37 Greatest Poems about a Cry

Crying helps to heal one’s soul. Sometimes, we all just need to let out a cry, even if we keep it a secret or need someone else; crying mends our broken heart and hope, then lets us continue our lives after it.

These are thirty-seven (37) greatest poems about a cry that you can relate to or feel sympathy towards people who experience these situations. If you are interested to know different consequences people face to weep and cry, these poems are for you.

Keep reading!

A Cry


Lord, hear my discontent: all blank I stand,
A mirror polished by thy hand;
Thy sun’s beams flash and flame from me–
I cannot help it: here I stand, there he!
To one of them I cannot say,
Go, and on yonder water play;
Nor one poor ragged daisy can I fashion–
I do not make the words of this my limping passion!
If I should say, Now I will think a thought,
Lo, I must wait, unknowing
What thought in me is growing,
Until the thing to birth be brought!
Nor know I then what next will come
From out the gulf of silence dumb:
I am the door the thing will find
To pass into the general mind!
I cannot say I think–
I only stand upon the thought-well’s brink:
From darkness to the sun the water bubbles up–
lift it in my cup.
Thou only thinkest–I am thought;
Me and my thought thou thinkest. Nought
Am I but as a fountain spout
From which thy water welleth out.
Thou art the only one, the all in all.–
Yet when my soul on thee doth call
And thou dost answer out of everywhere,
I in thy allness have my perfect share.

George MacDonald

A Cry From An Indian Wife


My forest brave, my Red-skin love, farewell;
We may not meet to-morrow; who can tell
What mighty ills befall our little band,
Or what you’ll suffer from the white man’s hand?
Here is your knife! I thought ’twas sheathed for aye.
No roaming bison calls for it to-day;
No hide of prairie cattle will it maim;
The plains are bare, it seeks a nobler game:
‘Twill drink the life-blood of a soldier host.
Go; rise and strike, no matter what the cost.
Yet stay. Revolt not at the Union Jack,
Nor raise Thy hand against this stripling pack
Of white-faced warriors, marching West to quell
Our fallen tribe that rises to rebel.
They all are young and beautiful and good;
Curse to the war that drinks their harmless blood.
Curse to the fate that brought them from the East
To be our chiefs – to make our nation least
That breathes the air of this vast continent.
Still their new rule and council is well meant.
They but forget we Indians owned the land
From ocean unto ocean; that they stand
Upon a soil that centuries agone
Was our sole kingdom and our right alone.
They never think how they would feel to-day,
If some great nation came from far away,
Wresting their country from their hapless braves,
Giving what they gave us – but wars and graves.
Then go and strike for liberty and life,
And bring back honour to your Indian wife.
Your wife? Ah, what of that, who cares for me?
Who pities my poor love and agony?
What white-robed priest prays for your safety here,
As prayer is said for every volunteer
That swells the ranks that Canada sends out?
Who prays for vict’ry for the Indian scout?
Who prays for our poor nation lying low?
None – therefore take your tomahawk and go.
My heart may break and burn into its core,
But I am strong to bid you go to war.
Yet stay, my heart is not the only one
That grieves the loss of husband and of son;
Think of the mothers o’er the inland seas;
Think of the pale-faced maiden on her knees;
One pleads her God to guard some sweet-faced child
That marches on toward the North-West wild.
The other prays to shield her love from harm,
To strengthen his young, proud uplifted arm.
Ah, how her white face quivers thus to think,
Your tomahawk his life’s best blood will drink.
She never thinks of my wild aching breast,
Nor prays for your dark face and eagle crest
Endangered by a thousand rifle balls,
My heart the target if my warrior falls.
O! coward self I hesitate no more;
Go forth, and win the glories of the war.
Go forth, nor bend to greed of white men’s hands,
By right, by birth we Indians own these lands,
Though starved, crushed, plundered, lies our nation low…
Perhaps the white man’s God has willed it so.

Emily Pauline Johnson

A Cry


Oh, there are eyes that he can see,
And hands to make his hands rejoice,
But to my lover I must be
Only a voice.


Oh, there are breasts to bear his head,
And lips whereon his lips can lie,
But I must be till I am dead
Only a cry.

Sara Teasdale

The Cry


There’s a voice in my heart that cries and cries for tears.
It is not a voice, but a pain of many fears.
It is not a pain, but the rune of far-off spheres.

