41 Intimate Poems About Ex Lovers for Her

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Here are my favorite poems about ex lovers for her categorized:

  • Short poems about ex lovers for her
  • Sad poems about ex lovers for her
  • Poems about memories with your ex for her

So if you want the best poems about ex lovers for her, then you’re in the right place.

Let’s get started!

41 Intimate Poems About Ex Lovers for Her (+ My #1 Favorite)
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Intimate Poems About Ex Lovers for Her

a pretty but melancholic woman walking in pink rose flower garden

Love is a complex tapestry woven with threads of joy and heartbreak that often leaves an indelible mark on our souls.

We invite you to find solace in our collection of intimate poems, a sanctuary where emotions flow freely and words dance delicately on the page.

In these verses about ex lovers dedicated to women, we embark on a journey through the labyrinth of past relationships.

Each poem is a testament to the raw vulnerability, the bittersweet memories, and the profound longing that lingers in the aftermath of love’s departure.

With poetic finesse, these verses capture the essence of lost love, reminding us that even in the depths of heartache, beauty can be found.

Let’s jump right in!

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My #1 Favorite Poem About Ex Lovers for Her

a beautiful brunette woman with long hair in a pink chic floral dress lies on green grass with purple field flowers

“The Long Ago” by Jean Blewett

O life has its seasons joyous and drear,
Its summer sun and its winter snow,
But the fairest of all, I tell you, dear,
Was the sweet old spring of the long ago —
The ever and ever so long ago —

When we walked together among the flowers,
When the world with beauty was all aglow.
O the rain and dew! O the shine and showers
Of the sweet old spring of the long ago!
The ever and ever so long ago.

A hunger for all of the past delight
Is stirred by the winds that softly blow.
Can you spare me a thought from heaven to-night
For the sweet old spring of the long ago? —
The ever and ever so long ago.

Why Is “The Long Ago” My Favorite Poem About Ex Lovers for Her

A gorgeous woman in a flower field

“The Long Ago” is a true gem that breaks away from the gloomy and heartbreaking poetic tales we often come across.

I instantly connected with Jean Blewett’s work not only because of its beautiful use of imagery and descriptive language, but also because it depicts a positive outlook towards breakups and past relationships.

In this short three-stanza piece, the poet takes a lighthearted approach, showcasing a nostalgic and reminiscent perspective in recounting memories of his former lover.

The captivating picture of their past romance takes us on a delightful trip as he gently expresses his longing for this lost love.

Indeed, this masterpiece is a breath of fresh air especially for us hopeless romantics!

Short Poems About Ex Lovers for Her

a stunning red haired woman in garden surrounded by flowers

Love, like a wild storm, can both enchant and wound our hearts.

In this collection of short poems about ex lovers, we embark on a poetic journey filled with bittersweet nostalgia, tender reflections, and the ever-present hope for healing and new beginnings.

“Long Ago” by John Cave

Have you forgotten the dear old days
Long, long ago?
When we used to walk in the pleasant ways
Long, long ago?
Have you forgotten the vows we made
Long, long ago?
Under the lime-trees’ dappled shade
Long, long ago?
Have you forgotten the kiss you gave
Long, long ago?
When you were mine, and I your slave
Long, long ago?
You have forgotten, and I would forget
That long ago,
For the waves are dark and the stars are set,
And life has left but vain regret
For long ago.

“The First Meeting” by Christina Rossetti

I wish I could remember that first day,
First hour, first moment of your meeting me,
If bright or dim the season, it might be
Summer or winter for aught I can say;
So unrecorded did it slip away,
So blind was I to see and to foresee,
So dull to mark the budding of my tree
That would not blossom yet for many a May.
If only I could recollect it — such
A day of days! I let it come and go
As traceless as a thaw of bygone snow;
It seemed to mean so little, meant so much;
If only now I could recall that touch,
First touch of hand in hand — did one but know!

