"unbereft" poems - Hello Poetry

156 You love me—you are sure— I shall not fear mistake— I shall not cheated wake— Some grinning morn— To find the Sunrise left— And Orchards—unbereft— And Dollie—gone! I need not start—you’re sure— That night will never be— When frightened—home to Thee I run— To find the windows dark— And no more Dollie—mark— Quite none? Be sure you’re sure—you know— I’ll bear it better now— If you’ll just tell me so— Than when—a little dull Balm grown— Over this pain of mine— You sting—again!

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15.9k

Emily Dickinson

You love me—you are sure

156 You love me—you are sure— I shall not fear mistake— I shall not cheated wake— Some grinning morn— To find the Sunrise left— And Orchards—unbereft— And Dollie—gone! I need not start—you’re sure— That night will never be— When frightened—home to Thee I run— To find the windows dark— And no more Dollie—mark— Quite none? Be sure you’re sure—you know— I’ll bear it better now— If you’ll just tell me so— Than when—a little dull Balm grown— Over this pain of mine— You sting—again!

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Beneath a fading purple sky, Papa sits here gazing high, warmly smiling as I say my name again to him today though not an hour has since passed by. Sunlight sinking, vision fails; and selfless warmth now leaves the vales. His voice which once was strong and pure, staccatos now and speaks words fewer; A phantom with a loved one's face. And yet the words he finds to speak, though murmuring voice is rasp and weak, hold truths from many decades past, told vividly with spirit vast; nostalgia from a dear antique. He dreams within a castle air, with memory as the mason there. He sometimes looks out past the vape at shadows gathering there to gape, but can't assail his foggy lair. Inside, his vigor unbereft, his chronicles are lined and kept on shelves of moments come and gone; and cherished loves long since passed on within this dream have never left. And there my papa wanders free - his paradise of memory. And though I dearly miss him so when him to this silent fortress go, the phantom there is I, not he.

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Nov 24, 2016

Nov 24, 2016 at 9:38 AM UTC

jgosoco

Dreaming

Beneath a fading purple sky, Papa sits here gazing high, warmly smiling as I say my name again to him today though not an hour has since passed by. Sunlight sinking, vision fails; and selfless warmth now leaves the vales. His voice which once was strong and pure, staccatos now and speaks words fewer; A phantom with a loved one's face. And yet the words he finds to speak, though murmuring voice is rasp and weak, hold truths from many decades past, told vividly with spirit vast; nostalgia from a dear antique. He dreams within a castle air, with memory as the mason there. He sometimes looks out past the vape at shadows gathering there to gape, but can't assail his foggy lair. Inside, his vigor unbereft, his chronicles are lined and kept on shelves of moments come and gone; and cherished loves long since passed on within this dream have never left. And there my papa wanders free - his paradise of memory. And though I dearly miss him so when him to this silent fortress go, the phantom there is I, not he.

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Love suddenly became so quiet, As if her shallow breaths dwindled And her heartbeat came to rest. I am left with her traces, Her saturated kisses and footsteps Left heavy as I remain unbereft Kneeling at the warmth that dissipates, Like the glowing embers that burnt and broke Into the shadowed corners of a fireplace. Now that love has died She haunts me.

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Jan 4, 2023

Jan 4, 2023 at 8:59 AM UTC

ciel-de-verre

the last few weeks

Love suddenly became so quiet, As if her shallow breaths dwindled And her heartbeat came to rest. I am left with her traces, Her saturated kisses and footsteps Left heavy as I remain unbereft Kneeling at the warmth that dissipates, Like the glowing embers that burnt and broke Into the shadowed corners of a fireplace. Now that love has died She haunts me.

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