Have you ever felt the weight of words unspoken and the healing power of an apology?
Poetry can capture these complex emotions, offering a reflective space to explore and understand them.
Here are 10 “I’m sorry” poems that beautifully illustrate the transformative journey of apology.
Let’s get started!
My favorite i’m sorry poem
#1 “Oh, oh, you will be sorry for that word!” by Edna St. Vincent Millay
Oh, oh, you will be sorry for that word!
Give back my book and take my kiss instead.
Was it my enemy or my friend I heard,
“What a big book for such a little head!”
Come, I will show you now my newest hat,
And you may watch me purse my mouth and prink!
Oh, I shall love you still, and all of that.
I never again shall tell you what I think.
I shall be sweet and crafty, soft and sly;
You will not catch me reading any more:
I shall be called a wife to pattern by;
And some day when you knock and push the door,
Some sane day, not too bright and not too stormy,
I shall be gone, and you may whistle for me.
Have you ever regretted saying something hurtful in the heat of the moment?
This poem captures that feeling perfectly, as it explores the impact of a thoughtless remark on a relationship.
It paints a vivid picture of the speaker’s hurt and resolve, making it a favorite poem for me in this collection.
9 more i’m sorry poems
#2 “To A Mouse, On Turning Her Up In Her Nest With The Plough, November, 1785” by Robert Burns
Wee, sleekit, cow’rin’, tim’rous beastie,
O, what a panic’s in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
Wi’ bickering brattle!
I wad be laith to rin an’ chase thee,
Wi’ murd’ring pattle!
I’m truly sorry man’s dominion
Has broken nature’s social union,
An’ justifies that ill opinion,
Which makes thee startle
At me, thy poor earth-born companion,
An’ fellow-mortal!
I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen icker in a thrave
‘S a sma’ request:
I’ll get a blessin’ wi’ the lave,
And never miss’t!
Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin;
Its silly wa’s the win’s are strewin’!
An’ naething, now, to big a new ane,
O’ foggage green!
An’ bleak December’s winds ensuin’,
Baith snell and keen!
Thou saw the fields laid bare an’ waste,
An’ weary winter comin’ fast,
An’ cozie here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell,
‘Till, crash! the cruel coulter past
Out thro’ thy cell.
That wee bit heap o’ leaves an’ stibble,
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble!
Now thou’s turn’d out, for a’ thy trouble,
But house or hald,
To thole the winter’s sleety dribble,
An’ cranreuch cauld!
But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane,
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best laid schemes o’ mice an’ men,
Gang aft a-gley,
An’ lea’e us nought but grief and pain,
For promis’d joy.
Still thou art blest, compar’d wi’ me!
The present only toucheth thee:
But, Och! I backward cast my e’e,
On prospects drear!
An’ forward, tho’ I canna see,
I guess an’ fear.
#3 “Remorse” by John Hartley
None ever knew I had wronged her,
That secret she kept to the end.
None knew that our ties had been stronger,
Than such as should bind friend to friend.
Her beauty and innocence gave her
Such charms as are lavished on few;
And vain was my earnest endeavour
To resist, – though I strove to be true.
She had given her heart to my keeping, –
‘Twas a treasure more precious than gold;
And I guarded it, waking or sleeping,
Lest a strange breath should make it grow cold.
And I longed to be tender, yet honest, –
Alas! loved, – where to love was a sin, –
And passion was deaf to the warning,
Of a still small voice crying within.
I feasted my eyes on her beauty, –
I ravished my ears with her voice, –
And I felt as her bosom rose softly,
That my heart had at last found its choice.
‘Twas a wild gust of passion swept o’er us, –
Just a flash of tumultuous bliss; –
Then life’s sunlight all vanished before us,
And we stood by despair’s dark abyss.
‘Tis past, – and the green grass grows over,
The grave that hides her and our shame;
None ever knew who was her lover,
For her lips never uttered his name.
But at night when the city is sleeping,
I steal with a tremulous tread,
And spend the dark solemn hours weeping,
O’er the grave of the deeply wronged dead.
#4 “Sonnet 31” by Francesco Petrarca
He excuses himself for having so long delayed to visit her
So much I fear to encounter her bright eye.
Alway in which my death and Love reside,
That, as a child the rod, its glance I fly,
Though long the time has been since first I tried;
And ever since, so wearisome or high,
No place has been where strong will has not hied,
Her shunning, at whose sight my senses die,
And, cold as marble, I am laid aside:
Wherefore if I return to see you late,
Sure ’tis no fault, unworthy of excuse,
That from my death awhile I held aloof:
At all to turn to what men shun, their fate,
And from such fear my harass’d heart to loose,
Of its true faith are ample pledge and proof.
#5 “Sorry” by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
There is much that makes me sorry as I journey down life’s way,
And I seem to see more pathos in poor human lives each day.
I’m sorry for the strong, brave men who shield the weak from harm,
But who, in their own troubled hours, find no protecting arm.
I’m sorry for the victors who have reached success, to stand
As targets for the arrows shot by envious failure’s hand.
I’m sorry for the generous hearts who freely shared their wine,
But drink alone the gall of tears in fortune’s drear decline.
I’m sorry for the souls who build their own fame’s funeral pyre,
Derided by the scornful throng like ice deriding fire.
I’m sorry for the conquering ones who know not sin’s defeat,
But daily tread down fierce desire ‘neath scorched and bleeding feet.
I’m sorry for the anguished hearts that break with passion’s strain,
But I’m sorrier for the poor starved souls that never knew love’s pain,
Who hunger on through barren years not tasting joys they crave,
For sadder far is such a lot than weeping o’er a grave.