“Song” by Phoebe Cary

I see him part the careless throng,
I catch his eager eye;
He hurries towards me where I wait. —
Beat high, my heart, beat high!

I feel the glow upon my cheek,
And all my pulses thrill;
He sees me, passes careless by; —
Be still, my heart, be still!

He takes another hand than mine,
It trembles for his sake;
I see his joy, I feel my doom; —
Break, O my heart-strings, break!

a magical fantasy landscape with glowing river and lights with lily pads in the dark lake at night

“Water Lilies” by Sara Teasdale

If you have forgotten water lilies floating
On a dark lake among mountains in the afternoon shade,
If you have forgotten their wet, sleepy fragrance,
Then you can return and not be afraid.

But if you remember, then turn away forever
To the plains and the prairies where pools are far apart,
There you will not come at dusk on closing water lilies,
And the shadow of mountains will not fall on your heart.

“Let Us Forget” by James Whitcomb Riley

Let us forget. What matters it that we
Once reigned o’er happy realms of long-ago,
And talked of love, and let our voices low,
And ruled for some brief sessions royally?
What if we sung, or laughed, or wept maybe?
It has availed not anything, and so
Let it go by that we may better know
How poor a thing is lost to you and me.
But yesterday I kissed your lips, and yet
Did thrill you not enough to shake the dew
From your drenched lids – and missed, with no regret,
Your kiss shot back, with sharp breaths failing you;
And so, to-day, while our worn eyes are wet
With all this waste of tears, let us forget!

“The Wayfarer” by Sara Teasdale

Love entered in my heart one day,
A sad, unwelcome guest;
But when he begged that he might stay,
I let him wait and rest.
He broke my sleep with sorrowing,
And shook my dreams with tears,
And when my heart was fain to sing,
He stilled its joy with fears.

But now that he has gone his way,
I miss the old sweet pain,
And sometimes in the night I pray
That he may come again.

a romantic woman in a blue lace dress in a flower garden

“Shall We Love Again?” by Roswell Derby

Now, in this world of ours,
We feel of joy and of pain;
Hope makes immortal flow’rs,
And shall our love bloom again?

Is there no realty?
Is our hope but hope alone?
A tow’r of fealty,
Crumbling when our life is done?

It gives a hope, a pain,
I feel a tear rush to the eye;
Say, shall we love again,
When the years have passed us by?

“Rispetto” by Sara Teasdale

Was that his step that sounded on the stair?
Was that his knock I heard upon the door?
I grow so tired I almost cease to care,
And yet I would that he might come once more.

It was the wind I heard, that mocks at me,
The bitter wind that is more cruel than he;
It was the wind that knocked upon the door,
But he will never knock nor enter more.

“To—” by Frances Anne Kemble

When we first met, dark wintry skies were glooming,
And the wild winds sang requiem to the year;
But thou, in all thy beauty’s pride wert blooming,
And my young heart knew hope without a fear.

When we last parted, summer suns were smiling,
And the bright earth her flowery vesture wore;
But thou hadst lost the power of beguiling,
For my wrecked, wearied heart, could hope no more.

a young woman with red lips stands among the branches with yellow flowers

“We Are Severed” by Roswell Derby

Truly, we are severed
Years have passed,
Our hopes are fled,
All is blast
And all is dead;
Yes, truly, we are severed.

“When Love is Over” by Laurence Hope

Only in August my heart was aflame,
Catching the scent of your Wind-stirred hair,
Now, though you spread it to soften my sleep
Through the night, I should hardly care.

Only last August I drank that water
Because it had chanced to cool your hands;
When love is over, how little of love
Even the lover understands!

Sad Poems About Ex Lovers for Her

a blonde woman in a dreamy dark forest

In the realm of heartbreak and lost love, where emotions run deep and wounds are slow to heal, we find solace in the melancholic beauty of sad poems about ex lovers.

With each verse, these poignant expressions of longing and sorrow invite us to explore the complexities of human relationships and the bittersweet nostalgia that accompanies their end.

