a shrike's cry
light slants through
the red pine grove

by Nozawa Bonchō.

Thou needst not cry to God

Thou needst not cry to God,
The spring wells up in thee.
Don't stop its fountain head:
It flows eternally.

English version by Paul Carus
Original Language German

by Angelus Silesius.

Lines To A Lady Weeping

Weep, daughter of a royal line,
A Sire's disgrace, a realm's decay;
Ah! happy if each tear of thine
Could wash a father's fault away!

Weep--for thy tears are Virtue's tears­
Auspicious to these suffering isles;
And be each drop in future years
Repaid thee by thy people's smiles!

by George Gordon Byron.

Press the grape, and let it pour
Around the board its purple shower:
And, while the drops my goblet steep,
I'll think in woe the clusters weep.

Weep on, weep on, my pouting vine!
Heaven grant no tears, but tears of wine.
Weep on; and, as thy sorrows flow,
I'll taste the luxury of woe.

by Thomas Moore.

Epitaph On A Child

Cruel the pang to hear the struggling sigh,
Watch o'er the faded cheek and closing eye;
See infant innocence with parting breath
Its weeping parents bless, and smile in death.—
Check your vain tears!—Lo! He who 'walk'd the wave,'
Triumphant rising from the vanquish'd grave,
To man, by blood celestial ransom'd, cries,
He lives, for ever lives, in Me who dies.

by Henry James Pye.

There Is A Calm For Those Who Weep - 2

There is a calm for those who weep,
A rest for weary pilgrims found:
They softly lie, and sweetly sleep,
Low in the ground.

The soul, of origin divine,
God's glorious image freed from clay,
In heaven's eternal sphere shall shine,
A star of day!

The sun is but a spark of fire,
A transient meteor in the sky;
The soul, immortal as its Sire,
Shall never die!

by James Montgomery.

Song. Yes ....Though We'Ve Loved So Long

YES ....though we've loved so long, so well,
Imperious duty bids us part;
But though thy breast with anguish swell,
A pang more lasting tears my heart.

My grief is dumb,....loquacious thine,
The mournful hoard I sacred keep;
Thou seekest crowds, alone I pine;
My eyes are dry, but thine can weep.

Then, whatsoe'er thy lips have vowed,
A truer sorrow sways my soul;
For shallow streams run bright and loud,
Deep waters darkly silent roll.

by Amelia Opie.

With A Copy Of 'The Rabbi Of Bachwach'

Burst out in wailing riot,
Thou darkling martyr-lay,
That in my soul, flame-quiet,
I've borne this many a day!

It thrills through every hearing
And so the heart doth gain.
I've conjured up, unfearing,
The thousand-year-old pain.

Great, little, weep and even
Cold hearts do tearful grow :
The small stars weep in heaven,
The maids and flowers below.

The tears, still southward fleeting,
To the still conclave go
And all, each other meeting,
Into the Jordan flow.

by Heinrich Heine.

My Eyes Pour Out Tears

He left me, and himself he departed;
What fault was there in me ?

Neither at night nor in the day do I sleep in peace;
My eyes pour out tears !
Sharper than swords and spears are the arrows of love !
There is no one as cruel as love ;
This malady no physician can cure.
There is no peace, not for a moment,
So intense is the pain of separation !
O Bullah, if the Lord were to shower
His grace, My days would radically change !
He left me, and himself he departed.
What fault was there in me?

by Bulleh Shah.

Well, what's the matter? there's a face
What ! has it cut a vein?
And is it quite a shocking place?
Come, let us look again.

I see it bleeds, but never mind
That tiny little drop;
I don't believe you'll ever find
That crying makes it stop.

'Tis sad indeed to cry at pain,
For any but a baby;
If that should chance to cut a vein,
We should not wonder, may be.

But such a man as you should try
To bear a little sorrow:
So run along, and wipe your eye,
'Twill all be well to-morrow.

by Ann Taylor.

