Death poems
/ page 151 of 560 /
From Faust - VII. MARGARET, Placing Fresh Flowers In The Flower-Pots.
© Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
Piercing my very bone?
The sorrows that my bosom fill,
Its trembling, its aye-yearning will,
Five Critcisms
© Alfred Noyes
Old Pantaloon, lean-witted, dour and rich,
After grim years of soul-destroying greed,
Weds Columbine, that April-blooded witch
"Too young" to know that gold was not her need.
Vision Of Columbus - Book 5
© Joel Barlow
Columbus hail'd them with a father's smile,
Fruits of his cares and children of his toil;
To a Lady on the Death of Three Relations
© Phillis Wheatley
We trace the pow'r of Death from tomb to tomb,
And his are all the ages yet to come.
Planh For The Young English King
© Ezra Pound
If all the grief and woe and bitterness,
All dolour, ill and every evil chance
My Childhood Home I See Again
© Abraham Lincoln
My childhoods home I see again,
And sadden with the view;
And still, as memory crowds my brain,
Theres pleasure in it too.
The Corsair
© George Gordon Byron
1.
'Deep in my soul that tender secret dwells,
Lonely and lost to light for evermore,
Save when to thine my heart responsive swells,
Then trembles into silence as before
Acis and Galatea
© John Gay
Air.
O ruddier than the cherry!
O sweeter than the berry!
O Nymph more bright
Than moonshine night,
Like kidlings blithe and merry!
Beyond The Veil
© Henry Vaughan
They are all gone into the world of light!
And I alone sit ling'ring here;
Twilight
© Fitz-Greene Halleck
THERE is an evening twilight of the heart,
When its wild passion-waves are lulled to rest,
And the eye see's life's fairy scenes depart,
As fades the day-beam in the rosy west.
To The Memory Of The Right Honourable Lord Talbot, Late Chancellor Of Great Britain. Addressed To Hi
© James Thomson
While with the public, you, my Lord, lament
A friend and father lost; permit the muse,
A Dialogue
© Percy Bysshe Shelley
DEATH:
For my dagger is bathed in the blood of the brave,
I come, care-worn tenant of life, from the grave,
Where Innocence sleeps 'neath the peace-giving sod,
St. Francis Of Borgia By The Coffin Of Queen Isabel
© Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
Open the coffin and shroud until
I look on the dead again
The Death of Slavery
© William Cullen Bryant
O THOU great Wrong, that, through the slow-paced years,
Didst hold thy millions fettered, and didst wield
Lines Addressed To The Rev. J. T. Becher, On His Advising The Author To Mix More With Society
© George Gordon Byron
The fire in the cavern of Etna conceal'd
Still mantles unseen in its secret recess;
At length, in a volume terrific reveal'd,
No torrent can quench it, no bounds can repress.
