If you are enshrouding in your thoughts about someone you were close to, our list of poems about loneliness can help you feel better. The feeling can be consuming in itself. For example, realizing that though you are surrounded by a room full of people, no one can connect with you can make you feel low. In such a situation, reading poems or quotes related to the same situation you are dealing with can help you process those feelings better and help you understand that you are not alone in this. So read along and find the one that suits you the best.
Poems About Being Alone
Whether you have separated from your partner, moved away from family, or lost a dear friend, these poems about loneliness echo what you feel in your heart.
1. Night
It’s all right Unless you’re either lonely or under attack. That strange effortful Repositioning of yourself. Laundry, shopping, Hours, the telephone—unless misinformed— Only ever ringing for you, if it ever does. The night—yours to decide, Among drink, or books, or lying there. On your back, or curled up. An embarrassment of poverty. — Michael Hofmann
2. Shy Boy
I wait for my shadow to forget me, to take that one phantom step that I keep from taking. I wait for the simple flash of a dancer’s spat upon this one moon of stage-light, the mind’s lonely oval illuminated on the surface of some windless pond or slew. And the old soft-shoe practices to get it right, husha-husha-hush in its constant audition of sawdust. Even this choreography of useless wishing is not enough to keep tonight from becoming nothing more than some floor’s forgotten routine where faded, numbered dance-steps silently waltz themselves away. The orchestra’s now ready to Fauré into the evening’s last song while I try to convince myself to cross this room for the first time all night and rinse what’s left in some débutante’s silver sequined waterfall, hope keeling hopelessly ever closer to the edge. Across the floor other couples sashay on. A tin flask empties itself from asking, the shadow’s last chance now wasted in some chandelier’s dim lust. — Greg Sellers
3. American Solitude
Hopper never painted this, but here on a snaky path his vision lingers: three white tombs, robots with glassed-in faces and meters for eyes, grim mouths, flat noses, lean forward on a platform, like strangers with identical frowns scanning a blur, far off, that might be their train. Gas tanks broken for decades face Parson’s smithy, planked shut now. Both relics must stay. The pumps have roots in gas pools, and the smithy stores memories of hammers forging scythes to cut spartina grass for dry salt hay. The tanks have the remove of local clammers who sink buckets and stand, never in pairs, but one and one and one, blank-eyed, alone, more serene than lonely. Today a woman rakes in the shallows, then bends to receive last rays in shimmering water, her long shadow knifing the bay. She slides into her truck to watch the sky flame over sand flats, a hawk’s wind arabesque, an island risen, brown Atlantis, at low tide; she probes the shoreline and beyond grassy dunes for where the land might slope off into night. Hers is no common emptiness, but a vaster silence filled with terns’ cries, an abundant solitude. Nearby, the three dry gas pumps, worn survivors of clam-digging generations, are luminous, and have an exile’s grandeur that says: In perfect solitude, there’s fire. One day I approached the vessels and wanted to drive on, the road ablaze with dogwood in full bloom, but the contraptions outdazzled the road’s white, even outshone a bleached shirt flapping alone on a laundry line, arms pointed down. High noon. Three urns, ironic in their outcast dignity—as though, like some pine chests, they might be prized in disuse—cast rays, spun leaf—covered numbers, clanked, then wheezed and stopped again. Shadows cut the road before I drove off into the dark woods. — Grace Schulman
4. Bryant Park at Dusk
Floodlights have flared on behind and above Where I sit in my public chair. The lawn that had gradually darkened has brightened. The library windows stare. I’m alone in a crowd—e pluribus plures. Far from a family I miss. I’d almost say I’m lonely, but lonely Is worse, I recall, than this. Loneliness is a genuine poverty. I’m like a man who is flush But forgot his wallet on the nightstand When he left for work in a rush, And now must go without food and coffee For a few hours more than he’d wish. That’s all. He still has a wallet. It’s bulging. It floats through his brain like a fish… Money for love: a terrible simile, But maybe it’s fitting here, A couple of blocks from Madison Avenue Where commodities are dear, Where all around me, rich skyscrapers Woo the impoverished sky, Having sent on their way the spent commuters Who stream, uncertain, by— And as for this whole splurge