“Sympathy” by Emily Brontë

There should be no despair for you
While nightly stars are burning;
While evening pours its silent dew,
And sunshine gilds the morning.
There should be no despair—though tears
May flow down like a river:
Are not the best beloved of years
Around your heart for ever?

They weep, you weep, it must be so;
Winds sigh as you are sighing,
And winter sheds its grief in snow
Where Autumn’s leaves are lying:
Yet, these revive, and from their fate
Your fate cannot be parted:
Then, journey on, if not elate,
Still, NEVER broken-hearted!

“Appeal” by Anne Brontë

Oh, I am very weary,
Though tears no longer flow;
My eyes are tired of weeping,
My heart is sick of woe;

My life is very lonely
My days pass heavily,
I’m weary of repining;
Wilt thou not come to me?

Oh, didst thou know my longings
For thee, from day to day,
My hopes, so often blighted,
Thou wouldst not thus delay!

“Parted” by Madame Desbordes-Valmore

Do not write. I am sad, and would my life were o’er.
A summer without thee? Oh, night of starless gloom!
I fold the idle arms that cannot clasp thee more;
To knock at my heart’s door were like knocking on a tomb.
Do not write.

Do not write. We will learn unto ourselves to die.
Ask God, or ask thyself of my love, if thou wouldst know;
But to hear thee calling far away and calling tenderly,
Were to hear the songs of Heaven afar and never hope to go.
Do not write.

Do not write; for I fear thee. I do not dare to think
How thy voice was wont to sound, lest it seem to call anew.
Do not show living water to one who cannot drink;
The writing of a friend is a likeness passing true.
Do not write.

Do not write those sweet words, for I may not read them now;
They would flood my foolish heart with a deceitful bliss.
They are brilliant with thy smile, with thy tenderness aglow;
I could not choose but dream thou hadst sealed them with a kiss.
Do not write.

 a woman in pink flower field with dreamy mist heavenly atmosphere

“Alas!” by Phoebe Cary

Since, if you stood by my side to-day,
Only our hands could meet,
What matter that half the weary world
Lies out between our feet;

That I am here by the lonesome sea.
You by the pleasant Rhine? —
Our hearts were just as far apart
If I held your hand in mine!

Therefore, with never a backward glance,
I leave the past behind;
And standing here by the sea alone,
I give it to the wind.

I give it all to the cruel wind,
And I have no word to say;
Yet, alas! to be as we have been,
And to be as we are to-day!

“A Dream” by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt

I dreamed A dream of you,
Not as you seemed
When you were late unkind,
And blind
To my eyes pleading for a debt long
But touched and true
And all inclined
To tenderest fancies on love’s inmost
How sweet you were to me, and, ah,
how kind
In that dear dream!

I felt
Your lips on mine
Mingle and melt,
And your cheek touch my cheek.
I, weak
With vain desires and askings for a
sign Of love divine,
Found my grief break,
And wept and wept in an unending stream
Of sudden joy set free, yet could not
Dumb in my dream.

I knew
You loved me then,
And I knew too
The bliss of souls in Heaven
New- shriven,
Who look with pity on still sinning men,
And turn again
To be forgiven
In the dear arms of their God holding
And spend themselves in praise from morn till even,
Nor break their dream.

I woke
In my mid bliss
At midnight’s stroke,
And knew you lost and gone.
I called you back to my unfinished kiss.
But only this,
One word of scorn,
You answered me: “‘Twas better loved to seem
Than loved to be, “since all love is
Always a dream.

“After Love” by Sara Teasdale

There is no magic any more,
We meet as other people do,
You work no miracle for me
Nor I for you.

You were the wind and I the sea,
There is no splendor any more,
I have grown listless as the pool
Beside the shore.

