Missed.

Pity the child who never feels
    A mother's fond caress;
That childish smile a void conceals
    Of aching loneliness.

Pity the heart which loves in vain,
    What balm or mystic spell
Can soothe that bosom's secret pain,
    The pain it may not tell?

Pity those missed by Cupid's darts,
    For 'twas ordained for such,
Who love at random, but whose hearts
    Feel no responsive touch.

Alfred Castner King

Alfred Castner King was an American poet. He is recognized for his significant contributions to American poetry. Despite battling with blindness, his disability did not deter him from crafting poetry that captivated many readers. King often wrote about nature and personal experiences, reflecting a deep appreciation for the world around him and the nuances of human emotion.

Alfred Castner King

Go, And Sin No More.

Alfred Castner King, Simple Poetry

Life's Undercurrent.

Alfred Castner King, Simple Poetry

The Fragrant Perfume of the Flowers.

Alfred Castner King, Simple Poetry

Reflections.

Alfred Castner King, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

Empty are the Mother's Arms.

Ah, empty are the mother's arms
    Which clasp a vanished form;
A darling spared from life's alarms,
    And safe from earthly storm.

In absent reverie, she hears
    That voice, nor can forget;
The fond illusion disappears,--
    Her arms are empty, yet.

Alfred Castner King

Mother. - Alpha and Omega.

Mother! Mother!
    The startled cry of childish fright
    Rang through the silence of the night,
    As but the mother's fond caress
    Could soothe its infantile distress;
    And the mother answered, with loving stroke
    Of her gentle hand, as she softly spoke:
    "Hush, hush, my child, that troubled cry;
    What evil can harm thee, with mother nigh?"

Mother! Mother!
    Long years have passed, and the fevered brow
    Of a bearded man, she is stroking now,
    As through delirium and pain
    He cries as a little child, again.
    And the mother answered, with loving stroke
    Of her careworn hand, as she softly spoke:
    "Hush, hush, my child, that troubled cry;
    What evil can harm thee, with mother nigh?"

Mother! Mother!<...

Alfred Castner King

Maternal Grief

Departed Child! I could forget thee once
Though at my bosom nursed; this woeful gain
Thy dissolution brings, that in my soul
Is present and perpetually abides
A shadow, never, never to be displaced
By the returning substance, seen or touched,
Seen by mine eyes, or clasped in my embrace.
Absence and death how differ they! and how
Shall I admit that nothing can restore
What one short sigh so easily removed?
Death, life, and sleep, reality and thought,
Assist me, God, their boundaries to know,
O teach me calm submission to thy Will!
The Child she mourned had overstepped the pale
Of Infancy, but still did breathe the air
That sanctifies its confines, and partook
Reflected beams of that celestial light
To all the Little-ones on sinful earth
Not unvouchsaf...

William Wordsworth

Love's Plea.

I love thee, my darling, both now and forever,
    My heart feels the thralldom of love's mystic spell,
'Tis fettered with shackles which nothing can sever,
    To the heart which responds to its passionate swell.

I love thee, my darling, with love that is stronger,
    Than all the fond ties which the heart holds enshrined;
Adversity, sorrow or pain can no longer
    Detract from this heart, if with thine intertwined.

I love thee, my darling, with sacred affection,
    Which death, nor the cycles of time shall efface;
Nor from my heart's mirror, erase thy reflection,
    Nor tear thy fond heart from its fervent embrace.

Alfred Castner King

My Mother's Hand.

My head is aching, and I wish
    That I could feel tonight
One well-remembered, tender touch
That used to comfort me so much,
    And put distress to flight.

There's not a soothing anodyne
    Or sedative I know,
Such potency can ever hold
As that which lovingly controlled
    My spirit long ago.

How oft my burning cheek as if
    By Zephyrus was fanned,
And nothing interdicted pain
Or seemed to make me well again
    So quick as mother's hand.

'Tis years and years since it was laid,
    In her own gentle way,
On tangled curls of brown and jet
Above the downy coverlet
    'Neath which the children lay.

As bright as blessed sunlight ray
    The past comes back to me;
Her fingers turn the sacred page
Fo...

Hattie Howard

The Suicide.

What anguish rankled 'neath that silent breast?
    What spectral figures mocked those staring eyes,
    Luring them on to Stygian mysteries?
What overpowering sense of grief distressed?

What desperation nerved that rigid hand
    To pull the trigger with such deadly aim?
    What deep remorse, or terror, overcame
The dread inherent, of death's shadowy strand?

Perhaps the hand of unrelenting fate
    Fell with such tragic pressure, that the mind
    In frenzy, uncontrollable and blind,
Sought but the darkness, black and desolate.

Perhaps 'twas some misfortune's stunning blight,
    Perhaps unmerited, though deep disgrace,
    Or vision of a wronged accusing face
Pictured indelibly before the sight.

Perhaps the gnawing of some secret sin...

Alfred Castner King