Here are my favorite poems about hurtful love for her categorized:
- Short poems about hurtful love for her
- Deep poems about hurtful love for her
- Poems about hurtful love for her to make him cry
So if you want the best poems about hurtful love for her, then you’re in the right place.
Let’s get into it!
- 29 Painful Poems About Getting Cheated On for Her
- 77 Moving Poems About Missing Your Love for Her
- 45 Deep Poems About Wanting an Ex Back for Her
- 63 Restless Poems About Being Lovesick for Her
Tragic Poems About Hurtful Love For Her
It is within the realm of hurtful love that our souls are tested and our hearts are left shattered.
In this collection of poems, we delve into the raw depths of the human experience, exploring the complexities of love gone wrong.
These verses encapsulate the pain, longing, and bittersweet memories that arise from relationships filled with heartache.
Through poignant words and evocative imagery, these poems offer solace, understanding, and a reminder that even in the midst of heartbreak, there is beauty to be found.
Join us on this emotional journey as we navigate the treacherous terrain of hurtful love and discover the healing power of poetic expression.
Let’s jump right in!
My #1 Favorite Poem About Hurtful Love For Her
“The Silver Bridge” by Elizabeth Akers Allen
The sunset fades along the shore,
And faints behind yon rosy reach of sea
Night falls again, but oh, no more,
No more, no more,
My love returns to me.
The lonely moon builds soft and slow
Her silver bridge across the main,
But him who sleeps the wave below,
Love waits in vain,
Ah no, ah no,
He never comes again!
But while some night beside the sea
I watch, when sunset’s red has ceased to burn,
That silver path, and sigh, “Ah me,
Ah me, ah me,
He never will return!”
If on that bridge of rippling light,
His homeward feet should find their way,
I should not wonder at the sight,
But only say:
“Ah love, my love,
I knew you would not stay!”
Why “The Silver Bridge” Is My Favorite Poem About Hurtful Love For Her
Unrequited love is one of the most painful experiences in life.
What I admire about the poem “The Silver Bridge” is how the poet skillfully combines the beauty of nature with the intense emotions of lost love, creating a narrative that is both lighthearted and less tragic, despite being a sad love story.
This poem portrays the reality of love and relationships, highlighting that not all love stories have fairy tale endings.
However, like the author, let us remain hopeful despite the pain and heartache we may have experienced.
Who knows, on the other side of the bridge, someone may be waiting for us and all we need to do is take that first step towards healing and finding our one true love.
Short Poems About Hurtful Love for Her
Love can be a beautiful and exhilarating experience, but it can also bring immense pain and heartbreak.
In this collection of short poems, we explore the bittersweet realm of hurtful love, where emotions run deep and wounds are etched upon the soul.
Let’s get straight to it!
“He May Go—If He Can” by Frances Sargent Osgood
Let me see him once more, for a moment or two,
Let him tell me himself of his purpose, dear, do;
Let him gaze in these eyes while he lays out his plan
To escape me, and then he may go-if he can.
Let me see him once more, let me give him one smile,
Let me breathe but one word of endearment the while.
I ask but that moment—my life on the man!
Does he think to forget me? He may—if he can.
“Song Of The Night At Daybreak” by Alice Meynell
All my stars forsake me,
And the dawn-winds shake me.
Where shall I betake me?
Whither shall I run
Till the set of sun,
Till the day be done?
To the mountain-mine,
To the boughs o’ the pine,
To the blind man’s eyne,
To a brow that is
Bowed upon the knees,
Sick with memories.
“Parting” by Louise Chandler Moulton
‘Tis you, not I, have chosen. Love, go free!
No cry of mine shall stop you on your way.
I wept above the dead Past yesterday,
Let it lie now where all fair dead things be,
Beneath the waves of Time’s all-whelming sea.
Forget it or remember—come what may—
The time is past when one could bid it stay ;
What boots it any more to you or me?
It was my life—what matter—I am dead,
And if I seem to move or speak, or smile,
If some strange round of being still I tread,
And am not buried, for a little while,
Yet, look you, Love, I am not what I seem,
I died when died my faith in that dear dream.
“A Fantasy” by Arlo Bates
If there were a thousand years
Between my life and me,
And as in an age-dim tome
I might its story see, —
How mystic and sweet and strange,
Like some old tale, would be
The anguish that now I know
In my hopeless love for thee!
“If Love Could Last” by Louise Chandler Moulton
If love could last, I’d spend my all
And think the price was yet too small
To buy his light upon my way,
His cheer whatever might befall.
Were I his slave, or he my thrall,
No terrors could my heart appall;
I’d fear no wreckage or dismay,
If love could last.
Heaven’s lilies grow up white and tall,
But warm within earth’s garden wall—
Withroses red the soft winds play—
Ah, might I gather them to-day!
My hands should never let them fall,
If love could last!
“A Song Of Fleeting Love” by Alice Williams Brotherton
Love has wings as light as a bird,
Guileless he looks, as a dove, ofwrong;
Whatever his song, be it brief or long,
It still has this for an overword:
Love has wings!
Though to-day the truant may stay,
Though he woos and sues and sings,
Only sorrow to maids he brings;
Pout him and flout him, laugh him away:
Love has wings!