The days drag on, each moment multiplies
Within my wounded heart the pain and sadness
Of an unhappy love and, dark, gives rise.
To sleepless dreams, the haunting dreams of madness
But I do not complain - instead, I weep;
Tears bring me solace, comforted they leave me.
My spirit, captive held by grief, a deep.
And bitter rapture finds in them, believe me.
Pass, life! Come, empty phantom, onward fly.
And in the silent void of darkness vanish.
Dear it to me my love's unending anguish;
If as I die I love, pray let me die.

by Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin.

Upon Some Distemper Of Body

In anguish of my heart replete with woes,
And wasting pains, which best my body knows,
In tossing slumbers on my wakeful bed,
Bedrenched with tears that flowed from mournful head,
Till nature had exhausted all her store,
Then eyes lay dry, disabled to weep more;
And looking up unto his throne on high,
Who sendeth help to those in misery;
He chased away those clouds and let me see
My anchor cast i' th' vale with safety.
He eased my soul of woe, my flesh of pain,
and brought me to the shore from troubled main.

by Anne Bradstreet.

I Saw Thee Weep

I saw thee weep--the big bright tear
Came o'er that eye of blue;
And then methought it did appear
A violet dropping dew:
I saw thee smile--the sapphire's blaze
Beside thee ceased to shine;
It could not match the living rays
That filled that glance of thine.
As clouds from yonder sun receive
A deep and mellow dye,
Which scarce the shade of coming eve
Can banish from the sky,
Those smiles unto the moodiest mind
Their own pure joy impart;
Their sunshine leaves a glow behind
That lightens o'er the heart.

by George Gordon Byron.

There Is A Calm For Those Who Weep,

There is a calm for those who weep,
A rest for weary pilgrims found:
They softly lie, and sweetly sleep,
Low in the ground.

The storm that wrecks the winter sky
No more disturbs their deep repose
Than summer evening's latest sigh
That shuts the rose.

A bruised reed God will not break;
Afflictions all his children feel;
He wounds them for his mercy's sake.
He wounds to heal!

O traveller in the vale of tears!
To realms of everlasting light,
Through time's dark wilderness of years,
Pursue thy flight.

by James Montgomery.

In Morning The Dew Having Tears

In morning the dew having tears in her eyes was saying that
The garden will bloom for long but the dew will be no more.
Dew drops slipped from her hair on her cheeks,
It's strange that the dew drops fell on sun (glowing Cheeks)
In your absence the garden seemed to me a place for mourning,
The flowers were tearing off their garments while the dew was crying.
The company of soft nature people has its impact on everyone,
The dew drops sparkled like fire when collected on flowers.
Let the morning come and we will see,
The dew drops have no idea how constantly the lovesick cry.

by Khwaja Mir Dard.

Upon A Lowering Of Morning

Well, with the day I see the clouds appear,
And mix the light with darkness everywhere;
This threatening is, to travellers that go
Long journeys, slabby rain they'll have, or snow.
Else, while I gaze, the sun doth with his beams
Belace the clouds, as 'twere with bloody streams;
This done, they suddenly do watery grow,
And weep, and pour their tears out where they go.

Comparison.

Thus 'tis when gospel light doth usher in
To us both sense of grace and sense of sin;
Yea, when it makes sin red with Christ's blood,
Then we can weep till weeping does us good.

by John Bunyan.

Here Follow Several Occasional Meditations

By night when others soundly slept,
And had at once both case and rest,
My waking eyes were open kept
And so to lie I found it best.

I sought Him whom my soul did love,
With tears I sought Him earnestly;
He bowed His ear down from above.
In vain I did not seek or cry.

My hungry soul He filled with good,
He in His bottle put my tears,
My smarting wounds washed in His blood,
And banished thence my doubts and fears.

What to my Savior shall I give,
Who freely hath done this for me?
I'll serve Him here whilst I shall live
And love Him to eternity.

by Anne Bradstreet.

