Heart touching Sad Poetry

Muse of Death

Is it sin when one finds comfort

In an endless rest?

Is it sin when one finds comfort

In the muse of death?

Many are the times I’ve done so.

Many are the nights, in sorrow,

Have I thought to shun the morrow,

Savoring each breath.

Is it grace when one finds comfort

In a breaking song?

Is it grace when one finds comfort

In another dawn?

Many are the times I’ve done so.

Many are the nights, in sorrow,

Have I waited on the morrow,

And my life goes on.

I've Learned a Truth

I've learned a truth as I've grown older:

Seasons, they still come and go,

But winter, it seems longer, colder,

And I have less desire for snow.

I think it is that I've grown weary,

Weary of my being sad

Remembering with eyes some teary

The life, the times, the fire I had.

The Flower of My Spring

When I do, I dream of days gone by.

Oftentimes my eyes have tears.

How I miss the sunny sky

Of younger years.

How I miss the flower of my spring.

This I will not see again.

Time, it changes everything.

My bloom has been.

I Would Not Wish

I would not wish to know the chill of winter

And have no fire for warmth against the cold,

Nor be one penniless and in my hunger

Turn in shame from where good meats are sold;

Nor cry as one would cry for being lonely,

For having in the world no hand to hold,

And feel the deepest, hardest kind of sorry

Just for being me, when I am old.

Oh Time, Hard Time 

I cannot climb those mountains anymore.

Oh time, hard time, you took away.

You left me sad and longing for

My yesterday.

I look to see my legs. My knees, they shake.

My back is bent; my shoulders, round.

I must for my tomorrow's sake

Stay near the ground.

I cannot climb, but I recall the view.

Oh time, hard time, if mercy's there,

Please let these hills I'm walking through

Prove also fair.

I Cannot Bear This Desert

I cannot bear this desert anymore.

Its sand is hot; my lips are dry.

The bottoms of my feet are sore,

And I will die...

Without a drink of water. Even now,

My prayers are seeking heaven that today

Good Providence will send to me a cloud,

And I will be delivered by the rain.

I cannot bear this desert anymore.

The lake I see will disappear

Before I reach its distant shore

Again I fear.

A Little Light

Though stars seem everlasting in the sky,

It's understood they also die.

But I am heartened by their glow,

My very stars of long ago.

There also is a sadness in my eyes.

I'm stranger to these fireflies.

They aren't the ones I ran among

On summer eves when I was young.

Now, there are lessons to be learned at night,

And I have seen a little light.

There is a rightful time to be

For stars, for fireflies, for me.

Little Flower

Little flower in the wind,

There is much beyond your knowing.

Are you sad and lonely blowing

In my garden, little friend?

Ah, take heart, for you have been

First to bloom a sunny yellow.

There are others set to follow,

And your loneliness will end.

Here Lies a Man

A man who lived and died.

A weathered stone still marks his grave.

And round-about, where mourners cried,

Their fallen tears have long since dried.

It saddens me that it seems true,

Although the day is calm and blue,

Now few more years of wind and rain

Will take from memory his name.

Elegant Shadows

These are long and elegant shadows,

Growing longer. Night is near.

Soon the sun will set so low

They will disappear.

Then the only rays will be

Shining on the tallest tree

And the hills out easterly,

Far away from here.

These are deep and spirit-like shadows,

Growing deeper all the while.

It is sad to watch them go;

I admire their style.

In This House

In this house a man once lived

When its rooms wore brighter paint.

Maybe he was all a saint.

Maybe he was all a sinner

Or like both in parallel.

What was and what might have been

These dim walls will never tell.

Maybe his, his whole life through,

Were endeavors commonly hale,

Which, like skies of steady blue,

Often make a colorless tale.

Maybe he was someone who

Almost found the holiest grail.

Two Roses

There are two roses in a vase.

They sit upon my windowsill

And give my room a certain grace

That such as captive roses will.

On me this morning fortune smiled;

I found two roses growing wild.

I found them growing wild and free,

But there is something troubling me.

It seems, if I can find the words,

As if I hold two captive birds;

Though should my roses sadden, say,

I can't just let them fly away.

My Hands Are Soft

My hands are soft from idleness,

From growing old, from weariness,

But I could tell you when my work

First cured them of their tenderness.

And they were brown from wind and sun,

And I felt good when day was done.

My hands are soft, but I could show

You where, so many years ago,

They helped to build a river bridge,

The water flowing on below.

A bridge is an eternal thing,

And I feel good remembering.