But though the pool is safe from storm
And from the tide has found surcease,
It grows more bitter than the sea,
For all its peace.

a romantic woman in a dreamlike autumn forest with falling leaves

“Disenchanted” by Phoebe Cary

The time has come, as I knew it must,
She said, when we should part,
But I ceased to love when I ceased to trust,
And you cannot break my heart.

Nay, I know not even if I am sad,
And it must be for the best,
Since you only take what I thought I had,
And leave to me the rest.

Not all the stars of my hope are set,
Though one is in eclipse;
And I know there is truth in the wide world yet
If it be not on your lips.

And though I have loved you, who can tell
If you ever had been so dear,
But that my heart was prodigal
Of its wealth, and you were near.

I brought each rich and beautiful thing
From my love’s great treasury;
And I thought in myself to make a king
With the robes of royalty.

But you lightly laid my honors down,
And you taught me thus to know,
Not every head can wear the crown,
That the hands of love bestow.

So, take whatever you can from me,
And leave me as you will;
The dear romance and the poesy
Were mine, and I have them still.

I have them still; and even now,
When my fancy has her way,
She can make a king of such as thou,
Or a god of common clay.

“Think No More Of Me” by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt

Think no more of me,
If we needs must part.
Mine was but a heart.
Think no more of me.
Think no more of me.
For love’s sake forget.
Love grows hard which cannot see.
It may wound us yet.

Think no more of me.
Love has had his day.
Nowlove runs away.
Think no more of me.
Think no more of me.
If we loved or not
Hidden is ‘ twixt me and thee,
It were best forgot.

Think no more of me.
We shall need our tears
For the coming years.
Think no more of me.
Think no more of me.
In the world above
Sadder far it were if we
Met and did not love.

“Complaint” by Phoebe Cary

“Though we were parted, or though he had died,”
She said, “I could bear the worst,
If he only had loved me at the last,
As he loved me at the first.

“But woe is me!” said the hapless maid,
“That ever a lover came;
Since he who lit in my heart the fire,
Has failed to tend the flame.

“Ah! why did he pour in my life’s poor cup
A nectar so divine,
If he had no power to fill it up
With a draught as pure and fine?

‘ Why did he give me one holiday,
Then send me back to toil?
Why did he set a lamp in my house,
And leave it lacking oil?

So Why did he plant the rose in my checks
When he knew it could not thrive —
That the dew of kisses, only, keeps
The true blush-rose alive?

“If he tired so soon of the song I sung
In our love’s delicious June,
Why did he set the thoughts of my heart
All to one blessed tune?

“Oh, if he were either true or false,
My torment might have end:
He hath been, for a lover, too unkind;
Too loving for a friend!

“And there is not a soul in all the world
So wretched as mine must be,
For I cannot live on his love,” she said,
“Nor die of his cruelty.”

a lovely lady in a pink floral dress walking in a rose garden

“The Rose” by Phoebe Cary

The sun, who smiles wherever he goes,
Till the flowers all smile again,
Fell in love one day with a bashful rose,
That had been a bud till then.

So he pushed back the folds of the soft green hood
That covered her modest grace,
And kissed her as only the bold sun could,
Till the crimson burned in her face.

But woe for the day when his golden hair
Tangled her heart in a net;
And woe for the night of her dark despair,
When her cheek with tears was wet!

For she loved him as only a young rose could;
And he left her crushed and weak,
Striving in vain with her faded hood
To cover her burning cheek.

“Apology” by Phoebe Cary

Nay, darling, darling, do not frown,
Nor call my words unkind;
For my speech was but an idle jest,
As idle as the wind.

And now that I see your tender heart,
By my thoughtlessness is grieved,
I suffer both for the pain I gave,
And the pain that you received.

For if ever I have a thought of you,
That cold or cruel seems,
I have murdered my peace, and robbed my sleep
Of the joy of its happy dreams.

And when I have brought a cloud of grief
To your sweet face unaware,
Its shadow covers all my sky
With the blackness of despair.