Hold your pulses calm, unstirred
Calm and cool as a woodland pool,
Let not his song your heart befool,
List, through it all, for the overword:
Love has wings!
“Unloved” by Rose Hawthorne Lathrop
Paler than the waters white,
Stood the maiden in the shade,
And more silent than the night
Were her lips together laid.
Eyes she hid so long and still
By lids wet with unshed tears,
Hands she loosely clasped at will,
Though her heart was full of fears.
Never, never, nevermore,
May her soul with joy be moved,
Silent, silent, silent, —for
He was silent whom she loved.
“Wild Asters” by Sara Teasdale
In the spring I asked the daisies
If his words were true,
And the clever, clear-eyed daisies
Always knew.
Now the fields are brown and barren,
Bitter autumn blows,
And of all the stupid asters
Not one knows.
“November” by Sara Teasdale
The world is tired, the year is old,
The fading leaves are glad to die,
The wind goes shivering with cold
Where the brown reeds are dry.
Our love is dying like the grass,
And we who kissed grow coldly kind,
Half glad to see our old love pass
Like leaves along the wind.
“When Love Becomes a Stranger” by Elsa Gidlow
When Love becomes a stranger
In the temple he has built
Of remembered nights and days,
When he sighs and turns away
From the altar in the temple
With unreturning feet,
When the candles flicker out
And the magical-sweet incense
Vanishes . . .
Do you think there is grief born
In any god’s heart?
“Love Is A Madness” by Edgar Lee Masters
Love is a madness, love is a fevered dream,
A white soul lost in a field of scarlet flowers,
Love is a search for the lost, the ever vanishing gleam
Of wings, desires and sorrows and haunted hours.
Will the look return to your eyes, the warmth to your hand?
Love is a doubt, an ache, love is a writhing fear.
Love is a potion drunk when the ship puts out from land,
Rudderless, sails at full, and with none to steer.
The end is a shattered lamp, a drunken seraph asleep,
The upturned face of the drowned on a barren beach.
The glare of noon is o’er us, we are ashamed to weep,
The beginning and end of love are devoid of speech.
“Love Lies Bleeding” by Christina Georgina Rossetti
Love that is dead and buried, yesterday
Out of his grave rose up before my face,
No recognition in his look, no trace
Of memory in his eyes dust-dimmed and grey.
While I, remembering, found no word to say,
But felt my quickened heart leap in its place;
Caught afterglow thrown back from long set days,
Caught echoes of all music passed away.
Was this indeed to meet? – I mind me yet
In youth we met when hope and love were quick,
We parted with hope dead, but love alive:
I mind me how we parted then heart sick,
Remembering, loving, hopeless, weak to strive: –
Was this to meet? Not so, we have not met.
“The Flowers And My Love” by Ono no Komachi (Yone Noguchi, Translator)
The flowers and my love,
Passed away under the rain,
While I idly looked upon them:
Where is my yester-love?
“We Pulled a Rose in Summer Time” by Elizabeth Curtis Holman
We pulled a rose in summer time
Beside True Lover’s Gate,
Our lips sent up so sweet a chime,
That twilight lingered late;
Now look how is the year grown old!—
How leafless hedge and tree,—
’Tis said that even love grows cold,
So here is rosemary.
“Doubt and Love” by Libbie C. Baer
“Love lives by faith,” my lover to me said
In earnest tones which loving thought imbue
With grace divine; such sense of honor, few
On earth attain; and by his fervor led,
My hopes to heaven on airy wings had sped;
When I for answer must—as woman e’er do
Needs question love, and say: “can man be true?”
(O, cruel words, had they but been unsaid;)
A changed voice gave to me this cold reply:
With hollow laugh bereft of all delight.
“To question love doth but a doubt imply;
And doubt kills love.” And lo! before my sight
Love died, and hurled from out an angry sky,
Hope bleeding fell upon the pall of night.
“Love is a Flame” by George Marion McClellan
Love is a flame that burns with sacred fire,
And fills the being up with sweet desire;
Yet, once the altar feels love’s fiery breath,
The heart must be a crucible till death.
Say love is life; and say it not amiss,
That love is but a synonym for bliss.
Say what you will of love—in what refrain,
But knows the heart, ‘tis but a word for pain.
“Song of Myself, 29” by Walt Whitman
Blind loving wrestling touch, sheath’d hooded sharp-tooth’d touch!
Did it make you ache so, leaving me?
Parting track’d by arriving, perpetual payment of perpetual loan,
Rich showering rain, and recompense richer afterward.
Sprouts take and accumulate, stand by the curb prolific and vital,
Landscapes projected masculine, full-sized and golden.
“The Wound” by Thomas Hardy
I climbed to the crest,
And, fog-festooned,
The sun lay west
Like a crimson wound:
Like that wound of mine
Of which none knew,
For I’d given no sign
That it pierced me through.
“Summer Morn in New Hampshire” by Claude McKay
All yesterday it poured, and all night long
I could not sleep; the rain unceasing beat
Upon the shingled roof like a weird song,
Upon the grass like running children’s feet.
And down the mountains by the dark cloud kissed,
Like a strange shape in filmy veiling dressed,
Slid slowly, silently, the wraith-like mist,
And nestled soft against the earth’s wet breast.
