Death poems

/ page 13 of 560 /

Order by :

1
. . .
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
. . .
560

An Essay on Man: Epistle III

© Alexander Pope

Here then we rest: "The Universal CauseActs to one end, but acts by various laws

A Word From a Petitioner

© Pierpont John

What! our petitions spurned! The prayerOf thousands, -- tens of thousands, -- castUnheard, beneath your Speaker's chair!But ye will hear us, first or last

Song

© Marjorie Lowry Christie Pickthall

I shall not go with painWhether you hold me, whether you forgetMy little loss and my immortal gain.O flower unseen, O fountain sealed apart!Give me one look, one look remembering yet,Sweet heart.

A Woman's Last Word

© Piatt Sarah Morgan Bryan

Promise me nothing. Men are mortal. I Loose from your heart my hand.(The grave is deeper than the heavens are high.) My house .- of Love .- was builded on the sand.

A New Thanksgiving

© Piatt Sarah Morgan Bryan

For war, plague, pestilence, flood, famine, fire, For Christ discrowned, for false gods set on high;For fools, whose hands must have their hearts' desire, We thank Thee

The House below the Hill

© Piatt Sarah Morgan Bryan

You ask me of the farthest star, Whither your thought can climb at will,Forever-questioning child of mine

The Coming of Eve

© Piatt Sarah Morgan Bryan

God gave the world to Man in the Beginning. Alone in Eden there and lord of allHe mused: "There may be one thing worth the winning. (All else is mine.) When will that Apple fall?

Exspes

© Phillimore John Swinnerton

Why sing of suns you cannot see, in vain? -- Here where dull day from night scarce diff'rent pales, And fog as grisly as a dead man's nailsFreezes opaquely at the window pane;

The Splendid Shilling

© Philips John

-- -- Sing, Heavenly Muse,Things unattempted yet in Prose or Rhime,A Shilling, Breeches, and Chimera's Dire.

From low and abject themes the grov'ling museNow mounts aërial, to sing of armsTriumphant, and emblaze the martial actsOf Britain's hero; may the verse not sinkBeneath his merits, but detain a whileThy ear, O Harley, (though thy country's wealDepends on thee, though mighty Anne requiresThy hourly counsels) since with ev'ry artThy self adorn'd, the mean essays of youthThou wilt not damp, but guide, wherever found,The willing genius to the muses' seat:Therefore thee first, and last, the muse shall sing

Good-bye Hello in the East Village 1993

© Peacock Molly

Three tables down from Allen Ginsberg we sitin JJ's Russian Restaurant

Quia Multum Amavit

© John Payne

Just a drowned woman, with death-draggled hair And wan eyes, all a-stare;The weary limbs composed in ghastly rest, The hands together prest,Tight holding something that the flood has spared, Nor even the rough workhouse folk have dared To separate from her wholly, but untiedGently the knotted hands and laid it by her side

In Memoriam "Rover", Ob. July 2, 1902

© John Payne

My little gentle cat, whose eyes no doveMight ever match for truth and tenderness,Whose life was one long effort to express,In thy mute speech, an overflowing love,The wavering love of women far above,I cannot think that death thy gentilesseHath ended all or that thy fond excessIn this thy ten years' span found scope enough

Hélène

© John Payne

When you're grown old and sit before the fire at night,Devising, as you spin by candle-shine, you'll singThe rhymes I made of old and "Ronsard", marvelling

Burning River

I will tell my son over and over again,"Do not let the rivers burn

Where the Brumbies Come to Water

There's a lonely grave half hidden where the blue-grass droops above,And the slab is rough that marks it, but we planted it for love;There's a well-worn saddle hanging in the harness-room at homeAnd a good old stock-horse waiting for the steps that never come;There's a mourning rank of riders closing in on either handO'er the vacant place he left us -- he, the best of all the band,Who is lying cold and silent with his hoarded hopes unwonWhere the brumbies come to water at the setting of the sun