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The saddest of all the Muses must be Melpomene,   for
she is the goddess that inspires the lore of tragedy.

Some examples can be found here:

One More Fortunate by Conal O'Riordan, a short account
of the author's acquaintance with a WWI poet-soldier
who wrote renowned anti-war poetry from his own
experience, before his death in combat.  

Another eye-opening, heart-rending glimpse into the soul
Harriet Beecher Stowe, the multi-faceted writer and
activist, is shown in this poem.

Pietro Bembo laments on the loss of his friend here.

A mournful
poem from the Renaissance,

and a 19th century poem equally sad is also

there is also a short, short story called
The Maelstrom.

More Elizabethan angst, by  
Francis Quarles.

Another story that proves the power of good literature:
The Cypress Crown by  La Motte Fouque translated from
the French by an anonymous or uncredited Dutch
translator.   The translation is a literal one, but despite
the minor awkwardness (although it does add  interest)
of some of the phrasing, the story is still well told and
evocative.   It is proof that a great story can transcend
language differences.  The meaning here is
not  'lost in
translation' --  still eerie, still gloomy, still sad.

The White Wolf of Kostopchin by Sir Gilbert Campbell is
a short story from the early 1900's that Melpomene
would be proud of.

The ancient tale of doomed lovers, told best by Luigi da
Porto, 16th century soldier-poet,  in
La Giulietta,
translated by Thomas Roscoe.

The Haunted Ships, by Allen Cunningham.

To Weep Irish, a poem by Lionel Johnson.

Dead Love, by Algernon Charles Swinburne.

Oh me, oh my!  Walt Whitman wrote a collection of
poems called
Memories of Abraham Lincoln.  The two
best are these:  
O Captain! My Captain! and The Wound-

Rustic Chivalry by Giovanni Verga, a 19th century short
tragedy.  The translator from the Italian of  
is unattributed as well -- another sort of

A sad, sad poem,
Carcassonne, by M. E. W. Sherwood.

A Lament by Sir William Davenant (17th Century).


    PRESERVE thy sighs, unthrifty girl.
        To purify the air;
    Thy tears to thread, instead of pearl,
        On bracelets of thy hair.

    The trumpet makes the echo hoarse,
       And wakes the louder drum;
    Expense of grief gains no remorse
        When sorrow should be dumb:

    For I must go where lazy Peace
       Will hide her drowsy head,
    And, for the sport of kings, increase
        The number of the dead.

    But first I'll chide thy cruel theft:
        Can I in war delight
    Who, being of my heart bereft,
        Can have no heart to fight?

    Thou know'st the sacred laws of old
        Ordained a thief should pay,
    To quit him of his theft, sevenfold
        What he had stol'n away.

    Thy payment shall but double be:
        O then with speed resign
    My own seduced heart to me
        Accompanied with thine.

This poem was modernized by A. H. Bullen, from Musa
Proterva: Love-Poems of he Restoration;
London: privately
printed; 1889, pp
. 6-7.

The ultimate tragico-spooky poem of lost love:
Annabel Lee by Edgar Allan Poe.