But lo, there was a miracle at dawn!
The still air stirred at touch of the faint breeze,
The sun a sheet of gold bequeathed the lawn,
The songsters twittered in the rustling trees.
And all things were transfigured in the day,
But me whom radiant beauty could not move;
For you, more wonderful, were far away,
And I was blind with hunger for your love.
“Old Wine” by Margaret Widdemer
If I could lift
My heart but high enough
My heart could fill with love:
But ah, my heart
Too still and heavy stays
Too brimming with old days.
“Sonnet XXVII” by Edna St. Vincent Millay
I know I am but summer to your heart,
And not the full four seasons of the year;
And you must welcome from another part
Such noble moods as are not mine, my dear.
No gracious weight of golden fruits to sell
Have I, nor any wise and wintry thing;
And I have loved you all too long and well
To carry still the high sweet breast of Spring.
Wherefore I say: O love, as summer goes,
I must be gone, steal forth with silent drums,
That you may hail anew the bird and rose
When I come back to you, as summer comes.
Else will you seek, at some not distant time,
Even your summer in another clime.
“Opal” by Amy Lowell
You are ice and fire,
The touch of you burns my hands like snow.
You are cold and flame.
You are the crimson of amaryllis,
The silver of moon-touched magnolias.
When I am with you,
My heart is a frozen pond
Gleaming with agitated torches.
Deep Poems About Hurtful Love for Her
Loving someone can sometimes lead us down a path of pain and heartache.
In this compilation of deep poems, we explore the intricate and bittersweet journey of a hurtful love, where the sting of longing intertwines with the beauty of poetic expression.
Keep reading!
“Helpless” by Phoebe Cary
You never said a word to me
That was cruel under the sun;
It is n’t the things you do, darling,
But the things you leave undone.
If you could know a wish or want,
You would grant it joyfully;
Ah! that is the worst of all, darling,
That you cannot know nor see.
For favors free alone are sweet,
Not those that we must seek;
Ifyou loved me as I love you, darling,
I would not need to speak.
But to-day I am helpless as a child
That must be led along;
Then put your hand in mine, darling,
And make me brave and strong!
There’s a heavy care upon my mind,
A trouble on my brain;
Now gently stroke my hair, darling,
And take away the pain.
I feel a weight within my breast,
As if all had gone amiss;
Oh, kiss me with thy lips, darling,
And fill my heart with bliss!
Enough! no deeper joy than this
For souls below is given;
Nowtake me in your arms, darling,
And lift me up to heaven!
“After A Parting” by Alice Meynell
Farewell has long been said; I have forgone thee;
I never name thee even.
But how shall I learn virtues and yet shun thee?
For thou art so near Heaven
That heavenward meditations pause upon thee.
Thou dost beset the path to every shrine;
My trembling thoughts discern
Thy goodness in the good for which I pine;
And if I turn from but one sin, I turn
Unto a smile of thine.
How shall I thrust thee apart
Since all my growth tends to thee night and day—
To thee faith, hope, and art?
Swift are the currents setting all one way;
They draw my life, my life, out of my heart.
“Contrasts” by Madison Julius Cawein
No eve of summer ever can attain
The gladness of that eve of late July,
When ’mid the roses, dripping with the rain,
Against the wondrous topaz of the sky,
I met you, leaning on the pasture bars,—
While heaven and earth grew conscious of the stars.
No night of blackest winter can repeat
The bitterness of that December night,
When, at your gate, gray-glittering with sleet,
Within the glimmering square of window-light,
We parted,—long you clung unto my arm,—
While heaven and earth surrendered to the storm.
“Recollection” by Joaquin Miller
Some things are sooner marred than made,
The moon was white, the stars a-chill—
A frost fell on a soul that night,
And lips were whiter, colder still.
A soul was black that erst was white,
And you forget the place—the night!
Forget that aught was done or said—
Say this has passed a long decade—
Say not a single tear was shed—
Say you forget these little things!
Is not your recollection loath?
Well, little bees have little stings,
And I remember for us both.
“Disarmed” by Laura C. Redden
Love, so sweet at first,
So bitter in the end!
Thou canst be fiercest foe
As well as fairest friend.
Are these poor withered leaves
The fruitage of thy May?
Thou that wert strong to save,
How swift thou art to slay.
Ay, thou art swift to slay,
Despite thy kiss and clasp,
Thy long, caressing look,
Thy subtle, thrilling grasp!
Ay, swifter far to slay
Than thou art strong to save,
And selfish in thy need,
And cruel as the grave.
Yes, cruel as the grave.
Go, go, and come no more!
But canst thou set my heart
Just where it was before?
Go, go, and come no more!
Go, leave me with thy tears,
The only gift of thine
That shall outlive the years.
Yet shall outlive the years
One other cherished thing,
Light as a vagrant plume
Shed from some passing wing:
The memory of thy first
Divine, half-timid kiss,
Go! I forgive thee all
In weeping over this!
“Now And Then” by Louise Chandler Moulton
And had you loved me then, my dear,
And had you loved me there,
When still the sun was in the east,
And hope was in the air,—
When all the birds sang, in the dawn,
And I but sang to you, —
And had you loved me then, my dear,
And had you then been true!
