10 Best Famous Weeper Poems

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

• All Famous Weeper Poems

 1
BEAT! beat! drums!—Blow! bugles! blow! 
Through the windows—through doors—burst like a ruthless force, 
Into the solemn church, and scatter the congregation; 
Into the school where the scholar is studying; 
Leave not the bridegroom quiet—no happiness must he have now with his bride;
Nor the peaceful farmer any peace, plowing his field or gathering his grain; 
So fierce you whirr and pound, you drums—so shrill you bugles blow. 

2
Beat! beat! drums!—Blow! bugles! blow! 
Over the traffic of cities—over the rumble of wheels in the streets: 
Are beds prepared for sleepers at night in the houses? No sleepers must sleep in those
 beds;
No bargainers’ bargains by day—no brokers or speculators—Would they
 continue? 
Would the talkers be talking? would the singer attempt to sing? 
Would the lawyer rise in the court to state his case before the judge? 
Then rattle quicker, heavier drums—you bugles wilder blow. 

3
Beat! beat! drums!—Blow! bugles! blow!
Make no parley—stop for no expostulation; 
Mind not the timid—mind not the weeper or prayer; 
Mind not the old man beseeching the young man; 
Let not the child’s voice be heard, nor the mother’s entreaties; 
Make even the trestles to shake the dead, where they lie awaiting the hearses,
So strong you thump, O terrible drums—so loud you bugles blow.

 He is gone on the mountain,
He is lost to the forest,
Like a summer-dried fountain,
When our need was the sorest.
The font, reappearing,
From the rain-drops shall borrow,
But to us comes no cheering,
To Duncan no morrow!

The hand of the reaper
Takes the ears that are hoary,
But the voice of the weeper
Wails manhood in glory.
The autumn winds rushing
Waft the leaves that are searest,
But our flower was in flushing,
When blighting was nearest.

Fleet foot on the corrie,
Sage counsel in cumber,
Red hand in the foray,
How sound is thy slumber!
Like the dew on the mountain,
Like the foam on the river,
Like the bubble on the fountain,
Thou art gone, and for ever!

 HAIL, sister springs,
Parents of silver-footed rills!
 Ever bubbling things,
Thawing crystal, snowy hills!
 Still spending, never spent; I mean
 Thy fair eyes, sweet Magdalene.

 Heavens thy fair eyes be;
Heavens of ever-falling stars;
 'Tis seed-time still with thee,
And stars thou sow'st whose harvest dares
 Promise the earth to countershine
 Whatever makes Heaven's forehead fine.

 Every morn from hence
A brisk cherub something sips
 Whose soft influence
Adds sweetness to his sweetest lips;
 Then to his music: and his song
 Tastes of this breakfast all day long.

 When some new bright guest
Takes up among the stars a room,
 And Heaven will make a feast,
Angels with their bottles come,
 And draw from these full eyes of thine
 Their Master's water, their own wine.

 The dew no more will weep
The primrose's pale cheek to deck;
 The dew no more will sleep
Nuzzled in the lily's neck:
 Much rather would it tremble here,
 And leave them both to be thy tear.

 When sorrow would be seen
In her brightest majesty,
 --For she is a Queen--
Then is she drest by none but thee:
 Then and only then she wears
 Her richest pearls--I mean thy tears.

 Not in the evening's eyes,
When they red with weeping are
 For the Sun that dies,
Sits Sorrow with a face so fair.
 Nowhere but here did ever meet
 Sweetness so sad, sadness so sweet.

 Does the night arise?
Still thy tears do fall and fall.
 Does night lose her eyes?
Still the fountain weeps for all.
 Let day and night do what they will,
 Thou hast thy task, thou weepest still.

 Not So long she lived
Will thy tomb report of thee;
 But So long she grieved:
Thus must we date thy memory.
 Others by days, by months, by years,
 Measure their ages, thou by tears.

 Say, ye bright brothers,
The fugitive sons of those fair eyes
 Your fruitful mothers,
What make you here? What hopes can 'tice
 You to be born? What cause can borrow
 You from those nests of noble sorrow?

 Whither away so fast
For sure the sordid earth
 Your sweetness cannot taste,
Nor does the dust deserve your birth.
 Sweet, whither haste you then? O say,
 Why you trip so fast away?

 We go not to seek
The darlings of Aurora's bed,
 The rose's modest cheek,
Nor the violet's humble head.
 No such thing: we go to meet
 A worthier object--our Lord's feet.