It may be a demon of pent and high emprise,
That looks on my soul till my soul hides and cries,
Loath to rebuke my soul and bid it arise.

It may be myself as I was in another life,
Fashioned to lead where strife gives way to strife,
Pinioned here in failure by knife thrown after knife.


The child turns o’er in the womb; and perhaps the soul
Nurtures a dream too strong for the soul’s control,
When the dream hath eyes, and senses its destined goal.


Deep in darkness the bulb under mould and clod
Feels the sun in the sky and pushes above the sod;
Perhaps this cry in my heart is nothing but God!

Edgar Lee Masters

The Cry Of A Lost Soul


In that black forest, where, when day is done,
With a snake’s stillness glides the Amazon
Darkly from sunset to the rising sun,


A cry, as of the pained heart of the wood,
The long, despairing moan of solitude
And darkness and the absence of all good,

Startles the traveller, with a sound so drear,
So full of hopeless agony and fear,
His heart stands still and listens like his ear.


The guide, as if he heard a dead-bell toll,
Starts, drops his oar against the gunwale’s thole,
Crosses himself, and whispers, ‘A lost soul!’


‘No, Señor, not a bird. I know it well,
It is the pained soul of some infidel
Or cursed heretic that cries from hell.


‘Poor fool! with hope still mocking his despair,
He wanders, shrieking on the midnight air
For human pity and for Christian prayer.

‘Saints strike him dumb! Our Holy Mother hath
No prayer for him who, sinning unto death,
Burns always in the furnace of God’s wrath!’


Thus to the baptized pagan’s cruel lie,
Lending new horror to that mournful cry,
The voyager listens, making no reply.


Dim burns the boat-lamp: shadows deepen round,
From giant trees with snake-like creepers wound,
And the black water glides without a sound.


But in the traveller’s heart a secret sense
Of nature plastic to benign intents,
And an eternal good in Providence,


Lifts to the starry calm of heaven his eyes;
And lo! rebuking all earth’s ominous cries,
The Cross of pardon lights the tropic skies!


‘Father of all!’ he urges his strong plea,
‘Thou lovest all: Thy erring child may be
Lost to himself, but never lost to Thee!

‘All souls are Thine; the wings of morning bear
None from that Presence which is everywhere,
Nor hell itself can hide, for Thou art there.


‘Through sins of sense, perversities of will,
Through doubt and pain, through guilt and shame and ill,
Thy pitying eye is on Thy creature still.

‘Wilt thou not make, Eternal Source and Goal!
In Thy long years, life’s broken circle whole,
And change to praise the cry of a lost soul?’

John Greenleaf Whittier

The Cry Of The Children


“Theu theu, ti prosderkesthe m ommasin, tekna;”
[Alas, alas, why do you gaze at me with your eyes, my children.]
– Medea.


Do ye hear the children weeping, O my brothers,
Ere the sorrow comes with years?
They are leaning their young heads against their mothers,
And that cannot stop their tears.
The young lambs are bleating in the meadows;
The young birds are chirping in the nest;
The young fawns are playing with the shadows;
The young flowers are blowing toward the west
But the young, young children, O my brothers,
They are weeping bitterly!
They are weeping in the playtime of the others,
In the country of the free.


Do you question the young children in the sorrow,
Why their tears are falling so?
The old man may weep for his to-morrow
Which is lost in Long Ago
The old tree is leafless in the forest
The old year is ending in the frost
The old wound, if stricken, is the sorest
The old hope is hardest to be lost:
But the young, young children, O my brothers,
Do you ask them why they stand
Weeping sore before the bosoms of their mothers,
In our happy Fatherland?


They look up with their pale and sunken faces,
And their looks are sad to see,
For the man’s grief abhorrent, draws and presses
Down the cheeks of infancy
“Your old earth,” they say, “is very dreary;”
“Our young feet,” they say, “are very weak!”
Few paces have we taken, yet are weary
Our grave-rest is very far to seek!
Ask the old why they weep, and not the children,
For the outside earth is cold
And we young ones stand without, in our bewildering,
And the graves are for the old!”


“True,” say the children, “it may happen
That we die before our time!
Little Alice died last year her grave is shapen
Like a snowball, in the rime.
We looked into the pit prepared to take her
Was no room for any work in the close clay:
From the sleep wherein she lieth none will wake her,
Crying, ‘Get up, little Alice! it is day.’
If you listen by that grave, in sun and shower,
With your ear down, little Alice never cries;
Could we see her face, be sure we should not know her,
For the smile has time for growing in her eyes ,
And merry go her moments, lulled and stilled in
The shroud, by the kirk-chime!
It is good when it happens,” say the children,
“That we die before our time!”