I’m sorry for the souls that come unwelcomed into birth,
I’m sorry for the unloved old who cumber up the earth,
I’m sorry for the suffering poor in life’s great maelstrom hurled –
In truth, I’m sorry for them all who make this aching world.
But underneath whate’er seems sad and is not understood,
I know there lies hid from our sight a mighty germ of good.
And this belief stands firm by me, my sermon, motto, text –
The sorriest things in this life will seem grandest in the next.
#6 “His Apologies” by Rudyard Kipling
Master, this is Thy Servant. He is rising eight weeks old.
He is mainly Head and Tummy. His legs are uncontrolled.
But Thou hast forgiven his ugliness, and settled him on Thy knee…
Art Thou content with Thy Servant? He is very comfy with Thee.
Master, behold a Sinner! He hath committed a wrong.
He hath defiled Thy Premises through being kept in too long.
Wherefore his nose has been rubbed in the dirt, and his self-respect has been bruised.
Master, pardon Thy Sinner, and see he is properly loosed.
Master-again Thy Sinner! This that was once Thy Shoe,
He has found and taken and carried aside, as fitting matter to chew.
Now there is neither blacking nor tongue, and the Housemaid has us in tow.
Master, remember Thy Servant is young, and tell her to let him go!
Master, extol Thy Servant, he has met a most Worthy Foe!
There has been fighting all over the Shop, and into the Shop also!
Till cruel umbrellas parted the strife (or I might have been chok- ing him yet),
But Thy Servant has had the Time of his Life, and now shall we call on the vet?
Master, behold Thy Servant! Strange children came to play,
And because they fought to caress him, Thy Servant wentedst away.
But now that the Little Beasts have gone, he has returned to see
(Brushed, with his Sunday collar on) what they left over from tea.
. . . . . .
Master, pity Thy Servant! He is deaf and three parts blind.
He cannot catch Thy Commandments. He cannot read Thy Mind.
Oh, leave him not to his loneliness; nor make him that kitten’s scorn.
He hath had none other God than Thee since the year that he was born.
Lord, look down on Thy Servant! Bad things have come to pass.
There is no heat in the midday sun, nor health in the wayside grass.
His bones are full of an old disease, his torments run and increase.
Lord, make haste with Thy Lightnings and grant him a quick release!
#7 “Forgiveness” by George William Russell
At dusk the window panes grew grey;
The wet world vanished in the gloom;
The dim and silver end of day
Scarce glimmered through the little room.
And all my sins were told; I said
Such things to her who knew not sin–
The sharp ache throbbing in my head,
The fever running high within.
I touched with pain her purity;
Sin’s darker sense I could not bring:
My soul was black as night to me:
To her I was a wounded thing.
I needed love no words could say;
She drew me softly nigh her chair,
My head upon her knees to lay,
With cool hands that caressed my hair.
She sat with hands as if to bless,
And looked with grave, ethereal eyes;
Ensouled by ancient quietness,
A gentle priestess of the Wise.
#8 “Regret” by Charlotte Bronte
Long ago I wished to leave
“The house where I was born;”
Long ago I used to grieve,
My home seemed so forlorn.
In other years, its silent rooms
Were filled with haunting fears;
Now, their very memory comes
O’ercharged with tender tears.
Life and marriage I have known.
Things once deemed so bright;
Now, how utterly is flown
Every ray of light!
‘Mid the unknown sea, of life
I no blest isle have found;
At last, through all its wild wave’s strife,
My bark is homeward bound.
Farewell, dark and rolling deep!
Farewell, foreign shore!
Open, in unclouded sweep,
Thou glorious realm before!
Yet, though I had safely pass’d
That weary, vexed main,
One loved voice, through surge and blast
Could call me back again.
Though the soul’s bright morning rose
O’er Paradise for me,
William! even from Heaven’s repose
I’d turn, invoked by thee!
Storm nor surge should e’er arrest
My soul, exalting then:
All my heaven was once thy breast,
Would it were mine again!
#9 “Regret” by Olivia Ward Bush-Banks
I said a thoughtless word one day,
A loved one heard and went away;
I cried: “Forgive me, I was blind;
I would not wound or be unkind.”
I waited long, but all in vain,
To win my loved one back again.
Too late, alas! to weep and pray,
Death came; my loved one passed away.
Then, what a bitter fate was mine;
No language could my grief define;
Tears of deep regret could not unsay
The thoughtless word I spoke that day.
#10 “Michael Robartes Asks Forgiveness Because of His Many Moods” by William Butler Yeats
If this importunate heart trouble your peace
With words lighter than air,
Or hopes that in mere hoping flicker and cease;
Crumple the rose in your hair;
And cover your lips with odorous twilight and say,
‘O Hearts of wind-blown flame!
‘O Winds, elder than changing of night and day,
‘That murmuring and longing came,
‘From marble cities loud with tabors of old
‘In dove-gray faery lands;
‘From battle banners fold upon purple fold,
‘Queens wrought with glimmering hands;
‘That saw young Niamh hover with love-lorn face
‘Above the wandering tide;
‘And lingered in the hidden desolate place,
‘Where the last Phoenix died
‘And wrapped the flames above his holy head;
‘And still murmur and long:
‘O Piteous Hearts, changing till change be dead
‘In a tumultuous song:’
And cover the pale blossoms of your breast
With your dim heavy hair,
And trouble with a sigh for all things longing for rest
The odorous twilight there.