But oh! The day wore on, my dear,
And when the noon grew hot,
The drowsy bird forgot to sing,
And you and I
To talk of love, or live for faith,
Or build ourselves a nest.
And now our hearts are shelterless,
Our sun is in the west.
“Evasion” by Madison Julius Cawein
I
Why do I love you, who have never given
My heart encouragement or any cause?
Is it because, as earth is held of heaven,
Your soul holds mine by some mysterious laws?
Perhaps, unseen of me, within your eyes
The answer lies.
II
From your sweet lips no word hath ever fallen
To tell my heart its love is not in vain—
The bee that woos the flow’r hath honey and pollen
To cheer him on and bring him back again:
But what have I, your other friends above,
To feed my love?
III
Still, still you are my dream and my desire;
Your love is an allurement and a dare
Set for attainment, like a shining spire,
Far, far above me in the starry air:
And gazing upward, ’gainst the hope of hope,
I breast the slope.
“If Love Should Come Again” by Bayard Taylor
If Love should come again, I ask my heart,
In tender tremors, not unmixed with pain,
Couldst thou be calm, nor feel thy ancient smart,
If Love should come again?
Couldst thou unbar the chambers where his nest
So long was made, and made, alas! in vain,
Nor with embarrassed welcome chill the guest,
If Love should come again?
Would Love his ruined quarters recognize
Where shrouded pictures of the past remain,
And gently turn them with forgiving eyes,
If Love should come again?
Would bliss, in milder type, spring up anew,
As silent craters with the scarlet stain
Of flowers repeat the lava’s ancient hue,
If Love should come again?
Would Fate, relenting, sheathe the cruel blade
Whereby the angel of thy youth was slain,
That thou might’st all possess him, unafraid,
If Love should come again?
In vain I ask. My heart makes no reply,
But echoes evermore the sweet refrain,
Till, trembling lest it seem a wish, I sigh,
If Love should come again!
“Twelve Hours Apart” by Sallie M. B. Platt
He loved me. But he loved, likewise,
This morning’s world in bloom and wings;
Ah, does he love the world that lies
In dampness, whispering shadowy things,
Under this little band of noon?
He loves me. Will he fail to see
A phantom hand has touched my hair,
( And wavered, withering, over me)
To leave a subtle grayness there,
Below the outer shine of June?
He loves me. Would he call it fair,
The flushed half-flower he left me, say?
For it has passed beneath the glare
And from my bosom drops away,
Shaken into the grass with pain?
He loves me? Well, I do not know,
A song in plumage crossed the hill
At sunrise when I felt him go
And song and plumage now are still,
He could not praise the bird again.
He loves me? Veiled in mist I stand,
My veins less high with life than when
To-day’s thin dew was in the land,
Vaguely less beautiful than then
Myself a dimness with the dim.
He loves me? I am faint with fear,
He never saw me quite so old;
I never met him quite so near
My grave, nor quite so pale and cold,
-Nor quite so sweet, he says, to him!
“Estranged” by Kate Vannah
Do you think, dear Love, if we had known
That, ere another year had flown,
We should have drifted far apart,
We who for years claspt heart to heart,
Do you think we had been more tender?
Ah! to think this is your natal day,
And I so near, yet miles away?
Why, I could reach you in one short hour,
Yet dare not send you even a flower,
Not even forget-me-nots!
And I used to know your heart so well
That I could look in your eyes and tell
All that was there; but now, to-day,
If we should meet, you would turn away,
Not letting me see your eyes.
Oh! If you’d look just once again.
What should I find there, hate or pain,
Love or longing, or coldness, dear,
Or-how my heart leaps to dream it—a tear
Calling me back again?
“Love Is Dead” by William S. Lord
Moan, ye winds, moan, oh moan,
(Fog o’ th’ fen and salt o’ th’ sea)
Toss ye the trees till they groan,
(Fog o’ th’ fen and salt o’ th’ sea)
Love is dead,
Tears are shed,
Hope has fled;
Dole ye a dirge with me.
Where have they buried him, wind;
(Fog o’ th’ fen and salt o’ th’ sea)
Search through the world till ye find,
(Fog o’ th’ fen and salt o’ th’ sea)
Now quick and now slow.
Above and below,
Away let us go!
Where he is buried lay me.
Gone is the sweet o’ th’ rose,
(Fog o’ th’ fen and salt o’ th’ sea)
Where it is he only knows,
(Fog o’ th’ fen and salt o’ th’ sea)
The skies are not blue,
Nor sparkles the dew,
All hearts are untrue
Naught but the salt o’ th’ sea!
“Into The Dark” by Jessie F. O’Donnell
I gaze into the dark, O Love!
I gaze into the dark,
The creeping shadows chill me ; and the Night,
With wide-outreaching arms, holds thee afar.
O yearning eyes! Your love, ‘midst wondrous light
Morefair than falls from moon-ray orfrom star,
Smiles out into the dark.
I reach into the dark, O Love!
I reach into the dark.
I cannot find thee; and my groping hands
Touch only memories and phantom shapes.
O empty arms! Be glad of those sweet lands
Wherein your love all loneliness escapes,
And smiles into the dark.
I call into the dark, O Love!
I call into the dark.
