Sympathy Poems | Sympathy Poems For Comfort In Time Of Need


    Rain Poem by Edward Thomas

    Rain, midnight rain, nothing but the wild rain
    On this bleak hut, and solitude, and me
    Remembering again that I shall die
    And neither hear the rain nor give it thanks
    For washing me cleaner than I have been
    Since I was born into this solitude.
    Blessed are the dead that the rain rains upon:
    But here I pray that none whom once I loved
    Is dying to-night or lying still awake
    Solitary, listening to the rain,
    Either in pain or thus in sympathy
    Helpless among the living and the dead,
    Like a cold water among broken reeds,
    Myriads of broken reeds all still and stiff,
    Like me who have no love which this wild rain
    Has not dissolved except the love of death,
    If love it be towards what is perfect and
    Cannot, the tempest tells me, disappoint.



    Sympathy Poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar

    I know what the caged bird feels, alas!
    When the sun is bright on the upland slopes;
    When the wind stirs soft through the springing grass,
    And the river flows like a stream of glass;
    When the first bird sings and the first bud opes,
    And the faint perfume from its chalice steals–
    I know what the caged bird feels!

    I know why the caged bird beats his wing
    Till its blood is red on the cruel bars;
    For he must fly back to his perch and cling
    When he fain would be on the bough a-swing;
    And a pain still throbs in the old, old scars
    And they pulse again with a keener sting–
    I know why he beats his wing!

    I know why the caged bird sings, ah me,
    When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore,–
    When he beats his bars and he would be free;
    It is not a carol of joy or glee,
    But a prayer that he sends from his heart’s deep core,
    But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings–
    I know why the caged bird sings!



    Thanatopsis Poem by William Cullen Bryant

    To him who in the love of nature holds
    Communion with her visible forms, she speaks
    A various language; for his gayer hours
    She has a voice of gladness, and a smile
    And eloquence of beauty; and she glides
    Into his darker musings, with a mild
    And healing sympathy that steals away
    Their sharpness ere he is aware. When thoughts
    Of the last bitter hour come like a blight
    Over thy spirit, and sad images
    Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,
    And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,
    Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart;–
    Go forth, under the open sky, and list
    To Nature’s teachings, while from all around–
    Earth and her waters, and the depths of air–
    Comes a still voice. Yet a few days, and thee
    The all-beholding sun shall see no more
    In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground,
    Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears,
    Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist
    Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim
    Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again,
    And, lost each human trace, surrendering up
    Thine individual being, shalt thou go
    To mix forever with the elements,
    To be a brother to the insensible rock
    And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain
    Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak
    Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mold.

    Yet not to thine eternal resting-place
    Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish
    Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down
    With patriarchs of the infant world — with kings,
    The powerful of the earth — the wise, the good,
    Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,
    All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills
    Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun, — the vales
    Stretching in pensive quietness between;
    The venerable woods — rivers that move
    In majesty, and the complaining brooks
    That make the meadows green; and, poured round all,
    Old Ocean’s gray and melancholy waste,–
    Are but the solemn decorations all
    Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun,
    The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,
    Are shining on the sad abodes of death
    Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread
    The globe are but a handful to the tribes
    That slumber in its bosom. — Take the wings
    Of morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness,
    Or lose thyself in the continuous woods
    Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound,
    Save his own dashings — yet the dead are there:
    And millions in those solitudes, since first
    The flight of years began, have laid them down
    In their last sleep — the dead reign there alone.

    So shalt thou rest — and what if thou withdraw
    In silence from the living, and no friend
    Take note of thy departure? All that breathe
    Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh
    When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care
    Plod on, and each one as before will chase
    His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave
    Their mirth and their employments, and shall come
    And make their bed with thee. As the long train
    Of ages glides away, the sons of men–
    The youth in life’s fresh spring, and he who goes
    In the full strength of years, matron and maid,
    The speechless babe, and the gray-headed man–
    Shall one by one be gathered to thy side,
    By those, who in their turn, shall follow them.

    So live, that when thy summons comes to join
    The innumerable caravan, which moves
    To that mysterious realm, where each shall take
    His chamber in the silent halls of death,
    Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,
    Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed
    By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave
    Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
    About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.



