Losing a father leaves a profound void that words often struggle to express.
In anyone’s journey of grief, the power of poetry is a comforting balm for the aching heart as it conveys both the heartache of absence and the resilience we find in its wake
Here are 10 soulful poems that capture the complex emotions tied to absent fathers—each verse a reflection of heartache, longing, and resilience.
Let’s get right to it!
My favorite poem about absent fathers
#1 “To His Verses” by Robert Herrick
What will ye, my poor orphans, do,
When I must leave the world and you;
Who’ll give ye then a sheltering shed,
Or credit ye, when I am dead?
Who’ll let ye by their fire sit,
Although ye have a stock of wit,
Already coin’d to pay for it?
—I cannot tell: unless there be
Some race of old humanity
Left, of the large heart and long hand,
Alive, as noble Westmorland;
Or gallant Newark; which brave two
May fost’ring fathers be to you.
If not, expect to be no less
I’ll used, than babes left fatherless.
I chose this poignant poem as my favorite in this collection because for me, it speaks directly to the heartache of being left behind.
It also shows deep emotions that resonate with anyone who has experienced the absence of a father and the emptiness it brings.
It captures the fear and uncertainty that orphans face when their protector is gone.
9 more poems about absent fathers
#2 From “Alice Fell” by William Wordsworth
She sate like one past all relief;
Sob after sob she forth did send
In wretchedness, as if her grief
Could never, never, have an end.
“My Child, in Durham do you dwell?”
She check’d herself in her distress,
nd said, “My name is Alice Fell;
I’m fatherless and motherless.”
“And I to Durham, Sir, belong.”
And then, as if the thought would choke
Her very heart, her grief grew strong;
And all was for her tatter’d Cloak.
The chaise drove on; our journey’s end
Was nigh; and, sitting by my side,
As if she’d lost her only friend
She wept, nor would be pacified.
#3 “The Fisher Child’s Lullaby” by Paul Laurence Dunbar
The wind is out in its rage to-night,
And your father is far at sea.
The rime on the window is hard and white
But dear, you are near to me.
Heave ho, weave low,
Waves of the briny deep;
Seethe low and breathe low,
But sleep you, my little one, sleep, sleep.
The little boat rocks in the cove no more,
But the flying sea-gulls wail;
I peer through the darkness that wraps the shore,
For sight of a home set sail.
Heave ho, weave low,
Waves of the briny deep;
Seethe low and breathe low,
But sleep you, my little one, sleep, sleep.
Ay, lad of mine, thy father may die
In the gale that rides the sea,
But we’ll not believe it, not you and I,
Who mind us of Galilee.
Heave ho, weave low,
Waves of the briny deep;
Seethe low and breathe low,
But sleep you, my little one, sleep, sleep.
#4 “The Orphan” by Jane and Ann Taylor
My father and mother are dead,
Nor friend, nor relation I know;
And now the cold earth is their bed,
And daisies will over them grow.
I cast my eyes into the tomb,
The sight made me bitterly cry;
I said, “And is this the dark room,
Where my father and mother must lie?”
I cast my eyes round me again,
In hopes some protector to see;
Alas! but the search was in vain,
For none had compassion on me.
I cast my eyes up to the sky,
I groan’d, though I said not a word;
Yet God was not deaf to my cry,
The Friend of the fatherless heard.
For since I have trusted his care,
And learn’d on his word to depend,
He has kept me from every snare,
And been my best Father and Friend.
#5 “The Orphan Maid” by Walter Scott (Sir)
November’s hail-cloud drifts away,
November’s sunbeam wan
Looks coldly on the castle grey,
When forth comes Lady Anne.
The orphan by the oak was set,
Her arms, her feet, were bare;
The hail drops had not melted yet,
Amid her raven hair.
“And, dame,” she said, “by all the ties
That child and mother know,
Aid one who never knew these joys,
Relieve an orphan’s woe.”
The lady said, “An orphan’s state
Is hard and sad to bear;
Yet worse the widow’d mother’s fate
Who mourns both lord and heir.
“Twelve times the rolling year has sped,
Since, when from vengeance wild
Of fierce Strathallan’s Chief I fled
Forth’s eddies whelm’d my child.”
“Twelve times the year its course has borne,”
The wandering maid replied;
“Since fishers on Saint Bridget’s morn
Drew nets on Campsie side.
“Saint Bridget sent no scaly spoil;
An infant, wellnigh dead,
They saved, and rear’d in want and toil,
To beg from you her bred.”