There comes from out the hush below, above,
No answer but my own quick-fluttered breath.
O doubting heart! Dost thou not know thy love,
Across the awful silentness of death,
Smiles at thee through the dark?
“Gitanjali 41” by Rabindranath Tagore
Where dost thou stand behind them all, my lover, hiding thyself in the shadows?
They push thee and pass thee by on the dusty road, taking thee for naught. I wait here weary hours spreading my offerings for thee, while passers by come and take my flowers, one by one, and my basket is nearly empty.
The morning time is past, and the noon. In the shade of evening my eyes are drowsy with sleep. Men going home glance at me and smile and fill me with shame. I sit like a beggar maid, drawing my skirt over my face, and when they ask me, what it is I want, I drop my eyes and answer them not.
Oh, how, indeed, could I tell them that for thee I wait, and that thou hast promised to come. How could I utter for shame that I keep for my dowry this poverty. Ah, I hug this pride in the secret of my heart.
I sit on the grass and gaze upon the sky and dream of the sudden splendour of thy coming—all the lights ablaze, golden pennons flying over thy car, and they at the roadside standing agape, when they see thee come down from thy seat to raise me from the dust, and set at thy side this ragged beggar girl a-tremble with shame and pride, like a creeper in a summer breeze.
But time glides on and still no sound of the wheels of thy chariot. Many a procession passes by with noise and shouts and glamour of glory. Is it only thou who wouldst stand in the shadow silent behind them all? And only I who would wait and weep and wear out my heart in vain longing?
“Apparition” by Stéphane Mallarmé (Wilfrid Thorley, Translator)
The moon grew sad, and weeping seraphim,
Musing among the vaporous flowers aswim,
With slow bows from the sobbing viols drew
White tears that sank in their corónals blue.
It was the blesséd day of your first kiss.
My reverie, eager with new miseries,
Was all a-swoon with perfume of shy grief
That leaves the heart to gather its own sheaf,
And frets not, nor yet sickens of its prize.
I wandered, and the worn way held my eyes
When in the street I saw your sun-girt hair
And you all smiling in the twilit air.
I took you for that elf who, crowned with beams,
Once passed before me in my childish dreams,
And shed white posies of sweet-smelling flow’rs
Star-like for tiny hands in snowy show’rs.
“Change on Change” by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
I
Three months ago, the stream did flow,
The lilies bloomed along the edge;
And we were lingering to and fro,—
Where none will track thee in this snow,
Along the stream, beside the hedge.
Ah! sweet, be free to come and go;
For if I do not hear thy foot,
The frozen river is as mute,—
The flowers have dried down to the root;
And why, since these be changed since May,
Shouldst thou change less than they?
II
And slow, slow as the winter snow,
The tears have drifted to mine eyes;
And my two cheeks, three months ago,
Set blushing at thy praises so,
Put paleness on for a disguise.
Ah! sweet, be free to praise and go;
For if my face is turned to pale,
It was thine oath that first did fail,—
It was thy love proved false and frail!
And why, since these be changed, I trow,
Should I change less than thou?
“For Who?” by Mary Weston Fordham
When the heavens with stars are gleaming
Like a diadem of light,
And the moon’s pale rays are streaming,
Decking earth with radiance bright;
When the autumn’s winds are sighing,
O’er the hill and o’er the lea,
When the summer time is dying,
Wanderer, wilt thou think of me?
When thy life is crowned with gladness,
And thy home with love is blest,
Not one brow o’ercast with sadness,
Not one bosom of unrest—
When at eventide reclining,
At thy hearthstone gay and free,
Think of one whose life is pining,
Breathe thou, love, a prayer for me.
Should dark sorrows make thee languish,
Cause thy cheek to lose its hue,
In the hour of deepest anguish,
Darling, then I’ll grieve with you.
Though the night be dark and dreary,
And it seemeth long to thee,
I would whisper, “be not weary;”
I would pray love, then, for thee.
Well I know that in the future,
I may cherish naught of earth;
Well I know that love needs nurture,
And it is of heavenly birth.
But though ocean waves may sever
I from thee, and thee from me,
Still this constant heart will never,
Never cease to think of thee.
“Desert Pools” by Sara Teasdale
I love too much; I am a river
Surging with spring that seeks the sea,
I am too generous a giver,
Love will not stoop to drink of me.
His feet will turn to desert places
Shadowless, reft of rain and dew,
Where stars stare down with sharpened faces
From heavens pitilessly blue.
And there at midnight sick with faring
He will stoop down in his desire
To slake the thirst grown past all bearing
In stagnant water keen as fire.
“The Captive Dove” by Anne Brontë
Poor restless dove, I pity thee;
And when I hear thy plaintive moan,
I mourn for thy captivity,
And in thy woes forget mine own.
To see thee stand prepared to fly,
And flap those useless wings of thine,
And gaze into the distant sky,
Would melt a harder heart than mine.
In vain—in vain! Thou canst not rise
Thy prison roof confines thee there;
Its slender wires delude thine eyes,
And quench thy longings with despair.
Oh, thou wert made to wander free
In sunny mead and shady grove,
And far beyond the rolling sea,
In distant climes, at will to rove!