Alas, the wretched children! they are seeking
Death in life, as best to have!
They are binding up their hearts away from breaking,
With a cerement from the grave.
Go out, children, from the mine and from the city
Sing out, children, as the little thrushes do
Pluck you handfuls of the meadow-cowslips pretty
Laugh aloud, to feel your fingers let them through!
But they answer, “Are your cowslips of the meadows
Like our weeds anear the mine?
Leave us quiet in the dark of the coal-shadows,
From your pleasures fair and fine!


“For oh,” say the children, “we are weary,
And we cannot run or leap
If we cared for any meadows, it were merely
To drop down in them and sleep.
Our knees tremble sorely in the stooping
We fall upon our faces, trying to go;
And, underneath our heavy eyelids drooping,
The reddest flower would look as pale as snow.
For, all day, we drag our burden tiring,
Through the coal-dark, underground
Or, all day, we drive the wheels of iron
In the factories, round and round.


“For all day, the wheels are droning, turning,
Their wind comes in our faces,
Till our hearts turn, our heads, with pulses burning,
And the walls turn in their places
Turns the sky in the high window blank and reeling
Turns the long light that droppeth down the wall,
Turn the black flies that crawl along the ceiling
All are turning, all the day, and we with all!
And all day, the iron wheels are droning;
And sometimes we could pray,
‘O ye wheels,’ (breaking out in a mad moaning)
‘Stop! be silent for to-day!'”


Ay! be silent! Let them hear each other breathing
For a moment, mouth to mouth
Let them touch each other’s hands, in a fresh wreathing
Of their tender human youth!
Let them feel that this cold metallic motion
Is not all the life God fashions or reveals
Let them prove their inward souls against the notion
That they live in you, or under you, O wheels!
Still, all day, the iron wheels go onward,
As if Fate in each were stark;
And the children’s souls, which God is calling sunward,
Spin on blindly in the dark.


Now tell the poor young children, O my brothers,
To look up to Him and pray
So the blessed One, who blesseth all the others,
Will bless them another day.
They answer, “Who is God that He should hear us,
While the rushing of the iron wheels is stirred?
When we sob aloud, the human creatures near us
Pass by, hearing not, or answer not a word!
And we hear not (for the wheels in their resounding)
Strangers speaking at the door:
Is it likely God, with angels singing round Him,
Hears our weeping any more?


“Two words, indeed, of praying we remember;
And at midnight’s hour of harm,
‘Our Father,’ looking upward in the chamber,
We say softly for a charm.
We know no other words, except ‘Our Father,’
And we think that, in some pause of angels’ song,
God may pluck them with the silence sweet to gather,
And hold both within His right hand which is strong.
‘Our Father!’ If He heard us, He would surely
(For they call Him good and mild)
Answer, smiling down the steep world very purely,
‘Come and rest with me, my child.’


“But, no!” say the children, weeping faster,
“He is speechless as a stone;
And they tell us, of His image is the master
Who commands us to work on.
Go to!” say the children, “up in Heaven,
Dark, wheel-like, turning clouds are all we find!
Do not mock us; grief has made us unbelieving
We look up for God, but tears have made us blind.”
Do ye hear the children weeping and disproving,
O my brothers, what ye preach?
For God’s possible is taught by His world’s loving
And the children doubt of each.

And well may the children weep before you;
They are weary ere they run;
They have never seen the sunshine, nor the glory
Which is brighter than the sun:
They know the grief of man, without its wisdom;
They sink in the despair, without its calm
Are slaves, without the liberty in Christdom,
Are martyrs, by the pang without the palm,
Are worn, as if with age, yet unretrievingly
No dear remembrance keep,
Are orphans of the earthly love and heavenly:
Let them weep! let them weep!


They look up, with their pale and sunken faces,
And their look is dread to see,
For they think you see their angels in their places,
With eyes meant for Deity;
“How long,” they say, “how long, O cruel nation,
Will you stand, to move the world, on a child’s heart,
Stifle down with a mailed heel its palpitation,
And tread onward to your throne amid the mart?
Our blood splashes upward, O our tyrants,
And your purple shews your path;
But the child’s sob curseth deeper in the silence
Than the strong man in his wrath!”

Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Cry Of The Homeless – After The Prussian Invasion Of Belgium


“Instigator of the ruin –
Whichsoever thou mayst be
Of the masterful of Europe
That contrived our misery –
Hear the wormwood-worded greeting
From each city, shore, and lea
Of thy victims:
“Conqueror, all hail to thee!”


“Yea: ‘All hail!’ we grimly shout thee
That wast author, fount, and head
Of these wounds, whoever proven
When our times are throughly read.
‘May thy loved be slighted, blighted,
And forsaken,’ be it said
By thy victims,
‘And thy children beg their bread!’


“Nay: a richer malediction! –
Rather let this thing befall
In time’s hurling and unfurling
On the night when comes thy call;
That compassion dew thy pillow
And bedrench thy senses all
For thy victims,
Till death dark thee with his pall.”


August 1915.

Thomas Hardy

The Cry Of The Karens


Lines written after hearing a returned missionary relate some of the traditions, and speak of the long-cherished hopes of this interesting people.


A voice from the distant East –
A voice from a far-off shore –
A voice from the perishing tribes of Earth
Has wandered the blue seas o’er!
It comes with a lingering cry,
With a wail of anguish and pain, –
“O brothers, – our brothers! – why
Do we look for you still in vain?


“We are weary, – we droop, – we die!
We grope in the deepening gloom!
We look above with despairing eye!
We drop in the yawning tomb!
Our children stretch their hands
Far over the waters blue,
And vainly cry from our darkened lands –
Alas, how long – for you!


“Brothers! do ye not keep
Our law of the olden time,
For which, through ages of woe, we weep
In darkness, and sin, and crime?
There are sails from the distant West
Dotting our waters blue,
And the feet of strangers our shores have pressed,
But they came not, alas, from you!


“We know there’s a God above,
We know there’s a land of rest, –
But there’s naught that whispers of pard’ning love
To our spirits by guilt oppressed!
We call to the earth below, –
To the calm, unanswering heaven, –
But no voice replies to our cry of woe
That can tell us of sins forgiven!


“And yet we look and wait,
With sorrowing hearts and sore,
If haply we may behold, though late,
Your sails from the western shore; –
O, come with that precious word
We lost in the far-off years,
And tell us the voice of woe is heard,
And God has beheld our tears!”

Pamela S. Vining, (J. C. Yule)

The Cry Of The Little Peoples


The Cry of the Little Peoples went up to God in vain;
The Czech and the Pole, and the Finn, and the Schleswig Dane:


We ask but a little portion of the green, ambitious earth;
Only to sow and sing and reap in the land of our birth.


We ask not coaling stations, nor ports in the China seas,
We leave to the big child-nations such rivalries as these.


We have learned the lesson of Time, and we know three things of worth;
Only to sow and sing and reap in the land of our birth.


O leave us little margins, waste ends of land and sea,
A little grass, and a hill or two, and a shadowing tree;


O leave us our little rivers that sweetly catch the sky,
To drive our mills, and to carry our wood, and to ripple by.

Once long ago, as you, with hollow pursuit of fame,
We filled all the shaking world with the sound of our name,


But now are we glad to rest, our battles and boasting done,
Glad just to sow and sing and reap in our share of the sun.


Of this O will ye rob us, – with a foolish mighty hand,
Add with such cruel sorrow, so small a land to your land?


So might a boy rejoice him to conquer a hive of bees,
Overcome ants in battle, – we are scarcely more mighty than these –


So might a cruel heart hear a nightingale singing alone,
And say, “I am mighty! See how the singing stops with a stone!”


Yea, he were mighty indeed, mighty to crush and to gain;
But the bee and the ant and the bird were the mighty of brain.


And what shall you gain if you take us and bind us and beat us with thongs,
And drive us to sing underground in a whisper our sad little songs?


Forbid us the very use of our heart’s own nursery tongue –
Is this to be strong, ye nations, is this to be strong?


Your vulgar battles to fight, and your grocery conquests to keep,
For this shall we break our hearts, for this shall our old men weep?


What gain in the day of battle – to the Russ, to the German, what gain,
The Czech, and the Pole, and the Finn, and the Schleswig Dane?

The Cry of the Little Peoples goes up to God in vain,
For the world is given over to the cruel sons of Cain;


The hand that would bless us is weak, and the hand that would break us is strong,
And the power of pity is nought but the power of a song.


