Death poems
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The Fire
© Edith Nesbit
I was picking raspberries, my head was in the canes,
And he came behind and kissed me, and I smacked him for his pains.
A Lost Love
© Henry Francis Lyte
I meet thy pensive, moonlight face;
Thy thrilling voice I hear;
And former hours and scenes retrace,
Too fleeting, and too dear!
To Sergei Esenin
© Vladimir Mayakovsky
You have passed, as they say, into worlds elsewhere.
Emptiness...
Fly, cutting your way into starry dubiety.
No advances, no pubs for you there.
Accolon Of Gaul: Part IV
© Madison Julius Cawein
Hate, born of Wrath and mother red of Crime,
In Hell was whelped ere the hot hands of time,
After Death
© Algernon Charles Swinburne
THE FOUR boards of the coffin lid
Heard all the dead man did.
With Deaths' Prophetic Ear
© Frank Dalby Davison
Lay my rifle here beside me, set my Bible on my breast,
For a moment let the warning bugles cease;
Children's Playground In The City
© Edith Nesbit
THIS is a place where men laid their dead,
Each with his life-tale of good or ill;
On Invalids (From The Greek)
© William Cowper
Far happier are the dead, methinks, than they
Who look for death, and fear it every day.
The Love Sonnets Of Proteus. Part IV: Vita Nova: XCVI
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
ON THE SHORTNESS OF TIME
If I could live without the thought of death,
Forgetful of time's waste, the soul's decay,
I would not ask for other joy than breath
The Unhappy Lot Of Mr. Knott
© James Russell Lowell
My worthy friend, A. Gordon Knott,
From business snug withdrawn,
Was much contented with a lot
That would contain a Tudor cot
'Twixt twelve feet square of garden-plot,
And twelve feet more of lawn.
The Murdered Lover
© Paul Laurence Dunbar
Say a mass for my soul's repose, my brother,
Say a mass for my soul's repose, I need it,
Lovingly lived we, the sons of one mother,
Mine was the sin, but I pray you not heed it.
A Little Child Shall Lead Them
© Frances Ellen Watkins Harper
Eagerly he grasped the writing;
"I am free!" at last he said.
Backward fell upon the pillow,
He was free among the dead.
To A Sleeping Child
© Thomas Hood
I
Oh, 'tis a touching thing, to make one weep,
A tender infant with its curtain'd eye,
Breathing as it would neither live nor die
Grace Jennings Carmicheal
© Henry Lawson
I hate the pen, the foolscap fair,
The poets corner, and the page,
The Courage Of Shutting-Up
© Sylvia Plath
The courage of the shut mouth, in spite of artillery!
The line pink and quiet, a worm, basking.
There are black disks behind it, the disks of outrage,
And the outrage of a sky, the lined brain of it.
The disks revolve, they ask to be heard
Tomes
© William Taylor Collins
There is a section in my library for death
and another for Irish history,
A Tombless Epitaph
© Samuel Taylor Coleridge
'Tis true, Idoloclastes Satyrane!
(So call him, for so mingling blame with praise,
And smiles with anxious looks, his earliest friends,
Masking his birth-name, wont to character
Hiroshima Child
© Nazim Hikmet
I come and stand at every door
But none can hear my silent tread
I knock and yet remain unseen
For I am dead for I am dead
When The Duke of Clarence Died
© Henry Lawson
LET US sing in tear-choked numbers how the Duke of Clarence went,
Just to make a royal sorrow rather more pre-eminent.
Ladies sighed and sobbed and drivelledtoadies spoke with bated breath,
And the banners floating half-mast made a mockery of death,
And they said Australia sorrowed for the Princes deaththey lied!
She had done with kings and princes ere the Duke of Clarence died.
Lines On Seeing My Wife And Two Children Sleeping In The Same Chamber
© Thomas Hood
And has the earth lost its so spacious round,
The sky its blue circumference above,
That in this little chamber there is found
Both earth and heavenmy universe of love!
