Poems About Depression Essay Example For Students

Poems About Depression Essay Outline1 Classic Sad Poems by Famous Poets1.1 The Ballad Of The Harp Weaver By Edna St. Vincent Millay1.2 Richard Cory By Edwin Arlington Robinson1.3 A Dream Within A Dream By Edgar Allan Poe1.4 Alone By Edgar Allan Poe1.5 Solitude By Ella Wheeler Wilcox1.6 Sonnet 29 by William Shakespeare1.7 One Art By Elizabeth Bishop1.8 A Hero By Robert William Service1.9 Mirror By Sylvia Plath1.10 The Bells By Edgar Allan Poe1.11 The Sick Rose By William Blake Classic Sad Poems by Famous Poets The Ballad Of The Harp Weaver By Edna St. Vincent Millay Son, said my mother, When I was knee-high, youve need of clothes to cover you, and not a rag have I. Theres nothing in the house To make a boy breeches, Nor shears to cut a cloth with, Nor thread to take stitches. Theres nothing in the house But a loaf-end of rye, And a harp with a womans head Nobody will buy, And she began to cry. That was in the early fall. When came the late fall, Son, she said, the sight of you Makes your mothers blood crawl, Little skinny shoulder-blades Sticking through your clothes! And where youll get a jacket from God above knows. Its lucky for me, lad, Your daddys in the ground, And cant see the way I let His son go around! And she made a queer sound. That was in the late fall. When the winter came, Id not a pair of breeches Nor a shirt to my name. I couldnt go to school, Or out of doors to play. And all the other little boys Passed our way. Son, said my mother, Come, climb into my lap, And Ill chafe your little bones While you take a nap. And, oh, but we were silly For half and hour or more, Me with my long legs, Dragging on the floor, A-rock-rock-rocking To a mother-goose rhyme! Oh, but we were happy For half an hours time! But there was I, a great boy, And what would folks say To hear my mother singing me To sleep all day, In such a daft way? Men say the winter Was bad that year; Fuel was scarce, And food was dear. A wind with a wolfs head Howled about our door, And we burned up the chairs And sat upon the floor. All that was left us Was a chair we couldnt break, And the harp with a womans head Nobody would take, For song or pitys sake. The night before Christmas I cried with cold, I cried myself to sleep Like a two-year old. And in the deep night I felt my mother rise, And stare down upon me With love in her eyes. I saw my mother sitting On the one good chair, A light falling on her From I couldnt tell where. Looking nineteen, And not a day older, And the harp with a womans head Leaned against her shoulder. Her thin fingers, moving In the thin, tall strings, Were weav-weav-weaving Wonderful things. Many bright threads, From where I couldnt see, Were running through the harp-strings Rapidly, And gold threads whistling Through my mothers hand. I saw the web grow, And the pattern expand. She wove a childs jacket, And when it was done She laid it on the floor And wove another one. She wove a red cloak So regal to see, Shes made it for a kings son, I said, and not for me. But I knew it was for me. She wove a pair of breeches Quicker than that! She wove a pair of boots And a little cocked hat. She wove a pair of mittens, Shw wove a little blouse, She wove all night In the still, cold house. She sang as she worked, And the harp-strings spoke; Her voice never faltered, And the thread never broke, And when I awoke, There sat my mother With the harp against her shoulder, Looking nineteen, And not a day older, A smile about her lips, And a light about her head, And her hands in the harp-strings Frozen dead. And piled beside her And toppling to the skies, Were the clothes of a kings son, Just my size. Richard Cory By Edwin Arlington Robinson Whenever Richard Cory went down town, We people on the pavement looked at him: He was a gentleman from sole to crown, Clean favored, and imperially slim. And he was always quietly arrayed, And he was always human when he talked; But still he fluttered pulses when he said, Good-morning, and he glittered when he walked. And he was rich yes, richer than a king And admirably schooled in every grace: In fine, we thought that he was everything To make us wish that we were in his place. So on we worked, and waited for the light, And went without the meat, and cursed the bread; And Richard Cory, one calm summer night, Went home and put a bullet through his head. A Dream Within A Dream By Edgar Allan Poe Take this kiss upon the brow! And, in parting from you now, Thus much let me avow- You are not wrong, who deem That my days have been a dream; Yet if hope has flown away In a night, or in a day, In a vision, or in none, Is it therefore the less gone? All that we see or seem Is but a dream within a dream. The themes of Eveline and a little cloud EssayMirror By Sylvia Plath I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions. Whatever I see I swallow immediately Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike. I am not cruel, only truthful, The eye of a little god, four-cornered. Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall. It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long I think it is part of my heart. But it flickers. Faces and darkness separate us over and over. Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me, Searching my reaches for what she really is. Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon. I see her back, and reflect it faithfully. She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands. I am important to her. She comes and goes. Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness. In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish. The Bells By Edgar Allan Poe I Hear the sledges with the bells Silver bells! What a world of merriment their melody foretells! How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, In the icy air of night! While the stars that oversprinkle All the heavens seem to twinkle With a crystalline delight; Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells From the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells. II Hear the mellow wedding bells Golden bells! What a world of happiness their harmony foretells! Through the balmy air of night How they ring out their delight! From the molten-golden notes, And all in tune, What a liquid ditty floats To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats On the moon! Oh, from out the sounding cells What a gush of euphony voluminously wells! How it swells! How it dwells On the Future! -how it tells Of the rapture that impels To the swinging and the ringing Of the bells, bells, bells, Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells! III Hear the loud alarum bells Brazen bells! What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells! In the startled ear of night How they scream out their affright! Too much horrified to speak, They can only shriek, shriek, Out of tune, In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire, In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire, Leaping higher, higher, higher, With a desperate desire, And a resolute endeavor Now -now to sit or never, By the side of the pale-faced moon. Oh, the bells, bells, bells! What a tale their terror tells Of despair! How they clang, and clash, and roar! What a horror they outpour On the bosom of the palpitating air! Yet the ear it fully knows, By the twanging And the clanging, How the danger ebbs and flows; Yet the ear distinctly tells, In the jangling And the wrangling, How the danger sinks and swells, By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells Of the bells, Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells In the clamor and the clangor of the bells! IV Hear the tolling of the bells Iron bells! What a world of solemn thought their monody compels! In the silence of the night, How we shiver with affright At the melancholy menace of their tone! For every sound that floats From the rust within their throats Is a groan. And the people -ah, the people They that dwell up in the steeple, All alone, And who tolling, tolling, tolling, In that muffled monotone, Feel a glory in so rolling On the human heart a stone They are neither man nor woman They are neither brute nor human They are Ghouls: And their king it is who tolls; And he rolls, rolls, rolls, Rolls A paean from the bells! And his merry bosom swells With the paean of the bells! And he dances, and he yells; Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the paean of the bells, Of the bells Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the throbbing of the bells, Of the bells, bells, bells To the sobbing of the bells; Keeping time, time, time, As he knells, knells, knells, In a happy Runic rhyme, To the rolling of the bells, Of the bells, bells, bells To the tolling of the bells, Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells To the moaning and the groaning of the bells. The Sick Rose By William Blake O Rose, thou art sick! The invisible worm That flies in the night, In the howling storm, Has found out thy bed Of crimson joy: And his dark secret love Does thy life destroy.