The 6 poems about pain, by 4 poets, ranked by third-party data. How poems are ranked
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Pain has an element of blank;It cannot recollectWhen it began, or if there wereA day when it was not.
It has no future but itself,Its infinite realms containIts past, enlightened to perceiveNew periods of pain.
Poems by Emily Dickinson, Series One
In 0 Wikipedias 0 anthologies Poet in 86 Wikipedias
Ere on my bed my limbs I lay,It hath not been my use to prayWith moving lips or bended knees;But silently, by slow degrees,My spirit I to Love compose,In humble trust mine eye-lids close,With reverential resignation,No wish conceived, no thought exprest,Only a sense of supplication;A sense o'er all my soul imprestThat I am weak, yet not unblest,Since in me, round me, everywhere
Eternal Strength and Wisdom are.
But yester-night I pray'd aloudIn anguish and in agony,Up-starting from the fiendish crowdOf shapes and thoughts that tortured me:A lurid light, a trampling throng,Sense of intolerable wrong,And whom I scorned, those only strong!Thirst of revenge, the powerless willStill baffled, and yet burning still!Desire with loathing strangely mixedOn wild or hateful objects fixed.Fantastic passions! maddening brawl!And shame and terror over all!Deeds to be hid which were not hid,Which all confused I could not knowWhether I suffered, or I did:For all seem'd guilt, remorse or woe,My own or others still the sameLife-stifling fear, soul-stifling shame!
So two nights passed: the night's dismaySaddened and stunned the coming day.Sleep, the wide blessing, seemed to meDistemper's worst calamity.The third night, when my own loud screamHad waked me from the fiendish dream,O'ercome with sufferings strange and wild,I wept as I had been a child;And having thus by tears subduedMy anguish to a milder mood,Such punishments, I said, were dueTo natures deepliest stained with sin:For aye entempesting anewThe unfathomable hell withinThe horror of their deeds to view,To know and loathe, yet wish and do!Such griefs with such men well agree,But wherefore, wherefore fall on me?To be beloved is all I need,And whom I love, I love indeed.
Poems of Coleridge, ed. Arthur Symons
In 0 Wikipedias 0 anthologies Poet in 79 Wikipedias
As a drenched, drowned beeHangs numb and heavy from a bending flower, So clings to meMy baby, her brown hair brushed with wet tears And laid against her cheek;Her soft white legs hanging heavily over my armSwinging heavily to my movement as I walk. My sleeping baby hangs upon my life,Like a burden she hangs on me. She has always seemed so light,But now she is wet with tears and numb with painEven her floating hair sinks heavily, Reaching downwards;As the wings of a drenched, drowned bee Are a heaviness, and a weariness.
Amores: Poems, 1916
In 0 Wikipedias 0 anthologies Poet in 12 Wikipedias
PAIN, pain continual; pain unending;Hard even to the roughest, but to thoseHungry for beauty.... Not the wisest knows,Nor most pitiful-hearted, what the wendingOf one hour’s way meant. Grey monotony lendingWeight to the grey skies, grey mud where goesAn army of grey bedrenched scarecrows in rowsCareless at last of cruellest Fate-sending.Seeing the pitiful eyes of men foredone,Or horses shot, too tired merely to stir,Dying in shell-holes both, slain by the mud.Men broken, shrieking even to hear a gun.--Till pain grinds down, or lethargy numbs her,The amazed heart cries angrily out on God.
Severn & Somme, 1917
In 0 Wikipedias 0 anthologies Poet in 12 Wikipedias
OUT of my sorrow have I made these songs, Out of my sorrow;Though somewhat of the making’s eager pain From Joy did borrow.
Some day, I trust, God’s purpose of Pain for me Shall be complete,And then--to enter in the House of Joy.... Prepare, my feet.
Severn & Somme, 1917
In 0 Wikipedias 0 anthologies Poet in 12 Wikipedias
O MAY these days of pain, These wasted-seeming days,Somewhere reflower again With scent and savour of praise.Draw out of memory all bitterness Of night with Thy sun’s rays.
And strengthen Thou in me The love of men here found,And eager charity, That, out of difficult ground,Spring like flowers in barren deserts, or Like light, or a lovely sound.
A simpler heart than mine Might have seen beauty clearWhere I could see no sign Of Thee, but only fear.Strengthen me, make me to see Thy beauty always In every happening here.
IN TRENCHES, March 1917.
Severn & Somme, 1917
4 poets
| Century | Poems |
|---|---|
| 19th | 2 |
| 20th | 4 |
| Poet | Poems |
|---|---|
| Ivor Gurney | 3 |