of a city, Isn’t money at its heart? But I’m blathering now. Forgetting my subject. What I meant to say at the start Is that I noticed a woman reading In a chair not far from mine. Silver-haired, calm, she stirred a hunger Hard for me to define, Perhaps because she doesn’t seem lonely. And what I loved was this: The way, when dusk had darkened her pages, As if expecting a kiss, She closed her eyes and threw her head back, Book open on her lap. Perhaps she was thinking about her story, Or the fall air, or a nap. I thought she’d leave me then for pastimes More suited to the dark. But she is on intimate terms, it seems, With the rhythms of Bryant Park, For that’s when the floodlights came on, slowly, Somewhere far above my need, And the grass grew green again, and the woman Reopened her eyes to read. — Geoffrey Brock
5. Danse Russe
If I when my wife is sleeping and the baby and Kathleen are sleeping and the sun is a flame-white disc in silken mists above shining trees,— if I in my north room dance naked, grotesquely before my mirror waving my shirt round my head and singing softly to myself: “I am lonely, lonely. I was born to be lonely, I am best so!” If I admire my arms, my face, my shoulders, flanks, buttocks against the yellow drawn shades,— Who shall say I am not the happy genius of my household? — William Carlos Williams
6. Solitude
It’s something they carry with them – explorers night shifts seamen – like a good pair of binoculars or a camera case perfectly and deeply compartmented. It has a quiet patina that both absorbs and reflects like a valuable instrument you have to sign for – contract with alone – and at the end of the voyage you get to keep. Sometimes it’s very far away. Sometimes so close at first you think the person next to you is picking up putting down a personal cup a book in another language before you realise what – when talk has moved off leaning its arms on someone else’s table – is being handed to you. • Caroline Caddy
7. The Lonely Soul
The lonely soul wanders Alone in the walks of life No other soul as his companion The lonely soul wanders Alone in the daybreak He does his duties In the walks of life The lonely soul wanders Alone in the life He meets many other souls Who comes to be Unfit for the lonely soul The lonely soul wanders As the days pass by The lonely soul became More lonely, with no other souls as his companion The lonely soul wanders Alone in the walks of life The lonely soul decides Not to die, but to face Life in all its hardships The lonely soul wanders — Anto Thermadam
8. O Solitude!
O SOLITUDE! if I must with thee dwell, Let it not be among the jumbled heap Of murky buildings; climb with me the steep,— Nature’s observatory—whence the dell, Its flowery slopes, its river’s crystal swell, May seem a span; let me thy vigils keep ’Mongst boughs pavillion’d, where the deer’s swift leap Startles the wild bee from the fox-glove bell. But though I’ll gladly trace these scenes with thee, Yet the sweet converse of an innocent mind, Whose words are images of thoughts refin’d, Is my soul’s pleasure; and it sure must be Almost the highest bliss of human-kind, When to thy haunts two kindred spirits flee. — John Keats
9. Vers de Société
My wife and I have asked a crowd of craps To come and waste their time and ours: perhaps You’d care to join us? In a pig’s arse, friend. Day comes to an end. The gas fire breathes, the trees are darkly swayed. And so Dear Warlock-Williams: I’m afraid— Funny how hard it is to be alone. I could spend half my evenings, if I wanted, Holding a glass of washing sherry, canted Over to catch the drivel of some bitch Who’s read nothing but Which; Just think of all the spare time that has flown Straight into nothingness by being filled With forks and faces, rather than repaid Under a lamp, hearing the noise of wind, And looking out to see the moon thinned To an air-sharpened blade. A life, and yet how sternly it’s instilled All solitude is selfish. No one now Believes the hermit with his gown and dish Talking to God (who’s gone too); the big wish Is to have people nice to you, which means Doing it back somehow. Virtue is social. Are, then, these routines Playing at goodness, like going to church? Something that bores us, something we don’t do well (Asking that ass about his fool research) But try to feel, because, however crudely, It shows us what should be? Too subtle, that. Too decent, too. Oh hell, Only the young can be alone freely. The time is shorter now for company, And sitting by a lamp more often brings Not peace, but other things. Beyond the light stand failure and remorse Whispering Dear Warlock-Williams: Why, of course— — Philip Larkin
Famous Poems About Loneliness
The most renowned poets have written some verses about the pain of being alone. Take a look at a few gems.