And if in your pillow I have set
But one sharp thorn, alone,
That cruel, careless deed, transplants
A thousand to my own.

I grieve with your grief, I die in your frown,
In your joy alone I live;
And the blow that it pained your heart to feel,
It would break my own to give!

“Seldom” by Roswell Derby

Seldom can one who parted,
Find another who can entwine
And bind the broken hearted.

Seldom’s the act well done
Or the heart made whole again,
But is left to bleed still on.

Seldom is the tender care
Bestowed, Love must have to heal,
But is left to bleed so bare.

Seldom is the heed given,
Love is left too bleak and bare
Love’s wounds must heal in Heaven.

a fairy tale wonderland with a woman in bright glittering dress in the water

“Remember Me” by Roswell Derby

O Love! do not forget the past,
Let not the gulf, so deeply spread,
Our mutual mem’ry o’er cast
Or lay it, true forgotten with the dead.
What be thy lot, oh ! share with me,
The thought of scenes in times of yore?
Though wretched I and blessed thou be,
Couldst thou forget and think of me no more?
What though in flow’ry fields be cast
Thy lot while dwelling here below;
Mine yields now to the northern blast
And marks, for me, a lonely path of woe.
But look beyond a few short years
And see what, by our lots, we save;
The end, will wring, from each, sad tears,
The path, of each, will “lead but to the grave.”

“Friendship After Love” by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

After the fierce midsummer all ablaze
Has burned itself to ashes, and expires
In the intensity of its own fires,
There come the mellow, mild, St. Martin days,
Crowned with the calm of peace, but sad with haze.
So after Love has led us, till he tires
Of his own throes and torments and desires,
Comes large-eyed friendship: with a restful gaze
He beckons us to follow, and across
Cool, verdant vales we wander free from care.
Is it a touch of frost lies in the air?
Why are we haunted with a sense of loss?
We do not wish the pain back, or the heat;
And yet, and yet, these days are incomplete.

Poems About Memories With Your Ex for Her

a romantic couple at night

When we look back on past relationships, memories of our exes often come flooding in, sometimes bittersweet, sometimes amusing.

In this poetry compilation, we embark on a journey through the rollercoaster of emotions, as we reminisce about the moments shared with our former partners, capturing the essence of love, heartbreak, and growth along the way.

“Those Days Have Gone” by John Hartley

Those days have gone, those happy days,
When we two loved to roam,
Beside the rivulet that strays,
Near by my rustic home.
Yes, they have fled, and in the past,
We’ve left them far behind,
Yet dear I hold, those days of old,
When you were true and kind.

You dreamed not then of wealth or fame,
The world was bright and fair,
I seldom knew a grief or game,
That you, too, did not share.
And though I mourn my hapless fate,
In mem’ry’s store I find,
And dearly hold those days of old,
When you were true and kind.

Say, can the wealth you now possess,
Such happiness procure,
As did our youthful pleasures bless,
When both our hearts were pure?
No, – and though wandering apart,
I strive to be resigned;
And dearer hold those days of old,
When you were true and kind.

And if your thoughts should turn to me,
With one pang of regret,
Know that this heart, still beats for thee,
And never will forget;
Those tender links of long ago
Are round my heart entwined,
And dear I hold those days of old,
When you were true and kind.

“Parting” by Charlotte Brontë

There’s no use in weeping,
Though we are condemned to part:
There’s such a thing as keeping
A remembrance in one’s heart:

There’s such a thing as dwelling
On the thought ourselves have nursed,
And with scorn and courage telling
The world to do its worst.

We’ll not let its follies grieve us,
We’ll just take them as they come;
And then every day will leave us
A merry laugh for home.

When we’ve left each friend and brother,
When we’re parted wide and far,
We will think of one another,
As even better than we are.

Every glorious sight above us,
Every pleasant sight beneath,
We’ll connect with those that love us,
Whom we truly love till death!

In the evening, when we’re sitting
By the fire, perchance alone,
Then shall heart with warm heart meeting,
Give responsive tone for tone.

