Poems for Pining
While my husband is away, I tend to do alot of pining and brooding.
You know: Wuthering Heights/Jane Eyre/Bronte stuff. Reading sappy poetry also figures into this considerably.
So does eating massive amounts of "Ben & Jerry's"!
(I have managed to keep my girlish figure, tho! :)
A Few Poems by Dorothy Rothschild Parker
ABSENCE
I never thought that heav'n would lose its blue
And sullen storm-clouds mask the gentle sky; I
never thought the rose's velvet hue Would pale and
sicken, though we said good-by. I never dreamed
the lark would hush its note As day succeeded
ever-drearier day, Nor knew the song that swelled
the robin's throat Would fade to silence, when you
went away.
I never knew the sun's irradiant beams Upon the
brooding earth no more would shine, Nor thought
that only in my mocking dreams Would happiness
that once I knew be mine. I never thought the slim
moon, mournfully, Would shroud her pallid self in
murky night. Dear heart, I never thought these
things would be- I never thought they would,
and I was right.
FRAGMENT
Why should we set these hearts of ours above The
rest, and cramp them in possession's clutch? Poor
things, we gasp and strain to capture love, And in
our hands, it powders at our touch. We turn the
fragrant pages of the past, Mournful with scent of
passion's faded flow'rs, On every one we read,
"Love cannot last"- So how could ours?
It is the quest that thrills, and not the gain, The
mad pursuit, and not the cornering: Love caught is
but a drop of April rain, But bloom upon the moth's
translucent wing. Why should you dare to hope that
you and I Could make love's fitful flash a lasting
flame? Still, if you think it's only fair to try-
Well, I am game.
The Lady's Reward
Lady, lady, never start
Conversation toward your heart;
Keep your pretty words serene;
Never murmur what you mean.
Show yourself, by word and look,
Swift and shallow as a brook.
Be as cool and quick to go
As a drop of April snow;
Be as delicate and gay
As a cherry flower in May.
Lady, lady, never speak
Of the tears that burn your cheek-
She will never win him, whose
Words had shown she feared to lose.
Be you wise and never sad,
You will get your lovely lad.
Never serious be, nor true,
And your wish will come to you-
And if that makes you happy, kid,
You'll be the first it ever did.
Transition
Too long and quickly have I lived to vow
The woe that stretches me shall never wane,
Too often seen the end of endless pain
To swear that peace no more shall cool my brow.
I know, I know- again the shriveled bough
Will burgeon sweetly in the gentle rain,
And these hard lands be quivering with grain-
I tell you only: it is Winter now.
What if I know, before the Summer goes
Where dwelt this bitter frenzy shall be rest?
What is it now, that June shall surely bring
New promise, with the swallow and the rose?
My heart is water, that I first must breast
The terrible, slow loveliness of Spring.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning's "Sonnets from the
Portuguese" was originally published in 1850
in a two volume publication entitled: "Poems".
Sonnets from the Portuguese
XLIII
How do I love thee ? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday's
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints,--I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life !--and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.
And just to show I'm not snobbish in my tastes for literature, here's a pithy little something from the "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" episode titled:
Passion
"Passion...it lies in all of us.
Sleeping, waiting, and though unwanted, unbidden,
it will stir... open it's jaws, and howl.
It speaks to us, guides us.
Passion rules us all, and we obey.
What other choice do we have?
Passion is the source of our finest moments.
The joy of love, the clarity of hatred,
and the ecstasy of grief.
It hurts sometimes more than we can bear.
If we can live without passion,
maybe we'd know some kind of peace.
But we would be hollow.
Empty rooms - shuttered and dank.
Without passion, we'd be truly dead."
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If you have any suggestions for poetry that is suitable for pining purposes, Send it to:
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