Yet, hadst thou but one gentle mate
Thy little drooping heart to cheer,
And share with thee thy captive state,
Thou couldst be happy even there.
Yes, even there, if, listening by,
One faithful dear companion stood,
While gazing on her full bright eye,
Thou might’st forget thy native wood.
But thou, poor solitary dove,
Must make, unheard, thy joyless moan;
The heart that Nature formed to love
Must pine, neglected, and alone.
Poems About Hurtful Love for Her to Make Him Cry
Love, a double-edged sword that can bring joy and pain, has inspired countless poets to delve into the depths of hurtful love.
Together let’s explore the bittersweet beauty of a love that inflicts pain, compelling even the strongest souls to shed tears of longing and regret.
Let’s go!
“At Midnight” by Louise Chandler Moulton
The room is cold and dark to-night
The fire is low;
Why come you, you who love the light,
To mock me so?
I pray you leave me now alone;
You worked your will,
And turned my heart to frozen stone;
Why haunt me still?
I got me to this empty place;
I shut the door;
Yet through the dark I see your face
Just as of yore.
The old smile curves your lips to- night.
Your deep eyes glow
With that old gleam that made them bright
So long ago.
I listen; do I hear your tone
The silence thrill?
Why come you? I am alone,
Why vex me still?
What! Would you that we re-embrace—
We two once more?
Are these your tears that wet my face
Just as before?
You let me seek some new delight,
Yet your tears flow.
What sorrow brings you back to- night?
Shall I not know?
I will not let you grieve alone
The night is chill
Though love is dead and hope is flown
Pity lives still.
How silent is the empty space!
Dreamed I once more?
Henceforth against your haunting face
I bar the door.
“Renouncement” by Alice Meynell
I must not think of thee; and, tired yet strong,
I shun the thought that lurks in all delight—
The thought of thee—and in the blue Heaven’s height,
And in the sweetest passage of a song.
Oh, just beyond the fairest thoughts that throng
This breast, the thought of thee waits, hidden yet bright;
But it must never, never come in sight;
I must stop short of thee the whole day long.
But when sleep comes to close each difficult day,
When night gives pause to the long watch I keep,
And all my bonds I needs must loose apart,
Must doff my will as raiment laid away,—
With the first dream that comes with the first sleep
I run, I run, I am gathered to thy heart.
“Memories” by Madison Julius Cawein
Here where Love lies perishéd,
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 perishéd.
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.
“Her First Sorrow” by Ameen Rihani
’T is but a score of hours when he didst swear
My sorrow and my joy to share.
Despite the fates, fore’er;
But now he’s gone to cash again his lie;
Others his shame with me will wear,
Why should I die?
Last night his lips my very feet didst burn;
His kisses dropt, my love to earn,
Whichever way he’d turn;
But now he’s gone another soul to rob,
Another heart to lure and spurn,
Why should I sob?
He did not kiss me when he said good-bye;
I let him go, not asking why,
Nor do I for him sigh;
He’s gone another virgin breast to tear.
He’s gone on other lips to die,
Why should I care?
“Remorse” by John Hay
Sad is the light of sunniest days
Of love and rapture perished,
And shine through memory’s tearful haze,
The eyes once fondliest cherished.
Reproachful is the ghost of toys
That charmed while life was wasted,
But saddest is the thought of joys
That never yet were tasted.
Sad is the vague and tender dream
Ofdead love’s lingering kisses,
To crushed hearts haloed by the gleam
Of unreturning blisses,
Deep mourns the soul in anguished pride
For the pitiless death that won them,
But the saddest wail is for lips that died
With the virgin dew upon them.
“La Vie C’est La Vie” by Jessie Redmon Fauset
On summer afternoons I sit
Quiescent by you in the park
And idly watch the sunbeams gild
And tint the ash-trees’ bark.
Or else I watch the squirrels frisk
And chaffer in the grassy lane;
And all the while I mark your voice
Breaking with love and pain.
I know a woman who would give
Her chance of heaven to take my place;
To see the love-light in your eyes,
The love-glow on your face!
And there’s a man whose lightest word
Can set my chilly blood afire;
Fulfillment of his least behest
Defines my life’s desire.
But he will none of me, nor I
Of you. Nor you of her. ’Tis said
The world is full of jests like these.—
I wish that I were dead.
“The End” by Anne Reeves Aldrich
Do you recall that little room
Close blinded from the searching sun,
So dim, my blossoms dreamed of dusk;
And shut their petals one by one?
—And then a certain crimson eve,
The death of day upon the tide;
How all its blood spread on the waves,
And stained its waters far and wide.
Ah, you forget;
But I remember yet.
When I awake in middle night,
And stretch warm hands to touch your face,
There is no chance that I shall find
Aught but your chill and empty place.
I have no bitter word to say,
The Past is worth this anguish sore,
—But mouth to mouth, and heart to heart,
No more on earth, O God, no more!
For Love is dead,
Would ‘ t were I, instead.
“Finale” by Madison Julius Cawein
So let it be. Thou dare not say ’t was I!—
Here in life’s temple, where thy soul can see,
Look where the beauty of our love doth lie,
Shattered in shards, a dead divinity!—
Approach: kneel down: yea, render up one sigh!
This is the end. What need to tell it thee!
So let it be.
