The Loss Of Love Poem by Countee Cullen
The Loss Of Love
All through an empty place I go,
And find her not in any room;
The candles and the lamps I light
Go down before a wind of gloom.
Thick-spraddled lies the dust about,
A fit, sad place to write her name
Or draw her face the way she looked
That legendary night she came.
The old house crumbles bit by bit;
Each day I hear the ominous thud
That says another rent is there
For winds to pierce and storms to flood.
My orchards groan and sag with fruit;
Where, Indian-wise, the bees go round;
I let it rot upon the bough;
I eat what falls upon the ground.
The heavy cows go laboring
In agony with clotted teats;
My hands are slack; my blood is cold;
I marvel that my heart still beats.
I have no will to weep or sing,
No least desire to pray or curse;
The loss of love is a terrible thing;
They lie who say that death is worse.
A story often told, and often heartfelt, for what is more heartfelt then one broken. Cullen wrote well here.
The heavy cows go laboring! Thanks for sharing this poem with us.
The loss of love is a terrible thing; They lie who say that death is worse.
This poem is very touching, right from the hearet. Most deserving as The Modern Poem Of The DAy
Most deserving as the Modern Poem Of The Day! I have enjoyed very much!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Delivering Poems Around The World
Poems are the property of their respective owners. All information has been reproduced here for educational and informational purposes to benefit site visitors, and is provided at no charge...
4/24/2024 3:05:52 AM # 1.0.0.1119
Aww such a nice poem even though it's sad