The dreams that our fathers dreamed to-day are laughter and dust,
And nothing at all in the world is left for a man to trust;

Let us hope no more, or dream, or prophesy, or pray,
For the iron world no less will crash on its iron way;


Yea! nothing is left but to watch, with a helpless, pitying eye,
The kind old aims for the world, and the kind old fashions die.

Richard Le Gallienne

The Cry Of The Women


A new year dawning on a warring world!
And many fight, and many pray for peace;
But yet the roar of battle will not cease,
Still man against his brother man is hurled.


So we who wait – we women in our woe,
Who wait and work – who wait, and work, and weep –
For us there is no rest, for us no sleep,
As our sad thoughts are wandering grim and slow,

Across those dreary fields where far away
Our hero myriads bleed and burn and die,
We lift our hearts toward the pitying sky –
Dawns there no hope upon this New Year’s day?


1915

Helen Leah Reed

The Cryer


Good Folke, for Gold or Hyre,
But helpe me to a Cryer;
For my poore Heart is runne astray
After two Eyes, that pass’d this way.
O yes, O yes, O yes,
If there be any Man,
In Towne or Countrey, can
Bring me my Heart againe,
Ile please him for his paine;
And by these Marks I will you show,
That onely I this Heart doe owe.
It is a wounded Heart,
Wherein yet sticks the Dart,
Eu’ry piece sore hurt throughout it,
Faith, and Troth, writ round about it:
It was a tame Heart, and a deare,
And neuer vs’d to roame;
But hauing got this Haunt, I feare
‘Twill hardly stay at home.
For Gods sake, walking by the way,
If you my Heart doe see,
Either impound it for a Stray,
Or send it backe to me.

Michael Drayton

Crying Scene


If you’re going to drop the gauntlet
at least put on the dress
of a full warrior –
paint, rouge, lipstick,
sheer stockings and
enough powder to smother
a savage;
then form a straight line
and chant the litany
(wise aboriginals never forgive, you know)
and a good poundmaker is so adept
at keeping score.

Paul Cameron Brown

Tired with all these, for restful death I cry (Sonnet 66)


Tired with all these, for restful death I cry,
As to behold desert a beggar born,
And needy nothing trimm’d in jollity,
And purest faith unhappily forsworn,
And gilded honour shamefully misplac’d,
And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted,
And right perfection wrongfully disgrac’d,
And strength by limping sway disabled
And art made tongue-tied by authority,
And folly—doctor-like—controlling skill,
And simple truth miscall’d simplicity,
And captive good attending captain ill:
Tir’d with all these, from these would I be gone,
Save that, to die, I leave my love alone.

William Shakespeare

An Evening Thought: Salvation by Christ, with Penitential Cries


Salvation comes by Christ alone,
The only Son of God;
Redemption now to every one,
That love his holy Word.


Dear Jesus, we would fly to Thee,
And leave off every Sin,
Thy tender Mercy well agree;
Salvation from our King.


Salvation comes now from the Lord,
Our victorious King.
His holy Name be well ador’d,
Salvation surely bring.


Dear Jesus, give thy Spirit now,
Thy Grace to every Nation,
That han’t the Lord to whom we bow,
The Author of Salvation.


Dear Jesus, unto Thee we cry,
Give us the Preparation;
Turn not away thy tender Eye;
We seek thy true Salvation.


Salvation comes from God we know,
The true and only One;
It’s well agreed and certain true,
He gave his only Son.


Lord, hear our penetential Cry:
Salvation from above;
It is the Lord that doth supply,
With his Redeeming Love.


Dear Jesus, by thy precious Blood,
The World Redemption have:
Salvation now comes from the Lord,
He being thy captive slave.


Dear Jesus, let the Nations cry,
And all the People say,
Salvation comes from Christ on high,
Haste on Tribunal Day.

We cry as Sinners to the Lord,
Salvation to obtain;
It is firmly fixed, his holy Word,
Ye shall not cry in vain.


Dear Jesus, unto Thee we cry,
And make our Lamentation:
O let our Prayers ascend on high;
We felt thy Salvation.


Lord, turn our dark benighted Souls;
Give us a true Motion,
And let the Hearts of all the World,
Make Christ their Salvation.


Ten Thousand Angels cry to Thee,
Yea, louder than the Ocean.
Thou art the Lord, we plainly see;
Thou art the true Salvation.


