Death poems

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Second Sunday After Epiphany

© John Keble

The heart of childhood is all mirth:
We frolic to and fro
As free and blithe, as if on earth
Were no such thing as woe.

Autumn

© Christina Georgina Rossetti

Mine avenue is all a growth of oaks,
Some rent by thunder strokes,
Some rustling leaves and acorns in the breeze;
Fair fall my fertile trees,
That rear their goodly heads, and live at ease.

A Glance Behind The Curtain

© James Russell Lowell

We see but half the causes of our deeds,

Seeking them wholly in the outer life,

Music

© John Kenyon

Awake, thou Harp! with music stored,

Awake! and let me feel thy power;

My Portrait Gallery

© James Russell Lowell

Oft round my hall of portraiture I gaze,

By Memory reared, the artist wise and holy,

How cold are thy baths, Apollo!
Cried the African monarch, the splendid,
As down to his death in the hollow
Dark dungeons of Rome he descended,
Uncrowned, unthroned, unattended;
How cold are thy baths, Apollo!

Dream-Death

© Robert Crawford

There is a breath at midnight that comes in

Sad as a sigh, for then the day is dead

In Memoriam

© William Lisle Bowles

How blessed with thee the path could I have trod

Of quiet life, above cold want's hard fate,

Autumn

© Frances Anne Kemble

Thou comest not in sober guise,

In mellow cloak of russet clad

The Great Hunger

© Patrick Kavanagh

To The Failures

© Edgar Albert Guest

YOURS is the loser's part to play,

For you the goal is far away

Victoria

White Star of Womanhood, whose rays

Thro years of peace and years of stress

Song II

HO! fetch me the winecup! fill up to the brim!
For my heart has grown cold, and my vision is dim,
And I fain would bring back for a moment the glow,
The swift passion that age has long chilled with its snow;