So let it be. Care, who hath stood with him,
And sorrow, who sat by him deified,—
For whom his face made comfort,—lo! how dim
They heap his altar which they can not hide,
While memory’s lamp swings o’er it, burning slim.—
This is the end. What shall be said beside?
So let it be.
So let it be. Did we not drain the wine,
Red, of love’s sacramental chalice, when
He laid sweet sanction on thy lips and mine?
Dash it aside! Lo, who will fill again
Now it is empty of the god divine!—
This is the end. Yea, let us say Amen.
So let it be.
“The Wild Swans” by Li Qingzhao (Judith Gautier & James Whitall, Translators)
Before daybreak the breezes whisper
through the trellis at my window;
they interrupt and carry off my dream,
and he of whom I dreamed
vanishes from me.
I climb upstairs
to look from the topmost window,
but with whom? . . .
I remember how I used to stir the fire
with my hairpin of jade
as I am doing now . . .
but the brasier holds nothing but ashes.
I turn to look at the mountain;
there is a thick mist,
a dismal rain,
and I gaze down at the wind-dappled river,
the river that flows past me forever
without bearing away my sorrow.
I have kept the rain of my tears
on the crape of my tunic;
with a gesture I fling these bitter drops
to the wild swans on the river,
that they may be my messengers.
“In Autumn” by Alice Meynell
The leaves are many under my feet,
And drift one way.
Their scent of death is weary and sweet.
A flight of them is in the grey
Where sky and forest meet.
The low winds moan for dead sweet years;
The birds sing all for pain,
Of a common thing, to weary ears,—
Only a summer’s fate of rain,
And a woman’s fate of tears.
I walk to love and life alone
Over these mournful places,
Across the summer overthrown,
The dead joys of these silent faces,
To claim my own.
I know his heart has beat to bright
Sweet loves gone by.
I know the leaves that die to-night
Once budded to the sky,
And I shall die from his delight.
O leaves, so quietly ending now,
You have heard cuckoos sing.
And I will grow upon my bough
If only for a Spring,
And fall when the rain is on my brow.
O tell me, tell me ere you die,
Is it worth the pain?
You bloomed so fair, you waved so high;
Now that the sad days wane,
Are you repenting where you lie?
I lie amongst you, and I kiss
Your fragrance mouldering.
O dead delights, is it such bliss,
That tuneful Spring?
Is love so sweet, that comes to this?
O dying blisses of the year,
I hear the young lambs bleat,
The clamouring birds i’ the copse I hear,
I hear the waving wheat,
Together laid on a dead-leaf bier.
Kiss me again as I kiss you;
Kiss me again;
For all your tuneful nights of dew,
In this your time of rain,
For all your kisses when Spring was new.
You will not, broken hearts; let be.
I pass across your death
To a golden summer you shall not see,
And in your dying breath
There is no benison for me.
There is an autumn yet to wane,
There are leaves yet to fall,
Which, when I kiss, may kiss again,
And, pitied, pity me all for all,
And love me in mist and rain.
“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!
“To One In Paradise” by Edgar Allan Poe
Thou wast that all to me, love,
For which my soul did pine—
A green isle in the sea, love,
A fountain and a shrine.
All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers,
And all the fruits were mine.
Ah, dream too bright to last!
Ah, starry hopes that didst arise
But to be overcast!
A voice from out the future cries,
“On! on! “—but o’er the past
(Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies,
Mute, motionless, aghast!
For alas! alas! with me
The light of life is o’er!
No more—no more—no more
(Such language holds the solemn sea
To the sands upon the shore),
Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree,
Or the stricken eagle soar!
And all my days are trances,
And all my nightly dreams
Are where thy dark eye glances,
And where thy footstep gleams.
In what ethereal dances,
By what ethereal streams!
“Love’s Secret” by William Blake
Never seek to tell thy love,
Love that never told can be;
For the gentle wind does move
Silently, invisibly.
I told my love, I told my love,
I told her all my heart;
Trembling, cold, in ghastly fears,
Ah! she did depart!
Soon as she was gone from me,
A traveler came by,
Silently, invisibly
He took her with a sigh.
“Conclusion” by Madison Julius Cawein
The songs Love sang to us are dead:
Yet shall he sing to us again,
When the dull days are wrapped in lead,
And the red woodland drips with rain.
The lily of our love is gone,
That graced our spring with golden scent:
Now in the garden low upon
The wind-stripped way its stalk is bent.
Our rose of dreams is passed away,
That lit our summer with sweet fire:
The storm beats bare each thorny spray,
And its dead leaves are trod in mire.
The songs Love sang to us are dead:
Yet shall he sing to us again,
When the dull days are wrapped in lead,
And the red woodland drips with rain.
The marigold of memory
Shall fill our autumn then with glow:
Haply its bitterness will be
Sweeter for love of long-ago.
The cypress of forgetfulness
Shall haunt our winter with its hue:
Its apathy to us not less
Dear for the dreams love’s summer knew.
“If” by Frances Hodgson Burnett
If he had known that when her proud, fair face
Turned from him calm and slow,
Beneath its cold indifference had place
A passionate, deep woe.
If he had known that when her hand lay still,
Pulseless so near his own,
It was because pain’s bitter, bitter chill
Changed her to very stone.
