Death poems
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Titanic
© Crosland Thomas William Hodgson
Upon the tinkling splintery battlementsWhich swing and tumble south in ghostly whiteBehemoth rushes blindly from the night,Behemoth whom we have praised on instrumentsDulcet and shrill and impudent with vents:Behemoth whose huge body was our delightAnd miracle, wallows where there is no light,Shattered and crumpled and torn with pitiful rents
Marching On
© Crosland Thomas William Hodgson
I heard the young lads singing In the still morning air,Gaily the notes came ringing Across the lilac'd square;They sang like happy children Who know not doubt or care, "As WE GO MARCHING ON."
Charing Cross
© Crosland Thomas William Hodgson
At five o'clock they ring a tinkly bell;The April dawn glimmers along the beds,There is a lifting up of weary headsFrom weary pillows
Antarctic
© Crosland Thomas William Hodgson
What tale is this which stirs a world of knavesOut of its grubbing to throw greasy penceForth to the hat, and choke with eloquenceIn boastful prose and verse of doubtful staves?Four men have died, gentlemen, heroes, braves;Snows wrap them round eternally
Malcolm's Katie: A Love Story
© Isabella Valancy Crawford
Part IA silver ring that he had beaten outFrom that same sacred coin--first well-priz'd wageFor boyish labour, kept thro' many years
The Task: from Book IV: The Winter Evening
© William Cowper
Hark! 'tis the twanging horn! O'er yonder bridge,That with its wearisome but needful lengthBestrides the wintry flood, in which the moonSees her unwrinkled face reflected bright,He comes, the herald of a noisy world,With spatter'd boots, strapp'd waist, and frozen locks;News from all nations lumb'ring at his back
"Less than the Dust"
© Cory Adela Florence Nicolson
Less than the dust, beneath thy Chariot wheel,Less than the rust, that never stained thy Sword,Less than the trust thou hast in me, Oh, Lord, Even less than these!
How Did You Die?
© Cooke Edmund Vance
Did you tackle that trouble that came your way With a resolute heart and cheerful?Or hide your face from the light of day With a craven soul and fearful?Oh, a trouble's a ton, or a trouble's an ounce, Or a trouble is what you make it,And it isn't the fact that you're hurt that counts, But only how did you take it?
You are beaten to earth? Well, well, what's that? Come up with a smiling face
Don't Take Your Troubles to Bed
© Cooke Edmund Vance
You may labor your fill, friend of mine, if you will; You may worry a bit, if you must;You may treat your affairs as a series of cares, You may live on a scrap and a crust;But when the day's done, put it out of your head;Don't take your troubles to bed
The Lament of the Forest
© Cole Thomas
In joyous Summer, when the exulting earthFlung fragrance from innumerable flowersThrough the wide wastes of heaven, as on she tookIn solitude her everlasting way,I stood among the mountain heights, alone!The beauteous mountains, which the voyagerOn Hudson's breast far in the purple westMagnificent, beholds; the abutments broadWhence springs the immeasurable dome of heaven
Reading Titus Andronicus In Three Mile Plains, N.S.
© Clarke George Elliott
Rue: When Witnesses sat before Bibles open like platesAnd spat sour sermons of interposition and nullification,While burr-orchards vomited bushels of thorns, and leavesRattled like uprooted skull-teeth across rough highways,And stars ejected brutal, serrated, heart-shredding light,And dark brothers lied down, quare, in government graves,Their white skulls jabbering amid farmer's dead flowers -
The Ballad of Othello Clemence
© Clarke George Elliott
There's a black wind howlin' by Whylah Falls;There's a mad rain hammerin' the flowers;There's a shotgunned man moulderin' in petals;There's a killer chucklin' to himself;There's a mother keenin' her posied son;There's a joker amblin' over his bones