    Condolence Poem by Dorothy Parker

    They hurried here, as soon as you had died,
    Their faces damp with haste and sympathy,
    And pressed my hand in theirs, and smoothed my knee,
    And clicked their tongues, and watched me, mournful-eyed.
    Gently they told me of that Other Side-
    How, even then, you waited there for me,
    And what ecstatic meeting ours would be.
    Moved by the lovely tale, they broke, and cried.

    And when I smiled, they told me I was brave,
    And they rejoiced that I was comforted,
    And left to tell of all the help they gave.
    But I had smiled to think how you, the dead,
    So curiously preoccupied and grave,
    Would laugh, could you have heard the things they said.



    Ode On Intimations Of Immortality From Recollections Of Early Childhood Poem by William Wordsworth

    The Child is father of the Man;
    And I could wish my days to be
    Bound each to each by natural piety.


    There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,
    The earth, and every common sight,
    To me did seem
    Apparelled in celestial light,
    The glory and the freshness of a dream.
    It is not now as it hath been of yore; –
    Turn wheresoe’er I may,
    By night or day,
    The things which I have seen I now can see no more.


    The Rainbow comes and goes,
    And lovely is the Rose,
    The Moon doth with delight
    Look round her when the heavens are bare;
    Waters on a starry night
    Are beautiful and fair;
    The sunshine is a glorious birth;
    But yet I know, where’er I go,
    That there hath past away a glory from the earth.


    Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song,
    And while the young lambs bound
    As to the tabor’s sound,
    To me alone there came a thought of grief:
    A timely utterance gave that thought relief,
    And I again am strong:
    The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep;
    No more shall grief of mine the season wrong;
    I hear the Echoes through the mountains throng,
    The Winds come to me from the fields of sleep,
    And all the earth is gay;
    Land and sea
    Give themselves up to jollity,
    And with the heart of May
    Doth every Beast keep holiday; –
    Thou Child of Joy,
    Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy Shepherd-boy!


    Ye blesse`d Creatures, I have heard the call
    Ye to each other make; I see
    The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee;
    My heart is at your festival,
    My head hath its coronal,
    The fulness of your bliss, I feel- I feel it all.
    Oh evil day! if I were sullen
    While the Earth herself is adorning,
    This sweet May-morning,
    And the Children are culling
    On every side,
    In a thousand valleys far and wide,
    Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm,
    And the Babe leaps up on his Mother’s arm:-
    I hear, I hear, with joy I hear!
    – But there’s a Tree, of many, one,
    A single Field which I have looked upon,
    Both of them speak of something that is gone:
    The Pansy at my feet
    Doth the same tale repeat:
    Whither is fled the visionary gleam?
    Where is it now, the glory and the dream?


    Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:
    The Soul that rises with us, our life’s Star,
    Hath had elsewhere its setting,
    And cometh from afar:
    Not in entire forgetfulness,
    And not in utter nakedness,
    But trailing clouds of glory do we come
    From God, who is our home:
    Heaven lies about us in our infancy!
    Shades of the prison-house begin to close
    Upon the growing Boy,
    But He beholds the light, and whence it flows,
    He sees it in his joy;
    The Youth, who daily farther from the east
    Must travel, still is Nature’s Priest,
    And by the vision splendid
    Is on his way attended;
    At length the Man perceives it die away,
    And fade into the light of common day.


    Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own;
    Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind,
    And, even with something of a Mother’s mind,
    And no unworthy aim,
    The homely Nurse doth all she can
    To make her Foster-child, her Inmate Man,
    Forget the glories he hath known,
    And that imperial palace whence he came.


    Behold the Child among his new-born blisses,
    A six years’ Darling of a pigmy size!
    See, where ‘mid work of his own hand he lies,
    Fretted by sallies of his mother’s kisses,
    With light upon him from his father’s eyes!
    See, at his feet, some little plan or chart,
    Some fragment from his dream of human life,
    Shaped by himself with newly-learned art;
    A wedding or a festival,
    A mourning or a funeral;
    And this hath now his heart,
    And unto this he frames his song:
    Then will he fit his tongue
    To dialogues of business, love, or strife;
    But it will not be long
    Ere this be thrown aside,
    And with new joy and pride
    The little Actor cons another part;
    Filling from time to time his ‘humorous stage’
    With all the Persons, down to palsied Age,
    That Life brings with her in her equipage;
    As if his whole vocation
    Were endless imitation.


    Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie
    Thy Soul’s immensity;
    Thou best Philosopher, who yet dost keep
    Thy heritage, thou Eye among the blind,
    That, deaf and silent, read’st the eternal deep,
    Haunted for ever by the eternal mind,-
    Might Prophet! Seer blest!
    On whom those truths do rest,
    Which we are toiling all our lives to find,
    In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave;
    Thou, over whom thy Immortality
    Broods like the Day, a Master o’er a Slave,
    A Presence which is not to be put by;
    [To whom the grave
    Is but a lonely bed without the sense or sight
    Of day or the warm light,
    A place of thought where we in waiting lie; ]
    Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might
    Of heaven-born freedom on thy being’s height,
    Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke
    The years to bring the inevitable yoke,
    Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife?
    Full soon thy Soul shall have her earthly freight,
    And custom lie upon thee with a weight,
    Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life!


    O joy! that in our embers
    Is something that doth live,
    That nature yet remembers
    What was so fugitive!
    The thought of our past years in me doth breed
    Perpetual benediction: not indeed
    For that which is most worthy to be blest;
    Delight and liberty, the simple creed
    Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest,
    With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast:-
    Not for these I raise
    The song of thanks and praise;
    But for those obstinate questionings
    Of sense and outward things,
    Fallings from us, vanishings;
    Blank misgivings of a Creature
    Moving about in worlds not realised,
    High instincts before which our mortal Nature
    Did tremble like a guilty Thing surprised:
    But for those first affections,
    Those shadowy recollections,
    Which, be they what they may,
    Are yet the fountain-light of all our day,
    Are yet a master-light of all our seeing;
    Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make
    Our noisy years seem moments in the being
    Of the eternal Silence: truths that wake,
    To perish never;
    Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavor,
    Nor Man nor Boy,
    Nor all that is at enmity with joy,
    Can utterly abolish or destroy!
    Hence in a season of calm weather
    Though inland far we be,
    Our Souls have sight of that immortal sea
    Which brought us hither,
    Can in a moment travel thither,
    And see the Children sport upon the shore,
    And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.


    Then sing, ye Birds, sing, sing a joyous song!
    And yet the young Lambs bound
    As to the tabor’s sound!
    We in thought will join your throng,
    Ye that pipe and ye that play,
    Ye that through your hearts to-day
    Feel the gladness of the May!
    What though the radiance which was once so bright
    Be now for ever taken from my sight,
    Though nothing can bring back the hour
    Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;
    We will grieve not, rather find
    Strength in what remains behind;
    In the primal sympathy
    Which having been must ever be;
    In the soothing thoughts that spring
    Out of human suffering;
    In the faith that looks through death,
    In years that bring the philosophic mind.


    And O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves,
    Forebode not any severing of our loves!
    Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might;
    I only have relinquished one delight
    To live beneath your more habitual sway.
    I love the Brooks which down their channels fret,
    Even more than when I tripped lightly as they;
    The innocent brightness of a new-born Day
    Is lovely yet;
    The Clouds that gather round the setting sun
    Do take a sober colouring from an eye
    That hath kept watch o’er man’s mortality;
    Another race hath been, and other palms are won.
    Thanks to the human heart by which we live,
    Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears,
    To me the meanest flower that blows can give
    Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.



    To A Skylark Poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley

    Hail to thee, blithe Spirit!
    Bird thou never wert,
    That from Heaven, or near it,
    Pourest thy full heart
    In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.

    Higher still and higher
    From the earth thou springest
    Like a cloud of fire;
    The blue deep thou wingest,
    And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.

    In the golden lightning
    Of the sunken sun
    O’er which clouds are bright’ning,
    Thou dost float and run,
    Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.

    The pale purple even
    Melts around thy flight;
    Like a star of Heaven
    In the broad daylight
    Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight:

    Keen as are the arrows
    Of that silver sphere,
    Whose intense lamp narrows
    In the white dawn clear
    Until we hardly see–we feel that it is there.

    All the earth and air
    With thy voice is loud.
    As, when night is bare,
    From one lonely cloud
    The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed.

