Death poems

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Fragments from 'Genius Lost'

© Charles Harpur

Prelude
 I SEE the boy-bard neath life’s morning skies,
 While hope’s bright cohorts guess not of defeat,
 And ardour lightens from his earnest eyes,
And faith’s cherubic wings around his being beat.

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Otho And Poppaea: A Dramatic Scene

© Arthur Symons

POPPAEA
I will speak with you
If you will speak for kindness; but your brows
Are sick and stormy: why do you frown on me?
I will not speak unless it is for love.

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The Silken Shoe

© Paul Hamilton Hayne

THE firelight danced and wavered
In elvish, twinkling glee
On the leaves and crimson berries
Of the great green Christmas Tree;

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Tarantula, Or The Dance Of Death

© Anthony Evan Hecht

During the plague I came into my own.
It was a time of smoke-pots in the house
Against infection. The blind head of bone
  Grinned its abuse

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Lynching

© Lizelia Augusta Jenkins Moorer

Have you ever heard of lynching in the great United States?
'Tis an awful, awful story that the Negro man relates,
How the mobs the laws have trampled, both the human and divine,
In their killing helpless people as their cruel hearts incline.

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The Good Shepherd With The Kid

© Matthew Arnold

  _He saves the sheep, the goats he doth not save._
  So rang Tertullian's sentence, on the side
  Of that unpitying Phrygian Sect which cried:
  "Him can no fount of fresh forgiveness lave,

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The Love Sonnets Of Proteus. Part II: To Juliet: XL

© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt

THE SAME CONTINUED
'Tis strange we are thus parted, not by death
Or man's device, but by our own mad will,
We who have stood together on life's path

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The Eve of St. John

© Sir Walter Scott

The baron of Smaylho'me rose with day,
He spurr'd his courser on,
Without stop or stay, down the rocky way,
That leads to Brotherstone.

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Red Jacket

© Fitz-Greene Halleck

COOPER, whose name is with his country's woven,
First in her files, her PIONEER of mind—
A wanderer now in other climes, has proven
His love for the young land he left behind;

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My Darling

© Dora Sigerson Shorter

My darling laughed in the dawning,

And the birds perched low to hear.

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Manchester By Night

© Mathilde Blind

Now toiling multitudes that hustling crush
Each other in the fateful strife for breath,
And, hounded on by diverse hungers, rush
Across the prostrate ones that groan beneath,
Are swathed within the universal hush,
As life exchanges semblances with death.

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The Witch of Wenham

© John Greenleaf Whittier

I.
Along Crane River's sunny slopes
Blew warm the winds of May,
And over Naumkeag's ancient oaks
The green outgrew the gray.

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St. John Baptist's Day

© John Keble

Twice in her season of decay

The fallen Church hath felt Elijah's eye

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The Battle Of The Lake Regillus

© Thomas Babbington Macaulay

A Lay Sung at the Feast of Castor and Pollux on the Ides of Quintilis in the year of the City CCCCLI.

I.

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Thoughts At A Vestibule

© Nikolay Alekseyevich Nekrasov

Heavenly thunder doesn't frighten you,
Earthly thunders you hold in your hands
That is why these unknown men must carry
Grief disconsolate within their hearts.

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Laurance - [Part 3]

© Jean Ingelow

But when that other heard, "It is the end,"
His heart was sick, and he, as by a power
Far stronger than himself, was driven to her.
Reason rebelled against it, but his will
Required it of him with a craving strong
As life, and passionate though hopeless pain.

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The Idumean Cantos 1-12

© Basilio Ponce de Leon

Along the bridge corpulence
In the form of great pigs
Hopping on pogo-sticks
Is headed for their own
Pilgrimage down Southward.

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The Faithful Friend

© Caroline Norton

O, FRIEND! whose heart the grave doth shroud from human joy or woe,
Know'st thou who wanders by thy tomb, with footsteps sad and slow?
Know'st thou whose brow is dark with grief? whose eyes are dim with tears?
Whose restless soul is sinking with its agony of fears?
Whose hope hath fail'd, whose star hath sunk, whose firmest trust deceived,
Since, leaning on thy faithful breast, he loved and believed?

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Don Juan: Canto The Seventh

© George Gordon Byron

O Love! O Glory! what are ye who fly

Around us ever, rarely to alight?

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Stonewall Jackson

© Paul Hamilton Hayne

THE fashions and the forms of men decay,
The seasons perish, the calm sunsets die,
Ne'er with the same bright pomp of cloud or ray
To flush the golden pathways of the sky;