That orphan maid the lady kiss’d,
“My husband’s looks you bear;
Saint Bridget and her morn be bless’d!
You are his widow’s heir.”
They’ve robed that maid, so poor and pale
In silk and sandals rare;
And pearls, for drops of frozen hail,
Are glistening in her hair.
#6 From “The Weird Wanderer” by William Herbert
UBALD.
My heart yearns painfully to know my father.
WANDERER.
Thou shalt learn nothing, till I am revenged!
Rave, thou hot youth! Strike rashly, strike thy
mother!
Or kneel, and, Ubald, swear to slay the man
Who made thee fatherless! I tell thee, son,
If that thou hast an ear, a heart, a soul,
That cry for vengeance, which appals me nightly,
Must have been heard by thee. Swear, Ubald, swear!
UBALD.
There needs no oath to spur me to that goal,
No, nor blind curse! By heaven, show me the man,
That made an orphan of ill-fated Ubald,
And I will drag him to such strict account,
No second sun shall dawn on him and me.
WANDERER.
Swer it!
UBALD.
By all heaven’s gifts I swear it!—Name him.
WANDERER.
Sweno! proud Sweno made thee fatherless!
Haste, Ubald! slay him! —Wilt thou not avenge me?
#7 From “Hedin – XXXIX.” by William Herbert
“Sweet memories of former friendship stole,
“Like some dear vision, o’er my troubled soul.
Methought thine infant leap’d within the womb
Of my pale daughter leaning on thy tomb.
“I would not that the child should tread the world
“Friendless and fatherless in utter gloom,
“Nor see the lance by his bold parent hurl’d,
“Nor view his gallant barque with death’s red flag
unfurl’d.
#8 “The Widow and the Fatherless” by A. Gray
The widow and the fatherless,
Ah, whither shall they go,
To find relief in their distress,
A soother for their wo ?
The widow and the fatherless,
The world is not for you ;
Its pity is but cold and short,
Its promises untrue.
The widow and the fatherless,
By the deserted hearth,
Seem to the careless heart and eye
The most bereaved on earth.
The widow and the fatherless,
While mourning for the dead,
God watches every sigh you make,
And every tear you shed.
The widow and the fatherless,
Hope lights their lonely cot,
The promises of God have made
Their home a blessed spot.
The widow and the fatherless.
To you the boon is given,
When gloom encircles all on earth,
To borrow light from heaven.
#9 From “A Fatherless Fanny” by Amelia Opie
Keen and cold is the blast loudly whistling around :
As cold are the lips that once smiled upon me;
And unyielding, alas! as this hard- frozen ground,
The arms once so ready my shelter to be.
Both my parents are dead, and few friends I can boast,
But few to console and to love me, if any ;
And my gains are so small, …. a bare pittance at most
Repays the exertions of fatherless Fanny.
Once indeed I with pleasure and patience could toil, ….
But ’twas when my parents sat by and approved;
Then my laces to sell I went out with a smile,
Because my fatigue fed the parents I loved.
And at night, when I brought them my hardly earned gains,
Though small they might be, still my comforts were many;
For my mother’s fond blessing rewarded my pains,
My father stood watching to welcome his Fanny.
But, ah ! Now that I work by their presence uncheered,
I feel ‘ tis a hardship indeed to be poor,
While I shrink from the labour no longer endeared,
And sigh as I knock at the wealthy man’s door.
Then, alas! when at night I return to my home,
No longer I boast that my comforts are many;
To a silent, deserted, dark dwelling I come,
Where no one exclaims Thou art welcome, my Fanny.’
That, that is the pang ; ….want and toil would impart
No pang to my breast, if kind friends I could see;
For the wealth I require is that of the heart,
The smiles of affection are riches to me.
Then, ye wealthy, O think, when to you I apply
To purchase my goods, though you do not buy any,
If in accents of kindness you deign to deny,
You’ll comfort the heart of poor fatherless Fanny.
#10 “The Twenty-Second of December” by William Cullen Bryant
Wild was the day; the wintry sea
Moaned sadly on New-England’s strand,
When first the thoughtful and the free,
Our fathers, trod the desert land.
They little thought how pure a light,
With years, should gather round that day;
How love should keep their memories bright,
How wide a realm their sons should sway.
Green are their bays; but greener still
Shall round their spreading fame be wreathed,
And regions, now untrod, shall thrill
With reverence when their names are breathed.
Till where the sun, with softer fires,
Looks on the vast Pacific’s sleep,
The children of the pilgrim sires
This hallowed day like us shall keep.