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Poems About Emotions

Table of Contents

  1. Weather of the Soul by Bliss Carman
  2. The Wheel of the Breast by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
  3. A Poison Tree by William Blake

  1. Weather of the Soul

    by Bliss Carman

    There is a world of being
    We range from pole to pole,
    Through seasons of the spirit
    And weather of the soul.

    It has its new-born Aprils,
    With gladness in the air,
    Its golden Junes of rapture,
    Its winters of despair.

    And in its tranquil autumns
    We halt to re-enforce
    Our tattered scarlet pennons
    With valor and resource.

    From undiscovered regions
    Only the angels know,
    Great winds of aspiration
    Perpetually blow,

    To free the sap of impulse
    From torpor of distrust,
    And into flowers of joyance
    Quicken the sentient dust.

    From nowhere of a sudden
    Loom sudden clouds of fault,
    With thunders of oppression
    And lightnings of revolt.

    With hush of apprehension
    And quaking of the heart,
    There breed the storms of anger,
    And floods of sorrow start.

    And there shall fall,—how gently!—
    To make them fertile yet,
    The rain of absolution
    On acres of regret.

    Till snows of mercy cover
    The dream that shall come true,
    When time makes all things wondrous,
    And life makes all things new.

  2. A Poison Tree

    by William Blake

    I was angry with my friend;
    I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
    I was angry with my foe:
    I told it not, my wrath did grow.

    And I waterd it in fears,
    Night & morning with my tears:
    And I sunned it with smiles,
    And with soft deceitful wiles.

    And it grew both day and night.
    Till it bore an apple bright.
    And my foe beheld it shine,
    And he knew that it was mine.

    And into my garden stole,
    When the night had veild the pole;
    In the morning glad I see;
    My foe outstretched beneath the tree.

  3. The Wheel of the Breast

    by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

    Through rivers of veins on the nameless quest
    The tide of my life goes hurriedly sweeping,
    Till it reaches that curious wheel o' the breast,
    The human heart, which is never at rest
    Faster, faster, it cries, and leaping,
    Plunging, dashing, speeding away,
    The wheel and the river work night and day.

    I know not wherefore, I know not whither
    This strange tide rushes with such mad force:
    It glides on hither, it slides on thither,
    Over and over the selfsame course,
    With never an outlet and never a source;
    And it lashes itself to the heat of passion
    And whirls the heart in a mill-wheel fashion.

    I can hear in the hush of the still, still night,
    The ceaseless sound of that mighty river;
    I can hear it gushing, gurgling, rushing
    With a wild, delirious strange delight,
    And a conscious pride in its sense of might,
    As it hurries and worries my heart forever.

    And I wonder oft as I lie awake,
    A list to the river that seethes and surges
    Over the wheel that it chides and urges,—
    I wonder oft if that wheel will break
    With the mighty pressure it bears, some day,
    Or slowly and wearily wear away.

    For little by little the heart is wearing.
    Like the wheel of the mill, as the tide goes tearing
    And plunging hurriedly through my breast,
    In a network of veins on a nameless quest,
    From and forth, unto unknown oceans,
    Bringing its cargoes of fierce emotions,
    With never a pause or an hour for rest.