    What thou art we know not;
    What is most like thee?
    From rainbow clouds there flow not
    Drops so bright to see
    As from thy presence showers a rain of melody.

    Like a poet hidden
    In the light of thought,
    Singing hymns unbidden,
    Till the world is wrought
    To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not:

    Like a high-born maiden
    In a palace tower,
    Soothing her love-laden
    Soul in secret hour
    With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower:

    Like a glow-worm golden
    In a dell of dew,
    Scattering unbeholden
    Its aerial hue
    Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view:

    Like a rose embowered
    In its own green leaves,
    By warm winds deflowered,
    Till the scent it gives
    Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged thieves.

    Sound of vernal showers
    On the twinkling grass,
    Rain-awakened flowers,
    All that ever was
    Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass.

    Teach us, sprite or bird,
    What sweet thoughts are thine:
    I have never heard
    Praise of love or wine
    That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.

    Chorus hymeneal
    Or triumphal chaunt
    Matched with thine, would be all
    But an empty vaunt–
    A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.

    What objects are the fountains
    Of thy happy strain?
    What fields, or waves, or mountains?
    What shapes of sky or plain?
    What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain?

    With thy clear keen joyance
    Languor cannot be:
    Shadow of annoyance
    Never came near thee:
    Thou lovest, but ne’er knew love’s sad satiety.

    Waking or asleep,
    Thou of death must deem
    Things more true and deep
    Than we mortals dream,
    Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?

    We look before and after,
    And pine for what is not:
    Our sincerest laughter
    With some pain is fraught;
    Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.

    Yet if we could scorn
    Hate, and pride, and fear;
    If we were things born
    Not to shed a tear,
    I know not how thy joy we ever should come near.

    Better than all measures
    Of delightful sound,
    Better than all treasures
    That in books are found,
    Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!

    Teach me half the gladness
    That thy brain must know,
    Such harmonious madness
    From my lips would flow
    The world should listen then, as I am listening now!



    Among School Children Poem by William Butler Yeats

    I WALK through the long schoolroom questioning;
    A kind old nun in a white hood replies;
    The children learn to cipher and to sing,
    To study reading-books and histories,
    To cut and sew, be neat in everything
    In the best modern way — the children’s eyes
    In momentary wonder stare upon
    A sixty-year-old smiling public man.
    I dream of a Ledaean body, bent
    Above a sinking fire. a tale that she
    Told of a harsh reproof, or trivial event
    That changed some childish day to tragedy —
    Told, and it seemed that our two natures blent
    Into a sphere from youthful sympathy,
    Or else, to alter Plato’s parable,
    Into the yolk and white of the one shell.

    And thinking of that fit of grief or rage
    I look upon one child or t’other there
    And wonder if she stood so at that age —
    For even daughters of the swan can share
    Something of every paddler’s heritage —
    And had that colour upon cheek or hair,
    And thereupon my heart is driven wild:
    She stands before me as a living child.
    Her present image floats into the mind —
    Did Quattrocento finger fashion it
    Hollow of cheek as though it drank the wind
    And took a mess of shadows for its meat?
    And I though never of Ledaean kind
    Had pretty plumage once — enough of that,
    Better to smile on all that smile, and show
    There is a comfortable kind of old scarecrow.
    What youthful mother, a shape upon her lap
    Honey of generation had betrayed,
    And that must sleep, shriek, struggle to escape
    As recollection or the drug decide,
    Would think her Son, did she but see that shape
    With sixty or more winters on its head,
    A compensation for the pang of his birth,
    Or the uncertainty of his setting forth?
    Plato thought nature but a spume that plays
    Upon a ghostly paradigm of things;
    Solider Aristotle played the taws
    Upon the bottom of a king of kings;
    World-famous golden-thighed Pythagoras
    Fingered upon a fiddle-stick or strings
    What a star sang and careless Muses heard:
    Old clothes upon old sticks to scare a bird.