We can burst the bonds which chain us,
Which cold human hands have wrought,
And where none shall dare restrain us
We can meet again, in thought.

So there’s no use in weeping,
Bear a cheerful spirit still;
Never doubt that Fate is keeping
Future good for present ill!

“Parted” by John Cave

Dear Love, whose never-failing power
Makes sunshine of each weary hour,
And tinges every thought of mine
With something sacred and Divine,
Till even in this lonely place
I hear your voice and see your face.

Oh ! think of me when you are sad,
And let that memory make you glad;
For every thought that stirs your breast
Is also by my own possessed.
And every fear that chills me through
Falls vanquished when I think of you.

The very breath of wandering air
That touches me, may stir your hair,
And carry from this lonely sea
A loving kiss to you-from me!
The storm that beats your window-pane
Has my tears mingled with its rain:

Then turn to me, my own love, turn,
Till fancy’s kisses melt and burn,
And that sweet heart you gave to me
Is thrilled with nameless ecstasy;
The heart you gave that I should own
Your whole soul’s love was mine alone.

a romantic lady in red with a rose on her chest

“Last Love” by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

The first flower of the spring is not so fair
Or bright as one the ripe midsummer brings.
The first faint note the forest warbler sings
Is not as rich with feeling, or so rare
As when, full master of his art, the air
Drowns in the liquid sea of song he flings
Like silver spray from beak, and breast, and wings.
The artist’s earliest effort, wrought with care,
The bard’s first ballad, written in his tears,
Set by his later toil, seems poor and tame,
And into nothing dwindles at the test.
So with the passions of maturer years.
Let those who will demand the first fond flame,
Give me the heart’s LAST LOVE, for that is best.

“Spring Rain” by Sara Teasdale

I thought I had forgotten,
But it all came back again
To-night with the first spring thunder
In a rush of rain.

I remembered a darkened doorway
Where we stood while the storm swept by,
Thunder gripping the earth
And lightning scrawled on the sky.

The passing motor busses swayed,
For the street was a river of rain,
Lashed into little golden waves
In the lamp light’s stain.

With the wild spring rain and thunder
My heart was wild and gay;
Your eyes said more to me that night
Than your lips would ever say….

I thought I had forgotten,
But it all came back again
To-night with the first spring thunder
In a rush of rain.

“Love” by William Wetmore Story

When daffodils began to blow,
And apple-blossoms thick to snow
Upon the brown and breaking mould,—
‘T was in the spring, —we kissed and sighed
And loved, and heaven and earth defied,
We were so young and bold.

The fluttering bob-link dropped his song,
The first young swallow curved along,
The daisy stared in sturdy pride,
When, loitering on, we plucked the flowers,
But dared not own those thoughts of ours
Which yet we could not hide.

Tiptoe you bent the lilac spray
And shook its rain of dew away
And reached it to me with a smile:
“Smell that, how full of spring it is”—
‘Tis now as full of memories
As ‘t was of dew erewhile.

Your hand I took, to help you down
The broken wall, from stone to stone,
Across the shallow bubbling brook.
Ah! what a thrill went from that palm,
That would not let my blood be calm,
And through my pulses shook

Often our eyes met as we turned,
And both our cheeks with passion burned,
And both our hearts grew riotous,
Till, as we sat beneath the grove,
kissed you — whispering, “We love “
As thus I do — and thus.

When passion had found utterance,
Our frightened hearts began to glance
Into the Future’s every day;
And how shall we our love conceal,
Or dare our passion to reveal,—
“We are too young,” they’ll say

Alas! we are not now too young,
Yet love to us hath safely clung,
Despite of sorrow, years, and care—
But ah! we have not what we had,
We cannot be so free, so glad,
So foolish as we were.

a mysterious woman standing on a mountain looking at the stars in the night sky

“Last Words” by Emily Brontë

I knew not ’twas so dire a crime
To say the word, “Adieu;”
But this shall be the only time
My lips or heart shall sue.

