Sonnet.

Art thou already weary of the way?
    Thou who hast yet but half the way gone o'er:
    Get up, and lift thy burthen: lo, before
Thy feet the road goes stretching far away.
If thou already faint, who hast but come
Through half thy pilgrimage, with fellows gay,
Love, youth, and hope, under the rosy bloom
And temperate airs, of early breaking day;
Look yonder, how the heavens stoop and gloom,
There cease the trees to shade, the flowers to spring,
And the angels leave thee; what wilt thou become
Through yon drear stretch of dismal wandering,
Lonely and dark?    I shall take courage, friend,
For comes not every step more near the end?

Frances Anne Kemble

Frances Anne Kemble, also known as Fanny, was a notable British actress and writer born on November 27, 1809, and died on January 15, 1893. She was a prominent figure in the 19th century literary and theatrical circles. Kemble was known for her acting prowess and her detailed journals and memoirs, which provide valuable insights into the life and times of her era.

Frances Anne Kemble

Woman's Love.

Frances Anne Kemble, Simple Poetry

The Parting.

Frances Anne Kemble, Simple Poetry

To ----

Frances Anne Kemble, Simple Poetry

Venice.

Frances Anne Kemble, 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.

Sonnet.

Like one who walketh in a plenteous land,
    By flowing waters, under shady trees,
    Through sunny meadows, where the summer bees
Feed in the thyme and clover; on each hand
Fair gardens lying, where of fruit and flower
The bounteous season hath poured out its dower:
Where saffron skies roof in the earth with light,
And birds sing thankfully towards Heaven, while he
With a sad heart walks through this jubilee,
Beholding how beyond this happy land,
Stretches a thirsty desert of gray sand,
Where all the air is one thick, leaden blight,
Where all things dwarf and dwindle, - so walk I,
Through my rich, present life, to what beyond doth lie.

Frances Anne Kemble

Sonnet.

Blaspheme not thou thy sacred life, nor turn
    O'er joys that God hath for a season lent,
    Perchance to try thy spirit, and its bent,
Effeminate soul and base! weakly to mourn.
There lies no desert in the land of life,
For e'en that tract that barrenest doth seem,
Laboured of thee in faith and hope, shall teem
With heavenly harvests and rich gatherings, rife.
Haply no more, music, and mirth and love,
And glorious things of old and younger art,
Shall of thy days make one perpetual feast;
But when these bright companions all depart,
Lay thou thy head upon the ample breast
Of Hope, and thou shalt hear the angels sing above.

Frances Anne Kemble

Sonnet.

Oh weary, weary world! how full thou art
    Of sin, of sorrow, and all evil things!
In thy fierce turmoil, where shall the sad heart,
    Released from pain, fold its unrested wings?
Peace hath no dwelling here, but evermore
Loud discord, strife, and envy, fill the earth
With fearful riot, whilst unhallowed mirth
Shrieks frantic laughter forth, leading along,
Whirling in dizzy trance the eager throng,
Who bear aloft the overflowing cup,
With tears, forbidden joys, and blood filled up,
Quaffing long draughts of death; in lawless might,
Drunk with soft harmonies, and dazzling light,
So rush they down to the eternal night.

Frances Anne Kemble

Sonnet.

But to be still! oh, but to cease awhile
    The panting breath and hurrying steps of life,
    The sights, the sounds, the struggle, and the strife
Of hourly being; the sharp biting file
Of action, fretting on the tightened chain
Of rough existence; all that is not pain,
But utter weariness; oh! to be free
But for a while from conscious entity!
To shut the banging doors and windows wide,
Of restless sense, and let the soul abide
Darkly and stilly, for a little space,
Gathering its strength up to pursue the race;
Oh, Heavens! to rest a moment, but to rest
From this quick, gasping life, were to be blest!

Frances Anne Kemble

Sonnet.

Say thou not sadly, "never," and "no more,"
    But from thy lips banish those falsest words;
While life remains that which was thine before
Again may be thine; in Time's storehouse lie
    Days, hours, and moments, that have unknown hoards
Of joy, as well as sorrow: passing by,
Smiles, come with tears; therefore with hopeful eye
Look thou on dear things, though they turn away,
For thou and they, perchance, some future day
Shall meet again, and the gone bliss return;
For its departure then make thou no mourn,
But with stout heart bid what thou lov'st farewell;
That which the past hath given the future gives as well.

Frances Anne Kemble

Sonnet.

There's not a fibre in my trembling frame
That does not vibrate when thy step draws near,
There's not a pulse that throbs not when I hear
Thy voice, thy breathing, nay, thy very name.
When thou art with me, every sense seems dull,
And all I am, or know, or feel, is thee;
My soul grows faint, my veins run liquid flame,
And my bewildered spirit seems to swim
In eddying whirls of passion, dizzily.
When thou art gone, there creeps into my heart
A cold and bitter consciousness of pain:
The light, the warmth of life, with thee depart,
And I sit dreaming o'er and o'er again
Thy greeting clasp, thy parting look, and tone;
And suddenly I wake - and am alone.

Frances Anne Kemble