    Both nuns and mothers worship images,
    But thos the candles light are not as those
    That animate a mother’s reveries,
    But keep a marble or a bronze repose.
    And yet they too break hearts — O presences
    That passion, piety or affection knows,
    And that all heavenly glory symbolise —
    O self-born mockers of man’s enterprise;
    Labour is blossoming or dancing where
    The body is not bruised to pleasure soul.
    Nor beauty born out of its own despair,
    Nor blear-eyed wisdom out of midnight oil.
    O chestnut-tree, great-rooted blossomer,
    Are you the leaf, the blossom or the bole?
    O body swayed to music, O brightening glance,
    How can we know the dancer from the dance?



    My Father (Elegy In Verse) Poem by Muzahidul Reza

    From my cradle up to he breathes last
    Being a shadow against the sun,
    A brightening star from the dusk,
    The real glorious at dawn
    The man who dearly clings to me
    And becomes the worst sufferer
    At my any failure
    Is my father.

    I found him with integrity in mission
    Expert wright of moulding best,
    Instructing reality of life in vision
    As dearest and nearest
    At gloom, plight and danger
    Who would ease with delight
    To keep pains far
    Is my father.

    A man of earth on earth that he was
    Countryside reflected on his face
    He passed almost eight decades
    As simple, unostentatious
    Amidst the plain, soft, hard nature
    With mutual feelings and care
    Now who is so far
    Is my father.

    He showed great sympathy from heart
    For the harmless and little creatures
    That was either at sorrow or in mirth
    Accompanying with cares;
    So they were seen at grave yard
    In mourning on him for hours
    Losing whom forever
    Is my father.



    The Star Splitter Poem by Robert Frost

    `You know Orion always comes up sideways.
    Throwing a leg up over our fence of mountains,
    And rising on his hands, he looks in on me
    Busy outdoors by lantern-light with something
    I should have done by daylight, and indeed,
    After the ground is frozen, I should have done
    Before it froze, and a gust flings a handful
    Of waste leaves at my smoky lantern chimney
    To make fun of my way of doing things,
    Or else fun of Orion’s having caught me.
    Has a man, I should like to ask, no rights
    These forces are obliged to pay respect to?’
    So Brad McLaughlin mingled reckless talk
    Of heavenly stars with hugger-mugger farming,
    Till having failed at hugger-mugger farming
    He burned his house down for the fire insurance
    And spent the proceeds on a telescope
    To satisfy a lifelong curiosity
    About our place among the infinities.

    `What do you want with one of those blame things?’
    I asked him well beforehand. `Don’t you get one!’

    `Don’t call it blamed; there isn’t anything
    More blameless in the sense of being less
    A weapon in our human fight,’ he said.
    `I’ll have one if I sell my farm to buy it.’
    There where he moved the rocks to plow the ground
    And plowed between the rocks he couldn’t move,
    Few farms changed hands; so rather than spend years
    Trying to sell his farm and then not selling,
    He burned his house down for the fire insurance
    And bought the telescope with what it came to.
    He had been heard to say by several:
    `The best thing that we’re put here for’s to see;
    The strongest thing that’s given us to see with’s
    A telescope. Someone in every town
    Seems to me owes it to the town to keep one.
    In Littleton it might as well be me.’
    After such loose talk it was no surprise
    When he did what he did and burned his house down.

    Mean laughter went about the town that day
    To let him know we weren’t the least imposed on,
    And he could wait—we’d see to him tomorrow.
    But the first thing next morning we reflected
    If one by one we counted people out
    For the least sin, it wouldn’t take us long
    To get so we had no one left to live with.
    For to be social is to be forgiving.
    Our thief, the one who does our stealing from us,
    We don’t cut off from coming to church suppers,
    But what we miss we go to him and ask for.
    He promptly gives it back, that is if still
    Uneaten, unworn out, or undisposed of.
    It wouldn’t do to be too hard on Brad
    About his telescope. Beyond the age
    Of being given one for Christmas gift,
    He had to take the best way he knew how
    To find himself in one. Well, all we said was
    He took a strange thing to be roguish over.
    Some sympathy was wasted on the house,
    A good old-timer dating back along;
    But a house isn’t sentient; the house
    Didn’t feel anything. And if it did,
    Why not regard it as a sacrifice,
    And an old-fashioned sacrifice by fire,
    Instead of a new-fashioned one at auction?