Oh! Weep For Those

I.
Oh! Weep for those that wept by Babel's stream,
Whose shrines are desolate, whose land a dream,
Weep for the harp of Judah's broken shell--
Mourn--where their God that dwelt-the Godless dwell!

II.
And where shall Israel lave her bleeding feet?
And when shall Zion's songs agains seem sweet?
And Judah's melody once more rejoice
The hearts that leap'd before its heavenly voice?

III.
Tribes of the wandering foot and weary breast!
How shall ye flee away and be at rest!
The wild-dove hath her nest--the fox his cave--
Mankind their Country--Israel but the grave.

by George Gordon Byron.

Farewell! If Ever Fondest Prayer

Farewell! if ever fondest prayer
For other's weal avail'd on high,
Mine will not all be lost in air,
But waft thy name beyond the sky.
Twere vain to speak, to weep, to sigh:
Oh! more than tears of blood can tell,
When wrung from guilt's expiring eye,
Are in that word--Farewell!--Farewell!

These lips are mute, these eyes are dry;
But in my breast and in my brain,
Awake the pangs that pass not by,
The thought that ne'er shall sleep again.
My soul nor deigns nor dares complain
Though grief and passion there rebel;
I only know we loved in vain--
I only feel--Farewell!--Farewell!

by George Gordon Byron.

The Massacre At Scio

Weep not for Scio's children slain;
Their blood, by Turkish falchions shed,
Sends not its cry to Heaven in vain
For vengeance on the murderer's head.

Though high the warm red torrent ran
Between the flames that lit the sky,
Yet, for each drop, an armed man
Shall rise, to free the land, or die.

And for each corpse, that in the sea
Was thrown, to feast the scaly herds,
A hundred of the foe shall be
A banquet for the mountain birds.

Stern rites and sad, shall Greece ordain
To keep that day, along her shore,
Till the last link of slavery's chain
Is shivered, to be worn no more.

by William Cullen Bryant.

In The Valley Of The Waters

In the valley of the waters we wept o'er the day
When the host of the stranger made Salem his prey,
And our heads on our bosoms all droopingly lay,
And our hearts were so full of the land far away.

The song they demanded in vain--it lay still
In our souls as the wind that died on the hill;
They called for the harp--but our blood they shall spill
Ere our right hand shall teach them one tone of our skill.

All stringlessly hung on the willow's sad tree,
As dead as her dead leaf those mute harps must be;
Our hands may be fetter'd--our tears still are free,
For our God and our glory--and, Sion!--Oh, thee.

by George Gordon Byron.

1.
Think not of it, sweet one, so;--
Give it not a tear;
Sigh thou mayst, and bid it go
Any, any where.

2.
Do not look so sad, sweet one,--
Sad and fadingly;
Shed one drop then, it is gone,
O 'twas born to die!

3.
Still so pale? then, dearest, weep;
Weep, I'll count the tears,
And each one shall be a bliss
For thee in after years.

4.
Brighter has it left thine eyes
Than a sunny rill;
And thy whispering melodies
Are tenderer still.

5.
Yet -- as all things mourn awhile
At fleeting blisses,
E'en let us too! but be our dirge
A dirge of kisses.

by John Keats.

My God and King! to Thee
I bow my knee;
I bow my troubled soul, and greet
With my foul heart thy holy feet.
Cast it, or tread it! it shall do
Even what thou wilt, and praise thee too.

My God, could I weep blood,
Gladly I would,
Or if thou wilt give me that art,
Which through the eyes pours out the heart,
I will exhaust it all, and make
Myself all tears, a weeping lake.

O! 'tis an easy thing
To write and sing;
But to write true, unfeigned verse
Is very hard! O God, disperse
These weights, and give my spirit leave
To act as well as to conceive!

O my God, hear my cry;
Or let me die!

by Henry Vaughan.

