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A dreary life
Earth    Dismal

Poems

JR Rhine Dec 2015
i am the wiggling worm
writhing on the slippery sidewalk
on a cold, and dreary,
rainy day.

i weave the baleful boots
yield the pernicious puddles
on a cold, and dreary,
rainy day.

i am pelted by relentless rain
pummeled by its wanton weight
on a cold, and dreary,
rainy day.

you may ask, "why wiggling worm?
why take this cursed course
on a cold, and dreary,
rainy day?

have you no humbled home
have you no able abode
on a cold, and dreary,
rainy day?"

"i am the vivacious vagabond," i reply
"i am admittedly ambulant,
on this cold, and dreary,
rainy day.

because i must agnize affliction
i must debase duress
on this cold, and dreary,
rainy day.

if i am to appreciate the bountiful bloom
i must know the duteous doom
such as this cold, and dreary,
rainy day.
Inspired by e. e. cummings.
Dae Staebell Jun 2016
Dreaming a dream so dreary
Upon a bed of fire lilies
Where fear flocks and sorrows sleep
To a grove abandoned where she weeps

Dreaming a dream so dreary
Upon callous thoughts so weary
Clasped in a white veil
Seeing maroon on a visage pale

Dreaming a dream so dreary
Upon a cries in a clearing
Silent shrieks that haunt me I find
A walking corpse in pearl delight

Dreaming a dream so dreary
Upon a nightmare without meaning
To and fro wolves do roam on the rim
A hunt in this abyss for my kin

Dreaming a dream so dreary
I smell familiar blood and feel weary
A mangled corpse lies in slumber
What a nightmare, what a curse

Dreaming a dream so dreary
A solitary hunt so eerie
Hunger sated and thirst quelled
Will I ever wake or is this my hell?
Mariana in the Moated Grange

by Alfred, Lord Tennyson

With blackest moss the flower-plots
Were thickly crusted, one and all:
The rusted nails fell from the knots
That held the pear to the gable-wall.
The broken sheds look'd sad and strange:
Unlifted was the clinking latch;
Weeded and worn the ancient thatch
Upon the lonely moated grange.
She only said, "My life is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"

Her tears fell with the dews at even;
Her tears fell ere the dews were dried;
She could not look on the sweet heaven,
Either at morn or eventide.
After the flitting of the bats,
When thickest dark did trance the sky,
She drew her casement-curtain by,
And glanced athwart the glooming flats.
  She only said, "The night is dreary,
  He cometh not," she said;
  She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
  I would that I were dead!"

Upon the middle of the night,
Waking she heard the night-fowl crow:
The **** sung out an hour ere light:
From the dark fen the oxen's low
Came to her: without hope of change,
In sleep she seem'd to walk forlorn,
Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed morn
About the lonely moated grange.
  She only said, "The day is dreary,
  He cometh not," she said;
  She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
  I would that I were dead!"

About a stone-cast from the wall
A sluice with blacken'd waters slept,
And o'er it many, round and small,
The cluster'd marish-mosses crept.
Hard by a poplar shook alway,
All silver-green with gnarled bark:
For leagues no other tree did mark
The level waste, the rounding gray.
  She only said, "My life is dreary,
  He cometh not," she said;
  She said "I am aweary, aweary
  I would that I were dead!"

And ever when the moon was low,
And the shrill winds were up and away,
In the white curtain, to and fro,
She saw the gusty shadow sway.
But when the moon was very low
And wild winds bound within their cell,
The shadow of the poplar fell
Upon her bed, across her brow.
  She only said, "The night is dreary,
  He cometh not," she said;
  She said "I am aweary, aweary,
  I would that I were dead!"

All day within the dreamy house,
The doors upon their hinges creak'd;
The blue fly sung in the pane; the mouse
Behind the mouldering wainscot shriek'd,
Or from the crevice peer'd about.
Old faces glimmer'd thro' the doors
Old footsteps trod the upper floors,
Old voices called her from without.
  She only said, "My life is dreary,
  He cometh not," she said;
  She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
  I would that I were dead!"

The sparrow's chirrup on the roof,
The slow clock ticking, and the sound
Which to the wooing wind aloof
The poplar made, did all confound
Her sense; but most she loathed the hour
When the thick-moted sunbeam lay
Athwart the chambers, and the day
Was sloping toward his western bower.
  Then said she, "I am very dreary,
  He will not come," she said;
  She wept, "I am aweary, aweary,
  Oh God, that I were dead!"