That wild hill-side, the winter morn,
The gnarled and ancient tree,
If in your breast they waken scorn,
Shall wake the same in me.

I can forget black eyes and brows,
And lips of falsest charm,
If you forget the sacred vows
Those faithless lips could form.

If hard commands can tame your love,
Or strongest walls can hold,
I would not wish to grieve above
A thing so false and cold.

And there are bosoms bound to mine
With links both tried and strong:
And there are eyes whose lightning shine
Has warmed and blest me long:

Those eyes shall make my only day,
Shall set my spirit free,
And chase the foolish thoughts away
That mourn your memory.

“Go Where Glory Waits Thee” by Thomas Moore

Go where glory waits thee,
But, while fame elates thee,
Oh! still remember me.
Whenthe praise thou meetest
To thine ear is sweetest,
Oh! then remember me.
Other arms may press thee,
Dearer friends caress thee,
All the joys that bless thee,
Sweeter far may be;
But when friends are nearest,
And when joys are dearest,
Oh! then remember me!

When, at eve, thou rovesc
By the star thou lovest,
Oh! then remember me.
Think, when home returning,
Bright we’ve seen it burning,
Oh! thus remember me.
Oft as summer closes,
When thine eye reposes
On its ling’ring roses,
Once so loved by thee,
Think of her who wove them,
Her who made thee love them,
Oh! then remember me.

When, around thee dying,
Autumn leaves are lying,
Oh! then remember me.
And, at night, when gazing
On the gay hearth blazing,
Oh! still remember me.
Then should music, stealing
All the soul of feeling,
To thy heart appealing,
Draw one tear from thee;
Then let memory bring thee
Strains I used to sing thee,
Oh! then remember me.

“The Lady To Her Guitar” by Emily Brontë

For him who struck thy foreign string,
I ween this heart has ceased to care;
Then why dost thou such feelings bring
To my sad spirit—old Guitar?

It is as if the warm sunlight
In some deep glen should lingering stay,
When clouds of storm, or shades of night,
Have wrapt the parent orb away.

It is as if the glassy brook
Should image still its willows fair,
Though years ago the woodman’s stroke
Laid low in dust their Dryad-hair.

Even so, Guitar, thy magic tone
Hath moved the tear and waked the sigh:
Hath bid the ancient torrent moan,
Although its very source is dry.

a stunning beauty in a field of crocuses at daylight

“March Crocuses” by Phoebe Cary

O fickle and uncertain March,
How could you have the heart,
To make the tender crocuses
From their beds untimely start?

Those foolish, unsuspecting flowers,
Too credulous to see,
That the sweetest promises of March
Are not May’s certainty.

When you smiled a few short hours ago,
What said your whisper, light,
That made them lift their pretty heads
So hopeful and so bright?

I could not catch a single word,
But I saw your light caress;
And heard your rough voice softened down
To a lover’s tenderness.

O cruel and perfidious month,
It makes me sick and sad,
To think how yesterday your smile
Made all the blossoms glad!

O trustful, unsuspecting flowers,
It breaks my heart to know,
That all your golden heads to-day
Are underneath the snow!

“The Nights Remember” by Sara Teasdale

The days remember and the nights remember
The kingly hours that once you made so great,
Deep in my heart they lie, hidden in their splendor,
Buried like sovereigns in their robes of state.
Let them not wake again, better to lie there,
Wrapped in memories, jeweled and arrayed
Many a ghostly king has waked from death-sleep
And found his crown stolen and his throne decayed.

“The Storm” by Sara Teasdale

I thought of you when I was wakened
By a wind that made me glad and afraid
Of the rushing, pouring sound of the sea
That the great trees made.

