The Broken-Hearted by Dennis Lange

A small cross by the busy road, above a tiny mound –
It seems an extra daisy to the travelers homeward bound
Who speed their ways to destinies without a second thought,
Of just another cup of sorrow that the journey brought –
…….Just a mother’s broken heart.

—

It lies beneath the ocean like a corpse beneath the sheets –
A sunken, sullen hull that not a sailor ever greets.
Its captain was not called by either king or queen to court;
Just another ship that sailed that did not reach its port –
…….Just a dreamer’s broken heart.

—

We miss the mark of moodiness within his distant look,
And in the sigh that wishes for the time two lovers took
To hold each other tenderly within a blissful swoon.
But now he’s just a darkened sky that never holds a moon –
…….Just another broken heart.

—

The love that has been offered like a hand stretched out to shake
On a hill that’s not remembered in daily trips we take,
Was fastened by the nails of Rome amid the quaking gloom.
He’s just another casualty for which we’ve scarcely room –
…….Just the Father’s broken heart.

—

If at the end of life, or even at the close of day,
I find, reflecting, that my time was simply passed in play,
Or small pursuits, or habits harmful in their thoughtlessness,
Then I become, in selling my life’s universe for less –
…….Just another broken heart.

—

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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2011.

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The Day Is Done by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The day is done, and the darkness
…Falls from the wings of Night,
As a feather is wafted downward
…From an eagle in his flight.

I see the lights of the village
…Gleam through the rain and the mist:
And a feeling of sadness comes o’er me,
…That my soul cannot resist:

A feeling of sadness and longing,
…That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only
…As the mist resembles the rain.

Come, read to me some poem,
…Some simple and heartfelt lay,
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
…And banish the thoughts of day.

Not from the grand old masters,
…Not from the bards sublime,
Whose distant footsteps echo
…Through the corridors of Time.

For, like strains of martial music,
…Their mighty thoughts suggest
Life’s endless toil and endeavor;
…And to-night I long for rest.

Read from some humbler poet,
…Whose songs gush’d from his heart,
As showers from the clouds of summer,
…Or tears from the eyelids start.

Who, through long days of labor,
…And nights devoid of ease,
Still heard in his soul the music
…Of wonderful melodies.

Such songs have power to quiet
…The restless pulse of care,
And come like the benediction
…That follows after prayer.

Then read from the treasured volume
…The poem of thy choice;
And lend to the rhyme of the poet
…The beauty of thy voice.

And the night shall be fill’d with music,
…And the cares that infest the day
Shall fold their tents like the Arabs,
…And as silently steal away.

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