept around the priest. 
He spoke; as evening thunders bursting near, 
His horrid accents broke upon the ear; 
Attend, Alraddas, with your sacred priest! 
This day the sun is rising in the east; 
The sun, which shall illumine all the earth, 
Now, now is rising, in a mortal birth. 
He vanish'd like a vapour of the night, 
And sunk away in a faint blaze of light. 
Swift from the branches of the holy oak, 
Horror, confusion, fear, and torment brake; 
And still when midnight trims her mazy lamp, 
They take their way through Tiber's wat'ry swamp. 
On Tiber's banks, close ranked, a warring train, 
Stretch'd to the distant edge of Galca's plain; 
So when arrived at Gaigra's highest steep, 
We view the wide expansion of the deep; 
See in the gilding of her wat'ry robe, 
The quick declension of the circling globe; 
From the blue sea a chain of mountains rise, 
Blended at once with water and with skies; 
Beyond our sight in vast extension curl'd, 
The check of waves, the guardians of the world. 
Strong were the warriors, as the ghost of Cawn, 
Who threw the Hill-of-archers to the lawn; 
When the soft earth at his appearance fled; 
And rising billows play'd around his head; 
When a strong tempest rising from the main, 
Dashed the full clouds, unbroken on the plain. 
Nicou, immortal in the sacred song, 
Held the red sword of war, and led the strong; 
From his own tribe the sable warriors came, 
Well try'd in battle, and well known in fame. 
Nicou, descended from the god of war, 
Who lived coeval with the morning star; 
Narada was his name; who cannot tell 
How all the world through great Narada fell! 
Vichon, the god who ruled above the skies, 
Look'd, on Narada, but with envious eyes; 
The warrior dared him, ridiculed his might, 
Bent his white bow, and summon'd him to fight. 
Vichon, disdainful, bade his lightnings fly, 
And scatter'd burning arrows in the sky; 
Threw down a star the armour of his feet, 
To burn the air with supernat'ral heat; 
Bid a loud tempes roar beneath the ground; 
Lifted him up, and bore him thro' the sea. 
The waters still ascending fierce and high, 
He tower'd into the chambers of the sky; 
There Vichon sat, his armour on his bed, 
He thought Narada with the mighty dead. 
Before his seat the heavenly warrior stands, 
The lightning quiv'ring in his yellow hands. 
The god astonish'd dropt; hurl'd from the shore, 
He dropt to torments, and to rise no more. 

Head-long he falls; 'tis his own arms compel. 
Condemn'd in ever-burning fires to dwell. 
From this Narada, mighty Nicou sprung; 
The mighty Nicou, furious, wild and young. 
Who led th'embattled archers to the field, 
And more a thunderbolt upon his shield; 
That shield his glorious father died to gain, 
When the white warriors fled along the plain, 
When the full sails could not provoke the flood, 
Till Nicou came and swell'd the seas with blood. 
Slow at the end of his robust array, 
The mighty warrior pensive took his way; 
Against the son of Nair, the young Rorest, 
Once the companion of his youthful breast. 
Strong were the passions of the son of Nair, 
Strong, as the tempest of the evening air. 
Insatiate in desire; fierce as the boar; 
Firm in resolve as Cannie's rocky shore. 
Long had the gods endeavour'd to destroy, 
All Nicou's friendship, happiness, and joy: 
They sought in vain, 'till Vicat, Vichon's son, 
Never in feats of wickedness outdone, 
Saw Nica, sister to the Mountain king, 
Drest beautiful, with all the flow'rs of spring; 
He saw, and scatter'd poison in her eyes; 
From limb to limb in varied forms he flies; 
Dwelt on her crimson lip, and added grace 
To every glossy feature of her face. 
Rorest was fir'd with passion at the sight. 
Friendship and honor, sunk to Vicat's right; 
He saw, he lov'd, and burning with desire, 
Bore the soft maid from brother, sister, sire. 
Pining with sorrow, Nica faded, died, 
Like a fair alow, in its morning pride. 
This brought the warrior to the bloody mead, 
And sent to young Rorest the threat'ning reed. 
He drew his army forth: Oh, need I tell! 
That Nicou conquer'd, and the lover fell; 
His breathless army mantled all the plain; 
And Death sat smiling on the heaps of slain. 
The battle ended, with his reeking dart, 
The pensive Nicou pierc'd his beating heart; 
And to his mourning valiant warriors cry'd, 
I, and my sister's ghost are satisfy'd.