Under the blue skies of her native land
She languished and began to fade. . .
Until surely there flew without a sound
Above me, her young shade.
But there stretches between us an uncrossable line;
In vain my feelings I tried to awaken.
The lips that brought the news were made of stone,
And I listened like a stone, unshaken.
So this is she for whom my soul once burned
In the tense and heavy fire,
Obsessed, exhausted, driven out of my mind
By tenderness and desire!
Where are the torments? Where is love? Alas!
For the unreturning days'
Sweet memory and for the poor credulous
Shade, I find no lament, no tears.

by Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin.

Oh! Snatched Away In Beauty's Bloom

Oh! snatched away in beauty's bloom,
On thee shall press no ponderous tomb;
But on thy turf shall roses rear
Their leaves, the earliest of ' the year;
And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom:

And oft by yon blue gushing stream
Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head,
And feed deep thought with many a dream,
And lingering pause and lightly tread;
Fond wretch! as if her step disturbed the dead!

Away I we know that tears are vain,
That death nor heeds nor hears distress:
Will this unteach us to complain?
Or make one mourner weep the less?
And thou - who tell'st me to forget,
Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet.

by George Gordon Byron.

Think Of It Not, Sweet One

THINK not of it, sweet one, so;---
Give it not a tear;
Sigh thou mayst, and bid it go
Any---anywhere.

Do not lool so sad, sweet one,---
Sad and fadingly;
Shed one drop then,---it is gone---
O 'twas born to die!

Still so pale? then, dearest, weep;
Weep, I'll count the tears,
And each one shall be a bliss
For thee in after years.

Brighter has it left thine eyes
Than a sunny rill;
And thy whispering melodies
Are tenderer still.

Yet---as all things mourn awhile
At fleeting blisses,
E'en let us too! but be our dirge
A dirge of kisses.

by John Keats.

About The Little Girl That Beat Her Sister

Go, go, my naughty girl, and kiss
Your little sister dear;
I must not have such things as this,
And noisy quarrels here.

What! little children scratch and fight,
That ought to be so mild;
Oh! Mary, it's a shocking sight
To see an angry child.

I can't imagine, for my part,
The reason for your folly;
She did not do you any hurt
By playing with your dolly.

See, see, the little tears that run
Fast from her watery eye:
Come, my sweet innocent, have done,
'Twill do no good to cry.

Go, Mary, wipe her tears away,
And make it up with kisses:
And never turn a pretty play
To such a pet as this is.

by Ann Taylor.

By Night When Others Soundly Slept

. By night when others soundly slept
And hath at once both ease and Rest,
My waking eyes were open kept
And so to lie I found it best.

.
I sought him whom my Soul did Love,
With tears I sought him earnestly.
He bow'd his ear down from Above.
In vain I did not seek or cry.
.

My hungry Soul he fill'd with Good;
He in his Bottle put my tears,
My smarting wounds washt in his blood,
And banisht thence my Doubts and fears.

.
What to my Saviour shall I give
Who freely hath done this for me?
I'll serve him here whilst I shall live
And Loue him to Eternity

by Anne Bradstreet.

Peace! What Do Tears Avail?

PEACE! what do tears avail?
She lies all dumb and pale,
And from her eye
The spirit of lovely life is fading,
And she must die!
Why looks the lover wroth? the friend upbraiding?
Reply, reply!

Hath she not dwelt too long
’Midst pain, and grief, and wrong?
Then, why not die?
Why suffer again her doom of sorrow,
And hopeless lie?
Why nurse the trembling dream until to-morrow?
Reply, reply!

Death! Take her to thine arms,
In all her stainless charms,
And with her fly
To heavenly haunts, where, clad in brightness,
The Angels lie.
Wilt bear her there, O Death! in all her whiteness?
Reply, reply!

by Barry Cornwall.

While Celia's Tears make sorrow bright,
Proud Grief sits swelling in her eyes;
The Sun, next those the fairest light,
Thus from the Ocean first did rise:
And thus thro' Mists we see the Sun,
Which else we durst not gaze upon.

These silver drops, like morning dew,
Foretell the fervour of the day:
So from one Cloud soft show'rs we view,
And blasting lightnings burst away.
The Stars that fall from Celia's eye
Declare our Doom in drawing nigh.