10. Ode on Solitude
Happy the man, whose wish and care A few paternal acres bound, Content to breathe his native air, In his own ground. Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread, Whose flocks supply him with attire, Whose trees in summer yield him shade, In winter fire. Blest, who can unconcernedly find Hours, days, and years slide soft away, In health of body, peace of mind, Quiet by day, Sound sleep by night; study and ease, Together mixed; sweet recreation; And innocence, which most does please, With meditation. Thus let me live, unseen, unknown; Thus unlamented let me die; Steal from the world, and not a stone Tell where I lie. — Alexander Pope
11. A Thought For A Lonely Death-Bed
If God compel thee to this destiny, To die alone, with none beside thy bed To ruffle round with sobs thy last word said And mark with tears the pulses ebb from thee,– Pray then alone, ‘ O Christ, come tenderly! By thy forsaken Sonship in the red Drear wine-press,–by the wilderness out-spread,– And the lone garden where thine agony Fell bloody from thy brow,–by all of those Permitted desolations, comfort mine! No earthly friend being near me, interpose No deathly angel ‘twixt my face aud thine, But stoop Thyself to gather my life’s rose, And smile away my mortal to Divine! ‘ —Elizabeth Barrett Browning
12. Speak of the North! A Lonely Moor
Speak of the North! A lonely moor Silent and dark and tractless swells, The waves of some wild streamlet pour Hurriedly through its ferny dells. Profoundly still the twilight air, Lifeless the landscape; so we deem Till like a phantom gliding near A stag bends down to drink the stream. And far away a mountain zone, A cold, white waste of snow-drifts lies, And one star, large and soft and lone, Silently lights the unclouded skies. — Charlotte Brontë
13. The Loneliness One Dare Not Sound
The Loneliness One dare not sound— And would as soon surmise As in its Grave go plumbing To ascertain the size— The Loneliness whose worst alarm Is lest itself should see— And perish from before itself For just a scrutiny— The Horror not to be surveyed— But skirted in the Dark— With Consciousness suspended— And Being under Lock— I fear me this—is Loneliness— The Maker of the soul Its Caverns and its Corridors Illuminate—or seal— — Emily Dickinson
Short Poems About Loneliness
The fewest of words can make the most impact when wielded by a master poet. Here are a few examples.
14. I’m Nobody! Who are you?
I’m Nobody! Who are you? Are you – Nobody – too? Then there’s a pair of us! Don’t tell! they’d advertise – you know! How dreary – to be – Somebody! How public – like a Frog – To tell one’s name – the livelong June – To an admiring Bog! — Emily Dickinson
15. On Broadway
About me young, careless feet Linger along the garish street; Above, a hundred shouting signs Shed down their fantastic bright glow Upon the merry crowd and lines Of moving carriages below. Oh wonderful is Broadway-only My heart, my heart is lonely. Desire naked, linked with Passion, Goes trutting by in brazen fashion; From playhouse, cabaret, and inn The rainbow lights of Broadway blaze All gay without, all glad within; As in a dream, I stand and gaze At Broadway, shining Broadway-only My heart, my heart is lonely. — Claude McKay
16. Flood: Years of Solitude
To the one who sets a second place at the table anyway. To the one at the back of the empty bus. To the ones who name each piece of stained glass projected on a white wall. To anyone convinced that a monologue is a conversation with the past. To the one who loses with the deck he marked. To those who are destined to inherit the meek. To us. — Dionisio D. Martínez
17. Those Winter Sundays
Sundays too my father got up early and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold, then with cracked hands that ached from labor in the weekday weather made banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him. I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking. When the rooms were warm, he’d call, and slowly I would rise and dress, fearing the chronic angers of that house, Speaking indifferently to him, who had driven out the cold and polished my good shoes as well. What did I know, what did I know of love’s austere and lonely offices? — Robert Hayden
18. Things
What happened is, we grew lonely living among the things, so we gave the clock a face, the chair a back, the table four stout legs which will never suffer fatigue. We fitted our shoes with tongues as smooth as our own and hung tongues inside bells so we could listen to their emotional language, and because we loved graceful profiles the pitcher received a lip, the bottle a long, slender neck. Even what was beyond us was recast in our image; we gave the country a heart, the storm an eye, the cave a mouth so we could pass into safety. — Lisel Mueller
19. The Lonely Street
School is over. It is too hot to walk at ease. At ease in light frocks they walk the streets to while the time away. They have grown tall. They hold pink flames in their right hands. In white from head to foot, with sidelong, idle look– in yellow, floating stuff, black sash and stockings— touching their avid mouths with pink sugar on a stick– like a carnation each holds in her hand– they mount the lonely street. — William Carlos Williams
20. One Lonely Afternoon
Since the fern can’t go to the sink for a drink of water, I graciously submit myself to the task, bringing two glasses from the sink. And so we sit, the fern and I, sipping water together. Of course I’m more complex than a fern, full of deep thoughts as I am. But I lay this aside for the easy company of an afternoon friendship. I don’t mind sipping water with a fern, even though, had I my druthers, I’d be speeding through the sky for Stockholm, sipping a bloody mary with a wedge of lime. And so we sit one lonely afternoon sipping water together. The fern looking out of its fronds, and I, looking out of mine . . . — Russell Edson
21. Evening Was Lonely
The evening was lonely for me, and I was reading a book till my heart became dry, and it seemed to me that beauty was a thing fashioned by the traders in words. Tired I shut the book and snuffed the candle. In a moment the room was flooded with moonlight. Spirit of Beauty, how could you, whose radiance overbrims the sky, stand hidden behind a candle’s tiny flame? How could a few vain words from a book rise like a mist, and veil her whose voice has hushed the heart of earth into ineffable calm? — Rabindranath Tagore
22. Lonely Am I
Lonely are the nights Lonely are the days Lonely am I, in so many ways Lonely are the seasons Lonely are the years So lonely am I, that it brings tears. Lonely is this place Lonely is my life Lonely am I, that I reach for a knife Lonely is this court room Lonely is my sentence So lonely am I that I ask for repentance. — Jim Foulk
23. Are You Lonely Tonight
Are you lonely tonight Because your heart was broken? Are you lonely tonight, Shedding tears from all the emotion? Please don’t be shy. Just tell me if its okay for me to dropp by. I’ll be the man you’ve always dreamed of. I’ll hold you close to me and show you love. I’ll help you through your pain and sorrow. And after you wake up tomorrow, We’ll take a walk near the ocean shore. As time goes by, I’ll love you more and more. — Jeff Fleischer
Sad Lonely Poems
Having no one to share your pain can be tormenting and these poems capture this state to perfection.