 'O cast away your sorrow; --
A while, at least, be gay!
If grief must come tomorrow,
At least, be glad today! 
'How can you still be sighing
When smiles are everywhere?
The little birds are flying
So blithely through the air;

'The sunshine glows so brightly
O'er all the blooming earth;
And every heart beats lightly, --
Each face is full of mirth.'

'I always feel the deepest gloom
When day most brightly shines:
When Nature shows the fairest bloom,
My spirit most repines;

'For, in the brightest noontide glow,
The dungeon's light is dim;
Though freshest winds around us blow,
No breath can visit him.

'If he must sit in twilight gloom,
Can I enjoy the sight
Of mountains clad in purple bloom,
And rocks in sunshine bright? --

'My heart may well be desolate, --
These tears may well arise
While prison wall and iron grate
Oppress his weary eyes.'

'But think of him tomorrow,
And join your comrades now; --
That constant cloud of sorrow
Ill suits so young a brow.

'Hark, how their merry voices
Are sounding far and near!
While all the world rejoices
Can you sit moping here?'

'When others' hearts most lightly bound
Mine feels the most oppressed;
When smiling faces greet me round
My sorrow will not rest:

'I think of him whose faintest smile
Was sunshine to my heart,
Whose lightest word could care beguile
And blissful thoughts impart;

'I think how he would bless that sun,
And love this glorious scene;
I think of all that has been done,
And all that might have been.

'Those sparkling eyes, that blessed me so,
Are dim with weeping now;
And blighted hope and burning woe
Have ploughed that marble brow.

'What waste of youth, what hopes destroyed,
What days of pining care,
What weary nights of comfort void
Art thou condemned to bear!

'O! if my love must suffer so --
And wholly for my sake --
What marvel that my tears should flow, --
Or that my heart should break!'

 Though not a breath can enter here,
I know the wind blows fresh and free;
I know the sun is shining clear,
Though not a gleam can visit me. 
They thought while I in darkness lay,
'Twere pity that I should not know
How all the earth is smiling gay;
How fresh the vernal breezes blow.

They knew, such tidings to impart
Would pierce my weary spirit through,
And could they better read my heart,
They'd tell me, she was smiling too.

They need not, for I know it well,
Methinks I see her even now;
No sigh disturbs her bosom's swell,
No shade o'ercasts her angel brow.

Unmarred by grief her angel voice,
Whence sparkling wit, and wisdom flow:
And others in its sound rejoice,
And taste the joys I must not know,

Drink rapture from her soft dark eye,
And sunshine from her heavenly smile;
On wings of bliss their moments fly,
And I am pining here the while!

Oh! tell me, does she never give --
To my distress a single sigh?
She smiles on them, but does she grieve
One moment, when they are not by?

When she beholds the sunny skies,
And feels the wind of heaven blow;
Has she no tear for him that lies
In dungeon gloom, so far below?

While others gladly round her press
And at her side their hours beguile,
Has she no sigh for his distress
Who cannot see a single smile

Nor hear one word nor read a line
That her beloved hand might write,
Who banished from her face must pine
Each day a long and lonely night?

Alexander April 1826

 O lovers’ eyes are sharp to see, 
And lovers’ ears in hearing; 
And love, in life’s extremity, 
Can lend an hour of cheering. 
Disease had been in Mary’s bower 
And slow decay from mourning, 
Though now she sits on Neidpath’s tower 
To watch her Love’s returning. 

All sunk and dim her eyes so bright, 
Her form decay’d by pining, 
Till through her wasted hand, at night, 
You saw the taper shining. 
By fits a sultry hectic hue 
Across her cheek was flying; 
By fits so ashy pale she grew 
Her maidens thought her dying. 

Yet keenest powers to see and hear 
Seem’d in her frame residing; 
Before the watch-dog prick’d his ear 
She heard her lover’s riding; 
Ere scarce a distant form was kenn’d 
She knew and waved to greet him, 
And o’er the battlement did bend 
As on the wing to meet him. 

He came—he pass’d—an heedless gaze 
As o’er some stranger glancing: 
Her welcome, spoke in faltering phrase, 
Lost in his courser’s prancing— 
The castle-arch, whose hollow tone 
Returns each whisper spoken, 
Could scarcely catch the feeble moan 
Which told her heart was broken.