If he had known that she had borne so much
For sake of the sweet past,
That mere despair said: “This cold look and touch
Must be the cruel last.”
If he had known her eyes so cold and bright,
Watching the sunset’s red,
Held back within their deeps of purple light
A storm of tears unshed.
If he had known the keenly barbed jest,
With such hard lightness thrown,
Cut through the hot, proud heart within her breast
Before it pierced his own.
If she had known that when her calm glance swept
Him as she passed him by,
His blood was fire , his pulses madly leapt
Beneath her careless eye.
If she had known that when he touched her hand.
And felt it still and cold,
There closed round his wrung heart the iron band
Of misery untold.
If she had known that when her laughter rang
In scorn of sweet past days,
His very soul shook with a deadly pang
Before her light dispraise.
If she had known that every poisoned dart,
If she had understood
That each sunk to the depths of his man’s heart
And drew the burning blood.
If she had known that when in the wide west
The sun sank gold and red,
He whispered bitterly: “‘T is like the rest,
The warmth and light have fled. “
If she had known the longing and the pain,
If she had only guessed, —
One look—one word—and she perhaps had lain
Silent upon his breast.
If she had known how oft when their eyes met,
And his so fiercely shone,
But for man’s shame and pride they had been wet,
Ah! if she had but known!
If they had known the wastes lost love must cross,—
The wastes of unlit lands,—
Ifthey had known what seas of salt tears toss
Between the barren strands,—
If they had known how lost love prays for death
And makes low, ceaseless moan,
Yet never fails his sad, sweet, wearying breath—
Ah! if they had but known.
“Regret” by Mary Elizabeth Blake
Now, that you come no more to me,
O love, how dreary life has grown!
There is no song of bird or bee
That for your silence can atone;
And since I go my ways alone,
There is no light on land or sea.
The fragrant messengers of June—
White jessamine and brier-rose—
Breathe through the golden afternoon
On every wind that comes and goes:
I care for no sweet breath that blows,
The whole world being out oftune.
What is an idle word to make
Such shadow where was sun before?
When others sleep, I watch and wake,
And restless pace my chamber-floor:
Now, that you come to me no more,
O love, it seems my heart must break.
And these are days! How shall it be
If years must drag the lengthening chain
Of sad and bitter memory?
How shall we live our lives again,
With all its sweetness spent in vain?
O love, come back once more to me!
“Through Time And Eternity” by Carlotta Perry
I have done at last with the bitter lie,—
The lie I have lived so many years.
I’ve hated myself that I could not die,
Body as well as soul. What! tears?
Tears and kisses on lip and brow:—
What use are tears and kisses now?
‘T was not so hard. Just a kerchief wet
In the deadly blessing that quiets pain,
And backward the tide of suffering set,
Peace swept over the blood and brain, —
Utter peace, to the finger-tips;
And now these kisses on lids and lips.
Sweet caresses for lips all cold,
And loud laments for perished breath,
For the faded cheek and the hair’s wan gold,
But not a tear for the sadder death
I died that day. How strange the fate
That brings your sorrow all too late!
All these years, with my dead, dead heart
I’ve met the world with smiling eyes:
I feigned sweet life with perfect art.
And the world has respect for well-told lies;
And I fooled the world, -for no one said,
“Behold this woman: she is dead.”
And no one said, as you passed along,
“Behold a murderer.” No one knew:
You carefully covered the cruel wrong:
That the world saw not, was enough for you,
You had wisdom and worldly pride,
And I had silence , -for I had died
The world says now I am dead; but, oh,
Lean down and listen. ‘T is all in vain:
Again in my heart bleeds the cruel blow,
Again I am mad with the old-time pain,
Again the waves of anguish roll, —
For I have met with my murdered soul.
Oh, never to find the peace I crave,
‘T were better to be as I have been.
In the peace of the fleeting years I have
Eternity now to love you in,
Eternity now to feel the blow
Your dear hands gave in the long ago.
“Re-Voyage” by Emily Pauline Johnson
What of the days when we two dreamed together?
Days marvellously fair,
As lightsome as a skyward floating feather
Sailing on summer air—
Summer, summer, that came drifting through
Fate’s hand to me, to you.
What of the days, my dear? I sometimes wonder
If you too wish this sky
Could be the blue we sailed so softly under,
In that sun-kissed July;
Sailed in the warm and yellow afternoon,
With hearts in touch and tune.
Have you no longing to re-live the dreaming,
Adrift in my canoe?
To watch my paddle blade all wet and gleaming
Cleaving the waters through?
To lie wind-blown and wave-caressed, until
Your restless pulse grows still?
Do you not long to listen to the purling
Of foam athwart the keel?
To hear the nearing rapids softly swirling
Among their stones, to feel
The boat’s unsteady tremor as it braves
The wild and snarling waves?
What need of question, what of your replying?
Oh! well I know that you
Would toss the world away to be but lying
Again in my canoe,
In listless indolence entranced and lost,
Wave-rocked, and passion tossed.
Ah me! my paddle failed me in the steering
Across love’s shoreless seas;
All reckless, I had ne’er a thought of fearing
Such dreary days as these.
When through the self-same rapids we dash by,
My lone canoe and I.