24. In My Own Shire, If I Was Sad
In my own shire, if I was sad, Homely comforters I had: The earth, because my heart was sore, Sorrowed for the son she bore; And standing hills, long to remain, Shared their short-lived comrade’s pain And bound for the same bourn as I, On every road I wandered by, Trod beside me, close and dear, The beautiful and death-struck year: Whether in the woodland brown I heard the beechnut rustle down, And saw the purple crocus pale Flower about the autumn dale; Or littering far the fields of May Lady-smocks a-bleaching lay, And like a skylit water stood The bluebells in the azured wood. Yonder, lightening other loads, The seasons range the country roads, But here in London streets I ken No such helpmates, only men; And these are not in plight to bear, If they would, another’s care. They have enough as ’tis: I see In many an eye that measures me The mortal sickness of a mind Too unhappy to be kind. Undone with misery, all they can Is to hate their fellow man; And till they drop they needs must still Look at you and wish you ill. — A. E. Housman
25. I Am!
I am! yet what I am none cares or knows, My friends forsake me like a memory lost; I am the self-consumer of my woes, They rise and vanish in oblivious host, Like shades in love and death’s oblivion lost; And yet I am! and live with shadows tost Into the nothingness of scorn and noise, Into the living sea of waking dreams, Where there is neither sense of life nor joys, But the vast shipwreck of my life’s esteems; And e’en the dearest—that I loved the best— Are strange—nay, rather stranger than the rest. I long for scenes where man has never trod; A place where woman never smil’d or wept; There to abide with my creator, God, And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept: Untroubling and untroubled where I lie; The grass below—above the vaulted sky. — John Clare
26. I Am Much Too Alone in This World, Yet Not Alone
I am much too alone in this world, yet not alone enough to truly consecrate the hour. I am much too small in this world, yet not small enough to be to you just object and thing, dark and smart. I want my free will and want it accompanying the path which leads to action; and want during times that beg questions, where something is up, to be among those in the know, or else be alone. I want to mirror your image to its fullest perfection, never be blind or too old to uphold your weighty wavering reflection. I want to unfold. Nowhere I wish to stay crooked, bent; for there I would be dishonest, untrue. I want my conscience to be true before you; want to describe myself like a picture I observed for a long time, one close up, like a new word I learned and embraced, like the everday jug, like my mother’s face, like a ship that carried me along through the deadliest storm. — Rainer Maria Rilke
27. Lonely Is Just One Word
Lonely is just one word chosen to represent so much To tell of feelings inside that the senses cannot touch Lonely can be in the teardrops on a bereaved person’s cheek Lonely can be in the silence of sorrows too deep to speak Lonely can haunt a deserted room that Laughter once made proud Lonely surrounds you when you’re alone or finds you in a crowd Lonely is heard in echoed footsteps of a departing friend Lonely penetrates the solitude of nights that will not end Lonely will not listen to the pleadings of a broken heart Lonely stays and torments until new Love shatters it apart — Mary Havran
28. On Broadway
About me young careless feet Linger along the garish street; Above, a hundred shouting signs Shed down their bright fantastic glow Upon the merry crowd and lines Of moving carriages below. Oh wonderful is Broadway — only My heart, my heart is lonely. Desire naked, linked with Passion, Goes trutting by in brazen fashion; From playhouse, cabaret and inn The rainbow lights of Broadway blaze All gay without, all glad within; As in a dream I stand and gaze At Broadway, shining Broadway — only My heart, my heart is lonely. — Claude McKay