    Out of a house and so out of a farm
    At one stroke (of a match), Brad had to turn
    To earn a living on the Concord railroad,
    As under-ticket-agent at a station
    Where his job, when he wasn’t selling tickets,
    Was setting out, up track and down, not plants
    As on a farm, but planets, evening stars
    That varied in their hue from red to green.

    He got a good glass for six hundred dollars.
    His new job gave him leisure for stargazing.
    Often he bid me come and have a look
    Up the brass barrel, velvet black inside,
    At a star quaking in the other end.
    I recollect a night of broken clouds
    And underfoot snow melted down to ice,
    And melting further in the wind to mud.
    Bradford and I had out the telescope.
    We spread our two legs as we spread its three,
    Pointed our thoughts the way we pointed it,
    And standing at our leisure till the day broke,
    Said some of the best things we ever said.
    That telescope was christened the Star-Splitter,
    Because it didn’t do a thing but split
    A star in two or three, the way you split
    A globule of quicksilver in your hand
    With one stroke of your finger in the middle.
    It’s a star-splitter if there ever was one,
    And ought to do some good if splitting stars
    ‘Sa thing to be compared with splitting wood.

    We’ve looked and looked, but after all where are we?
    Do we know any better where we are,
    And how it stands between the night tonight
    And a man with a smoky lantern chimney?
    How different from the way it ever stood?



    Fantasie — To Laura Poem by Friedrich Schiller

    Name, my Laura, name the whirl-compelling
    Bodies to unite in one blest whole–
    Name, my Laura, name the wondrous magic
    By which soul rejoins its kindred soul!

    See! it teaches yonder roving planets
    Round the sun to fly in endless race;
    And as children play around their mother,
    Checkered circles round the orb to trace.

    Every rolling star, by thirst tormented,
    Drinks with joy its bright and golden rain–
    Drinks refreshment from its fiery chalice,
    As the limbs are nourished by the brain.

    ‘Tis through Love that atom pairs with atom,
    In a harmony eternal, sure;
    And ’tis Love that links the spheres together–
    Through her only, systems can endure.

    Were she but effaced from Nature’s clockwork,
    Into dust would fly the mighty world;
    O’er thy systems thou wouldst weep, great Newton,
    When with giant force to chaos hurled!

    Blot the goddess from the spirit order,
    It would sink in death, and ne’er arise.
    Were love absent, spring would glad us never;
    Were love absent, none their God would prize!

    What is that, which, when my Laura kisses,
    Dyes my cheek with flames of purple hue,
    Bids my bosom bound with swifter motion,
    Like a fever wild my veins runs through?

    Every nerve from out its barriers rises,
    O’er its banks, the blood begins to flow;
    Body seeks to join itself to body,
    Spirits kindle in one blissful glow.

    Powerful as in the dead creations
    That eternal impulses obey,
    O’er the web Arachne-like of Nature,–
    Living Nature,–Love exerts her sway.

    Laura, see how joyousness embraces
    E’en the overflow of sorrows wild!
    How e’en rigid desperation kindles
    On the loving breast of Hope so mild.

    Sisterly and blissful rapture softens
    Gloomy Melancholy’s fearful night,
    And, deliver’d of its golden children,
    Lo, the eye pours forth its radiance bright!

    Does not awful Sympathy rule over
    E’en the realms that Evil calls its own?
    For ’tis Hell our crimes are ever wooing,
    While they bear a grudge ‘gainst Heaven alone!

    Shame, Repentance, pair Eumenides-like,
    Weave round sin their fearful serpent-coils:
    While around the eagle-wings of Greatness
    Treach’rous danger winds its dreaded toils.

    Ruin oft with Pride is wont to trifle,
    Envy upon Fortune loves to cling;
    On her brother, Death, with arms extended,
    Lust, his sister, oft is wont to spring.

    On the wings of Love the future hastens
    In the arms of ages past to lie;
    And Saturnus, as he onward speeds him,
    Long hath sought his bride–Eternity!

    Soon Saturnus will his bride discover,–
    So the mighty oracle hath said;
    Blazing worlds will turn to marriage torches
    When Eternity with Time shall wed!

    Then a fairer, far more beauteous morning,
    Laura, on our love shall also shine,
    Long as their blest bridal-night enduring:–
    So rejoice thee, Laura–Laura mine!