Now is the Day, excepted Time;
The Day of the Salvation;
Increase your Faith, do not repine:
Awake ye, every Nation.


Lord, unto whom now shall we go,
Or seek a safe abode?
Thou has the Word Salvation Too,
The only Son of God.


Ho! every one that hunger hath,
Or pineth after me,
Salvation be thy leading Staff,
To set the Sinner free.


Dear Jesus, unto Thee we fly;
Depart, depart from Sin,
Salvation doth at length supply,
The Glory of our King.


Come, ye Blessed of the Lord,
Salvation greatly given;
O turn your Hearts, accept the Word,
Your Souls are fit for Heaven.


Dear Jesus, we now turn to Thee,
Salvation to obtain;
Our Hearts and Souls do meet again,
To magnify thy Name.

Come, Holy Spirit, Heavenly Dove,
The Object of our Care;
Salvation doth increase our Love;
Our Hearts hath felt they fear.


Now Glory be to God on High,
Salvation high and low;
And thus the Soul on Christ rely,
To Heaven surely go.


Come, Blessed Jesus, Heavenly Dove,
Accept Repentance here;
Salvation give, with tender Love;
Let us with Angels share. Finis.

Jupiter Hammon

The Sorrow of Love


The quarrel of the sparrows in the eaves,
The full round moon and the star-laden sky,
And the loud song of the ever-singing leaves,
Had hid away earth’s old and weary cry.

And then you came with those red mournful lips,
And with you came the whole of the world’s tears,
And all the sorrows of her labouring ships,
And all the burden of her myriad years.


And now the sparrows warring in the eaves,
The curd-pale moon, the white stars in the sky,
And the loud chaunting of the unquiet leaves
Are shaken with earth’s old and weary cry.

W. B. Yeats

Tempest, Act V, Scene I [Where the bee sucks, there suck I]


Ariel sings


Where the bee sucks, there suck I:
In a cowslip’s bell I lie;
There I couch when owls do cry.
On the bat’s back I do fly
After summer merrily.
Merrily, merrily shall I live now
Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.

William Shakespeare

The Empty Cup


Evening at Occoquan. Rain pelts the workhouse roof.
The prison matrons are sewing together for the Red Cross
The women prisoners are going to bed in two long rows.
Some of the suffrage pickets lie reading in the dim light.
Through the dark, above the rain, rings out a cry.
We listen at the windows. (Oh, those cries from punishment cells!)
A voice calls one of us by name.
“Miss Burns! Miss Burns! Will you see that I have a drink of water?”
Lucy Burns arises; slips on the course blue prison gown.
Over it her swinging hair, red-gold, throws a regal mantle.
She begs the night-watch to give the girl water.
One of the matrons leaves her war-bandages; we see her hasten to the cell.
The light in it goes out.
The voice despairing cries:
“She has taken away the cup and she will not bring me water.”
Rain pours on the roof. The suffragists lie awake.
The matrons work busily for the Red Cross.

Katharine Rolston Fisher

The Hill


Breathless, we flung us on the windy hill,
Laughed in the sun, and kissed the lovely grass.
You said, ‘Through glory and ecstasy we pass;
Wind, sun, and earth remain, the birds sing still,
When we are old, are old….’ ‘And when we die
All’s over that is ours; and life burns on
Through other lovers, other lips,’ said I,
‘Heart of my heart, our heaven is now, is won!’


‘We are Earth’s best, that learnt her lesson here.
Life is our cry. We have kept the faith!’ we said;
‘We shall go down with unreluctant tread
Rose-crowned into the darkness!’…Proud we were,
And laughed, that had such brave true things to say.
—And then you suddenly cried, and turned away.

Rupert Brooke

Mystery


Now I am all
One bowl of kisses,
Such as the tall
Slim votaresses
Of Egypt filled
For a God’s excesses.


I lift to you
My bowl of kisses,
And through the temple’s
Blue recesses
Cry out to you
In wild caresses.


And to my lips’
Bright crimson rim
The passion slips,
And down my slim
White body drips
The shining hymn.


And still before
The altar I
Exult the bowl
Brimful, and cry
To you to stoop
And drink, Most High.


Oh drink me up
That I may be
Within your cup
Like a mystery,
Like wine that is still
In ecstasy.


Glimmering still
In ecstasy,
Commingled wines
Of you and me
In one fulfill
The mystery.

