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Best Famous Severing Poems

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

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Written by Thomas Hardy | Create an image from this poem

De Profundis

 I 

"Percussus sum sicut foenum, et aruit cor meum.
" - Ps.
ci Wintertime nighs; But my bereavement-pain It cannot bring again: Twice no one dies.
Flower-petals flee; But, since it once hath been, No more that severing scene Can harrow me.
Birds faint in dread: I shall not lose old strength In the lone frost's black length: Strength long since fled! Leaves freeze to dun; But friends can not turn cold This season as of old For him with none.
Tempests may scath; But love can not make smart Again this year his heart Who no heart hath.
Black is night's cope; But death will not appal One who, past doubtings all, Waits in unhope.
De Profundis II "Considerabam ad dexteram, et videbam; et non erat qui cognosceret me When the clouds' swoln bosoms echo back the shouts of the many and strong That things are all as they best may be, save a few to be right ere long, And my eyes have not the vision in them to discern what to these is so clear, The blot seems straightway in me alone; one better he were not here.
The stout upstanders say, All's well with us: ruers have nought to rue! And what the potent say so oft, can it fail to be somewhat true? Breezily go they, breezily come; their dust smokes around their career, Till I think I am one horn out of due time, who has no calling here.
Their dawns bring lusty joys, it seems; their eves exultance sweet; Our times are blessed times, they cry: Life shapes it as is most meet, And nothing is much the matter; there are many smiles to a tear; Then what is the matter is I, I say.
Why should such an one be here? Let him to whose ears the low-voiced Best seems stilled by the clash of the First, Who holds that if way to the Better there be, it exacts a full look at the Worst, Who feels that delight is a delicate growth cramped by crookedness, custom, and fear, Get him up and be gone as one shaped awry; he disturbs the order here.
De Profundis III "Heu mihi, quia incolatus meus prolongatus est! Habitavi cum habitantibus Cedar; multum incola fuit aninia mea.
"--Ps.
cxix.
There have been times when I well might have passed and the ending have come - Points in my path when the dark might have stolen on me, artless, unrueing - Ere I had learnt that the world was a welter of futile doing: Such had been times when I well might have passed, and the ending have come! Say, on the noon when the half-sunny hours told that April was nigh, And I upgathered and cast forth the snow from the crocus-border, Fashioned and furbished the soil into a summer-seeming order, Glowing in gladsome faith that I quickened the year thereby.
Or on that loneliest of eves when afar and benighted we stood, She who upheld me and I, in the midmost of Egdon together, Confident I in her watching and ward through the blackening heather, Deeming her matchless in might and with measureless scope endued.
Or on that winter-wild night when, reclined by the chimney-nook quoin, Slowly a drowse overgat me, the smallest and feeblest of folk there, Weak from my baptism of pain; when at times and anon I awoke there - Heard of a world wheeling on, with no listing or longing to join.
Even then! while unweeting that vision could vex or that knowledge could numb, That sweets to the mouth in the belly are bitter, and tart, and untoward, Then, on some dim-coloured scene should my briefly raised curtain have lowered, Then might the Voice that is law have said "Cease!" and the ending have come.


