Sadness and Melancholy

After the first death there is no other.

The world is gradually becoming a place where I do not care to be any more.

I myself walked at the funeral of tenderness.

Life, friends, is boring. We must not say so.

Oh lonesome’s a bad place To get crowded into.

I got the Weary Blues And I can’t be satisfied.

Truly, I live in dark times! The guileless word is folly. A smooth forehead Suggests insensitivity. The man who laughs Has simply not yet had The terrible news.

Farewell sadness Good morning sadness. 2

I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground. So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind: Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely. Crowned With lilies and with laurel they go; but I am not resigned.

I have measured out my life with coffee spoons.

And then you suddenly cried, and turned away.

are the desolate, dark weeks when nature in its barrenness equals the stupidity of man. The year plunges into night and the heart plunges lower than night.

Nought but vast sorrow was there— The sweet cheat gone.

O heart! O heart! if she’d but turn her head, You’d know the folly of being comforted.

All things uncomely and broken, all things worn out and old, The cry of a child by the roadway, the creak of a lumbering cart, The heavy steps of the plowman, splashing the wintry mold, Are wronging your image that blossoms a rose in the deeps of my heart.

My sad heart foams at the stern. 4

Laugh, and the world laughs with you; Weep, and you weep alone.

There is weeping in my heart Like the rain falling on the city. 2

The long sobs Of the violins Of autumn Pierce my heart With monotonous languor. 1

It’s a song of a merryman, moping mum, Whose soul was sad, and whose glance was glum, Who sipped no sup, and who craved no crumb, As he sighed for the love of a lady.

“I weep for you,” the Walrus said: “I deeply sympathize.” With sobs and tears he sorted out Those of the largest size, Holding his pocket-handkerchief Before his streaming eyes.

Better by far you should forget and smile Than that you should remember and be sad.

There’s a certain Slant of light, Winter Afternoons— That oppresses, like the Heft Of Cathedral Tunes—

Listen! you hear the grating roar Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling, At their return, up the high strand, Begin, and cease, and then again begin, With tremulous cadence slow, and bring The eternal note of sadness in.