D. H. Lawrence

At Night


At night the Universe grows lean, sober-
faced, of intoxication,
The shadow of the half-sphere curtains
down closely against my world, like a
doorless cage, and the stillness chained by
wrinkled darkness strains throughout the Uni-
verse to be free.
Listen, frogs in the pond, (the world is a pond itself)
cry out for the light, for the truth!
The curtains rattle ghostlily along, bloodily biting
my soul, the winds knocking on my cabin door
with their shadowy hands.

Yone Noguchi

The Sun Has Long Been Set


The sun has long been set,
The stars are out by twos and threes,
The little birds are piping yet
Among the bushes and trees;
There’s a cuckoo, and one or two thrushes,
And a far-off wind that rushes,
And a sound of water that gushes,
And the cuckoo’s sovereign cry
Fills all the hollow of the sky.
Who would “go parading”
In London, “and masquerading,”
On such a night of June
With that beautiful soft half-moon,
And all these innocent blisses?
On such a night as this is!

William Wordsworth

Holy Thursday


Is this a holy thing to see
In a rich and fruitful land,
Babes reduced to misery
Fed with cold and usurous hand?


Is that trembling cry a song?
Can it be a song of joy?
And so many children poor?
It is a land of poverty!


And their sun does never shine.
And their fields are bleak & bare.
And their ways are fill’d with thorns.
It is eternal winter there.


For where-e’er the sun does shine,
And where-e’er the rain does fall:
Babe can never hunger there,
Nor poverty the mind appall.

William Blake

Haunted Seas


A gleaming glassy ocean
Under a sky of grey;
A tide that dreams of motion,
Or moves, as the dead may;
A bird that dips and wavers
Over lone waters round,
Then with a cry that quavers
Is gone—a spectral sound.


The brown sad sea-weed drifting
Far from the land, and lost;
The faint warm fog unlifting,
The derelict long tossed,
But now at rest—though haunted
By the death-scenting shark,
Whose prey no more undaunted
Slips from it, spent and stark.

Cale Young Rice

The Want of You


A hint of gold where the moon will be;
Through the flocking clouds just a star or two;
Leaf sounds, soft and wet and hushed,
And oh! the crying want of you.

Angelina Weld Grimké

The Dreams of the Dreamer


The dreams of the dreamer
Are life-drops that pass
The break in the heart
To the soul’s hour-glass.


The songs of the singer
Are tones that repeat
The cry of the heart
‘Till it ceases to beat.

Georgia Douglas Johnson

Near White


Ambiguous of race they stand,
By one disowned, scorned of another,
Not knowing where to stretch a hand,
And cry, “My sister” or “My brother.”

Countee Cullen

Jaguar


Nasal intonations of light
and clicking tongues . . .
publicity of windows
stoning me with pent-up cries
smells of abattoirs. . .
smells of long-dead meat.


Some day-end —
while the sand is yet cozy as a blanket
off the warm body of a squaw,
And the jaguars are out to kill . . .
with a blue-black night coming on
and a painted cloud
stalking the first star—
I shall go alone into the Silence . . .
the coiled Silence . . .
Where a cry can run only a little way
and waver and dwindle
and be lost.


And there . . .
where tiny antlers clinch and strain
as life grapples in a million avid points,
and threshing things
strike and die,
Letting their hate live on
in the spreading purple of a wound . . .
I too
will make covert of a crevice in the night,
and turn and watch. . .
nose at the cleft’s edge.

Lola Ridge

Lo! as a careful housewife run to catch (Sonnet 143)


Lo! as a careful housewife run to catch
One of her feather’d creatures broke away,
Sets down her babe and makes all swift dispatch
In pursuit of the thing she would have stay,
Whilst her neglected child holds her in chase,
Cried to catch her whose busy care is bent
To follow that which flies before her face,
Not prizing her poor infant’s discontent;
So runn’st thou after that which flies from thee,
Whilst I thy babe chase thee afar behind;
But if thou catch thy hope, turn back to me,
And play the mother’s part, kiss me, be kind:
So will I pray that thou mayst have thy ‘Will.’
If thou turn back ,and my loud crying still.

William Shakespeare

The Owl


Downhill I came, hungry, and yet not starved;
Cold, yet had heat within me that was proof
Against the North wind; tired, yet so that rest
Had seemed the sweetest thing under a roof.