The Baby in that sunny Sphere
So like a Phaeton appears,
That Heav'n, the threaten'd World to spare,
Thought fit to drown him in her tears;
Else might th' ambitious Nymph aspire,
To set, like him, Heav'n too on fire.

by Alexander Pope.

When He Who Adores Thee

When he, who adores thee, has left but the name
Of his fault and his sorrows behind,
Oh! say wilt thou weep, when they darken the fame
Of a life that for thee was resign'd?
Yes, weep, and however my foes may condemn,
Thy tears shall efface their decree;
For Heaven can witness, though guilty to them,
I have been but too faithful to thee.

With thee were the dreams of my earliest love;
Every thought of my reason was thine;
In my last humble prayer to the Spirit above,
Thy name shall be mingled with mine.
Oh! blest are the lovers and friends who shall live
The days of thy glory to see;
But the next dearest blessing that Heaven can give
Is the pride of thus dying for thee.

by Thomas Moore.

1.

'TWAS so ; I saw thy birth. That drowsy lake
From her faint bosom breath'd thee, the disease
Of her sick waters and infectious ease.
But now at even,
Too gross for heaven,
Thou fall'st in tears, and weep'st for thy mistake.

2.

Ah ! it is so with me : oft have I press'd
Heaven with a lazy breath ; but fruitless this
Pierc'd not ; love only can with quick access
Unlock the way,
When all else stray,
The smoke and exhalations of the breast.


3.

Yet, if as thou dost melt, and with thy train
Of drops make soft the Earth, my eyes could weep
O'er my hard heart, that's bound up and asleep ;
Perhaps at last,
Some such showers past,
My God would give a sunshine after rain.

by Henry Vaughan.

We Sate Down And Wept By The Waters

I.
We sate down and wept by the waters
Of Babel, and thought of the day
When our foe, in the hue of his slaughters,
Made Salem's high places his prey;
And ye, oh her desolate daughters!
Were scattered all weeping away.

II.
While sadly we gazed on the river
Which roll'd on in freedom below,
They demanded the song; but, oh never
That triumph the stranger shall know!
May this right hand be withered for ever,
Ere it string our high harp for the foe!

III.
On the willow that harp is suspended,
Oh Salem! its sound should be free;
And the hour when thy glories were ended
But left me that token of thee:
And ne'er shall its soft tones be blended
With the voice of the spoiler by me!

by George Gordon Byron.

A Hue And Cry After Fair Amoret

FAIR Amoret is gone astray--
   Pursue and seek her, ev'ry lover;
I'll tell the signs by which you may
   The wand'ring Shepherdess discover.

Coquette and coy at once her air,
   Both studied, tho' both seem neglected;
Careless she is, with artful care,
   Affecting to seem unaffected.

With skill her eyes dart ev'ry glance,
   Yet change so soon you'd ne'er suspect them,
For she'd persuade they wound by chance,
   Tho' certain aim and art direct them.

She likes herself, yet others hates
   For that which in herself she prizes;
And, while she laughs at them, forgets
   She is the thing hat she despises.

by William Congreve.

From 'To Seraphime'

Wandl' ich in dem Wald des Abends

Through the wood when I am wandering
In the dusky eventide,
Goes a dainty form in silence
Always closely at my side.

Is not this thy veil, the white one?
This the gentle face I love?
Is it merely moonlight breaking
Through the gloomy firs above?

Is that sound the sound of weeping
From mine own eyes welling deep?
Or dost thou, Beloved, truly
Walk to-night by me and weep?

Es ragt ins Meer der Runenstein

The Runic stone from the sea rears high
Where I sit and dream and ponder;
The winds they pipe; the sea-gulls cry;
The billows foam and wander.

Oh, many a maiden loved have I,
With many a lad gone roaming—
Where are they now? The winds, they sigh-
The billows wander foaming.

by Heinrich Heine.