One thought in my mind went over and over
While the darkness shook and the leaves were thinned,
I thought it was you who had come to find me,
You were the wind.

a lonesome lovely lady in a red victorian dress walking on a path to the woods in autumn

“The Days That Are No More” by J. F. Simmons

The chilly autumn breeze goes sweeping by,
And soon the forest- trees their leaves will cast,
And these upon the frozen ground will lie,
To rustle in the bitter wintry blast;
The mocking-birds no more their anthems sing,
Nor summer swallows o’er the tree-tops soar;
The russet leaves and withered herbage bring
To memory’s eye ” the days that are no more.”

The mind still lingers on each happy scene
Of other days, and fancy fondly weaves
A garland, which ‘ twould fain keep bright and green,
But fate has browned it like the autumn leaves;
Alas ! that eyes which erst with love- light shone,
The face that once sweet smiles of welcome wore,
Now coldly turn and leave me all alone
With memory of “the days that are no more.”

The cordial grasp, the soft and tender glance,
The loving words that vigor gave to hope,
The sylph-like form that floated through the dance,
To memory’s view come softly looming up;
Come softly, sweetly, yet on gloomy wings,
For all the hopes awakened then are o’er,
And tender recollection only brings
To memory’s view ” the days that are no more.”

Then life seemed bright, with priceless pleasures blest,
And it was sweet to dream the hours away,
To let my soul upon hope’s anchor rest,
And dream of bliss in some near future day;
The skies that floated lightly o’er my head
Their softest, sweetest tints of azure wore,
But now they wear a sombre hue instead,
When memory brings “the days that are no more.”

When come to mind the shattered hopes, which erst
Could make the darkest cloud with brightness beam,
Then vanished, as the shining bubbles burst
Upon the surface of the glassy stream ,
Ah! how the saddened, stricken heart will crave
White wings on which away from earth to soar,
Or rest to find within the dreamless grave,
And there forget “the days that are no more.”

“Thou Wilt Think Of Me, Love” by Susanna Moodie

When these eyes, long dimmed with weeping,
In the silent dust are sleeping;
When above my narrow bed
The breeze shall wave the thistle’s head—
Thou wilt think of me, love!

When the queen of beams and showers
Comes to dress the earth with flowers;
When the days are long and bright,
And the moon shines all the night—
Thou wilt think of me, love!

When the tender corn is springing,
And the merry thrush is singing;
When the swallows come and go,
On light wings flitting to and fro—
Thou wilt think of me, love!

When laughing childhood learns by rote
The cuckoo’s oft-repeated note;
When the meads are fresh and green,
And the hawthorn buds are seen—
Thou wilt think of me, love!

When ‘neath April’s rainbow skies
Violets ope their purple eyes;
When mossy bank and verdant mound
Sweet knots of primroses have crowned—
Thou wilt think of me, love!

When the meadows glitter white,
Like a sheet of silver light;
When blue bells gay and cowslips bloom,
Sweet-scented brier, and golden broom—
Thou wilt think of me, love!

Each bud shall be to thee a token
Of a fond heart reft and broken;
And the month of joy and gladness
Shall but fill thy soul with sadness—
And thou wilt sigh for me, love!

When thou rov’st the woodland bowers,
Thou shalt cull spring’s sweetest flowers,
And shalt strew with bitter weeping
The lonely bed where I am sleeping—
And sadly mourn for me, love!

“Memories” by Madison Julius Cawein

Here where LOVE lies perish’d,
Look not in upon the dead;
Lest the shadowy curtains, shaken
In my Heart’s dark chamber, waken
Ghosts, beneath whose garb of sorrow
Whilom gladness bows his head:
When you come at morn to-morrow,
Look not in upon the dead,
Here where LOVE lies perish’d.

Here where LOVE lies cold interred,
Let no syllable be heard;
Lest the hollow echoes, housing
In my Soul’s deep tomb, arousing
Wake a voice of woe, once laughter
Claimed and clothed in joy’s own word:
When you come at dusk or after,
Let no syllable be heard,
Here where LOVE lies cold interred.