Then at the inn I had food, fire, and rest,
Knowing how hungry, cold, and tired was I.
All of the night was quite barred out except
An owl’s cry, a most melancholy cry

Shaken out long and clear upon the hill,
No merry note, nor cause of merriment,
But one telling me plain what I escaped
And others could not, that night, as in I went.


And salted was my food, and my repose,
Salted and sobered, too, by the bird’s voice
Speaking for all who lay under the stars,
Soldiers and poor, unable to rejoice.

Edward Thomas

The Roaring Frost


A flock of winds came winging from the North,
Strong birds with fighting pinions driving forth
With a resounding call:—


Where will they close their wings and cease their cries—
Between what warming seas and conquering skies—
And fold, and fall?

Alice Meynell

Lost


Desolate and lone
All night long on the lake
Where fog trails and mist creeps,
The whistle of a boat
Calls and cries unendingly,
Like some lost child
In tears and trouble
Hunting the harbor’s breast
And the harbor’s eyes.

Carl Sandburg

Acquainted with the Night


I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain—and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.


I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.

I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over houses from another street,


But not to call me back or say good-bye;
And further still at an unearthly height,
One luminary clock against the sky


Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
I have been one acquainted with the night.

Robert Frost

Ships That Pass in the Night


Out in the sky the great dark clouds are massing;
I look far out into the pregnant night,
Where I can hear a solemn booming gun
And catch the gleaming of a random light,
That tells me that the ship I seek is passing, passing.

My tearful eyes my soul’s deep hurt are glassing;
For I would hail and check that ship of ships.
I stretch my hands imploring, cry aloud,
My voice falls dead a foot from mine own lips,
And but its ghost doth reach that vessel, passing, passing.


O Earth, O Sky, O Ocean, both surpassing,
O heart of mine, O soul that dreads the dark!
Is there no hope for me? Is there no way
That I may sight and check that speeding bark
Which out of sight and sound is passing, passing?

Paul Laurence Dunbar

God’s World


O world, I cannot hold thee close enough!
Thy winds, thy wide grey skies!
Thy mists that roll and rise!
Thy woods, this autumn day, that ache and sag
And all but cry with colour! That gaunt crag
To crush! To lift the lean of that black bluff!
World, World, I cannot get thee close enough!
Long have I known a glory in it all,
But never knew I this;
Here such a passion is
As stretcheth me apart. Lord, I do fear
Thou’st made the world too beautiful this year.
My soul is all but out of me, let fall
No burning leaf; prithee, let no bird call.

Edna St. Vincent Millay

Say over again… (Sonnet 21)


Say over again, and yet once over again,
That thou dost love me. Though the word repeated
Should seem “a cuckoo-song,” as thou dost treat it,
Remember, never to the hill or plain,
Valley and wood, without her cuckoo-strain
Comes the fresh Spring in all her green completed.
Belovèd, I, amid the darkness greeted
By a doubtful spirit-voice, in that doubt’s pain
Cry, “Speak once more—thou lovest!” Who can fear
Too many stars, though each in heaven shall roll,
Too many flowers, though each shall crown the year?
Say thou dost love me, love me, love me—toll
The silver iterance!—only minding, Dear,
To love me also in silence with thy soul.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning

I Hear an Army


I hear an army charging upon the land,
And the thunder of horses plunging, foam about their knees:
Arrogant, in black armour, behind them stand,
Disdaining the reins, with fluttering whips, the charioteers.


They cry unto the night their battle-name:
I moan in sleep when I hear afar their whirling laughter.
They cleave the gloom of dreams, a blinding flame,
Clanging, clanging upon the heart as upon an anvil.


They come shaking in triumph their long, green hair:
They come out of the sea and run shouting by the shore.
My heart, have you no wisdom thus to despair?
My love, my love, my love, why have you left me alone?

James Joyce

Crepuscule du Matin


All night I wrestled with a memory
Which knocked insurgent at the gates of thought.
The crumbled wreck of years behind has wrought
Its disillusion; now I only cry
For peace, for power to forget the lie
Which hope too long has whispered. So I sought
The sleep which would not come, and night was fraught
With old emotions weeping silently.
I heard your voice again, and knew the things
Which you had promised proved an empty vaunt.
I felt your clinging hands while night’s broad wings
Cherished our love in darkness. From the lawn
A sudden, quivering birdnote, like a taunt.
My arms held nothing but the empty dawn.

Amy Lowell

Here is the greatest compilation of poems about a cry

Let me know which one is your favorite! ;).

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