Written by Derek Walcott | Create an image from this poem

The Saddhu Of Couva

 When sunset, a brass gong,
vibrate through Couva,
is then I see my soul, swiftly unsheathed,
like a white cattle bird growing more small
over the ocean of the evening canes,
and I sit quiet, waiting for it to return
like a hog-cattle blistered with mud,
because, for my spirit, India is too far.
And to that gong sometimes bald clouds in saffron robes assemble sacred to the evening, sacred even to Ramlochan, singing Indian hits from his jute hammock while evening strokes the flanks and silver horns of his maroon taxi, as the mosquitoes whine their evening mantras, my friend Anopheles, on the sitar, and the fireflies making every dusk Divali.
I knot my head with a cloud, my white mustache bristle like horns, my hands are brittle as the pages of Ramayana.
Once the sacred monkeys multiplied like branches in the ancient temples: I did not miss them, because these fields sang of Bengal, behind Ramlochan Repairs there was Uttar Pradesh; but time roars in my ears like a river, old age is a conflagration as fierce as the cane fires of crop time.
I will pass through these people like a cloud, they will see a white bird beating the evening sea of the canes behind Couva, and who will point it as my soul unsheathed? Naither the bridegroom in beads, nor the bride in her veils, their sacred language on the cinema hoardings.
I talked too damn much on the Couva Village Council.
I talked too softly, I was always drowned by the loudspeakers in front of the stores or the loudspeakers with the greatest pictures.
I am best suited to stalk like a white cattle bird on legs like sticks, with sticking to the Path between the canes on a district road at dusk.
Playing the Elder.
There are no more elders.
Is only old people.
My friends spit on the government.
I do not think is just the government.
Suppose all the gods too old, Suppose they dead and they burning them, supposing when some cane cutter start chopping up snakes with a cutlass he is severing the snake-armed god, and suppose some hunter has caught Hanuman in his mischief in a monkey cage.
Suppose all the gods were killed by electric light? Sunset, a bonfire, roars in my ears; embers of brown swallows dart and cry, like women distracted, around its cremation.
I ascend to my bed of sweet sandalwood.
Written by Emily Brontë | Create an image from this poem

Remembrance

 Cold in the earth—and the deep snow piled above thee,
Far, far removed, cold in the dreary grave!
Have I forgot, my only Love, to love thee,
Severed at last by Time's all-severing wave?

Now, when alone, do my thoughts no longer hover
Over the mountains, on that northern shore,
Resting their wings where heath and fern-leaves cover
That noble heart for ever, ever more?

Cold in the earth, and fifteen wild Decembers
From those brown hills have melted into spring:
Faithful indeed is the spirit that remembers
After such years of change and suffering!

Sweet Love of youth, forgive if I forget thee,
While the world's tide is bearing me along:
Sterner desires and other hopes beset me,
Hopes which obscure, but cannot do thee wrong!

No later light has lightened up my heaven;
No second morn has ever shone for me:
All my life's bliss from thy dear life was given,
All my life's bliss is in the grave with thee.
But when the days of golden dreams had perished, And even Despair was powerless to destroy, Then did I learn how existence could be cherished, Strengthened, and fed without the aid of joy; Then did I check the tears of useless passion, Weaned my young soul from yearning after thine; Sternly denied its burning wish to hasten Down to that tomb already more than mine.
And even yet I dare not let it languish, Dare not indulge in Memory's rapturous pain; Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish, How could I seek the empty world again?
Written by Thomas Hardy | Create an image from this poem

At An Inn

 WHEN we as strangers sought
Their catering care,
Veiled smiles bespoke their thought
Of what we were.
They warmed as they opined Us more than friends-- That we had all resigned For love's dear ends.
And that swift sympathy With living love Which quicks the world--maybe The spheres above, Made them our ministers, Moved them to say, "Ah, God, that bliss like theirs Would flush our day!" And we were left alone As Love's own pair; Yet never the love-light shone Between us there! But that which chilled the breath Of afternoon, And palsied unto death The pane-fly's tune.
The kiss their zeal foretold, And now deemed come, Came not: within his hold Love lingered numb.
Why cast he on our port A bloom not ours? Why shaped us for his sport In after-hours? As we seemed we were not That day afar, And now we seem not what We aching are.
O severing sea and land, O laws of men, Ere death, once let us stand As we stood then!
Written by Thomas Hardy | Create an image from this poem

In Tenebris

 Wintertime nighs;
But my bereavement-pain
It cannot bring again:
Twice no one dies.
Flower-petals flee; But since it once hath been, No more that severing scene Can harrow me.
Birds faint in dread: I shall not lose old strength In the lone frost's black length: Strength long since fled! Leaves freeze to dun; But friends cannot turn cold This season as of old For him with none.
Tempests may scath; But love cannot make smart Again this year his heart Who no heart hath.
Black is night's cope; But death will not appal One, who past doubtings all, Waits in unhope.