Tears Of The Fatherland

So, now we are destroyed; utterly; more than utterly!
The gang of shameless peoples, the maddening music of war,
The sword fat with blood, the thundering of the guns
Have consumed our sweat and toil, exhausted our reserves.
Towers are on fire, churches turned upside down;
The town hall is in ruins, the strong cut down, destroyed.
Young girls are raped; wherever we turn our gaze,
Fire, plague, and death pierce heart and spirit through.
Here, town and ramparts run with ever-fresh streams of blood.
It's three times six years now, since our mighty river's flow
Was blocked almost by corpses, just barely trickling through.
Yet, I pass over in silence something more terrible than death,
More desperate even than plague, fire and famine;
That so many were bereaved of their soul's treasure too.

by Andreas Gryphius.

The Harp The Monarch Minstrel Swept

The harp the monarch minstrel swept,
The King of men, the loved of Heaven,
Which Music hallow'd while she wept
O'er tones her heart of hearts had given,
Redoubled be her tears, its chords are riven!
It soften'd men of iron mould,
It gave them virtues not their own;
No ear so dull, no soul so cold,
That felt not, fired not to the tone,
Till David's lyre grew mightier than his throne!

It told the triumphs of our King,
It wafted glory to our God;
It made our gladden'd valleys ring,
The cedars bow, the mountains nod;
Its sound aspired to heaven and there abode!
Since then, though heard on earth no more,
Devotion and her daughter Love
Still bid the bursting spirit soar
To sounds that seem as from above,
In dreams that day's broad light can not remove.

by George Gordon Byron.

From An Album Of 1604

HOPE provides wings to thought, and love to hope.
Rise up to Cynthia, love, when night is clearest,
And say, that as on high her figure changeth,
So, upon earth, my joy decays and grows.
And whisper in her ear with modest softness,
How doubt oft hung its head, and truth oft wept.
And oh ye thoughts, distrustfully inclined,
If ye are therefore by the loved one chided,
Answer: 'tis true ye change, but alter not,
As she remains the same, yet changeth ever.
Doubt may invade the heart, but poisons not,
For love is sweeter, by suspicion flavour'd.
If it with anger overcasts the eye,
And heaven's bright purity perversely blackens,
Then zephyr-sighs straight scare the clouds away,
And, changed to tears, dissolve them into rain.
Thought, hope, and love remain there as before,
Till Cynthia gleams upon me as of old.

by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe.

I meet thy pensive, moonlight face;
Thy thrilling voice I hear;
And former hours and scenes retrace,
Too fleeting, and too dear!

Then sighs and tears flow fast and free,
Though none is nigh to share;
And life has nought beside for me
So sweet as this despair.

There are crush'd hearts that will not break;
And mine, methinks, is one;
Or thus I should not weep and wake,
And thou to slumber gone.

I little thought it thus could be
In days more sad and fair
That earth could have a place for me,
And thou no longer there.

Yet death cannot our hearts divide,
Or make thee less my own:
Twere sweeter sleeping at thy side
Than watching here alone.

Yet never, never can we part,
While Memory holds her reign:
Thine, thine is still this wither'd heart,
Till we shall meet again.

by Henry Francis Lyte.

While History's Muse

While History's Muse the memorial was keeping
Of all that the dark hand of Destiny weaves,
Beside her the Genius of Erin stood weeping,
For hers was the story that blotted the leaves.
But oh! how the tear in her eyelids grew bright,
When, after whole pages of sorrow and shame,
She saw History write,
With a pencil of light
That illumed the whole volume, her Wellington's name.

"Yet still the last crown of thy toils is remaining,
The grandest, the purest, even thou hast yet known;
Though proud was thy task, other nations unchaining,
Far prouder to heal the deep wounds of thy own.
At the foot of that throne, for whose weal thou hast stood,
Go, plead for the land that first cradled thy fame,
And, bright o'er the flood
Of her tears, and her blood,
Let the rainbow of Hope be her Wellington's name."

by Thomas Moore.