Death poems
/ page 251 of 560 /
I. Peace
© Rupert Brooke
Oh! we, who have known shame, we have found release there,
Where there's no ill, no grief, but sleep has mending,
Naught broken save this body, lost but breath;
Nothing to shake the laughing heart's long peace there
But only agony, and that has ending;
And the worst friend and enemy is but Death.
Menelaus and Helen
© Rupert Brooke
High sat white Helen, lonely and serene.
He had not remembered that she was so fair,
And that her neck curved down in such a way;
And he felt tired. He flung the sword away,
And kissed her feet, and knelt before her there,
The perfect Knight before the perfect Queen.
The Song of the Pilgrims
© Rupert Brooke
(Halted around the fire by night, after moon-set, they sing this beneath the trees.)What light of unremembered skies
Hast thou relumed within our eyes,
Thou whom we seek, whom we shall find? . . .
A certain odour on the wind,
1914 I: Peace
© Rupert Brooke
Oh! we, who have known shame, we have found release there,
Where there's no ill, no grief, but sleep has mending,
Naught broken save this body, lost but breath;
Nothing to shake the laughing heart's long peace there
But only agony, and that has ending;
And the worst friend and enemy is but Death.
The Stricken South To The North
© Paul Hamilton Hayne
WHEN ruthful time the South's memorial places--
Her heroes' graves--had wreathed in grass and flowers;
When Peace ethereal, crowned by all her graces,
Returned to make more bright the summer hours;
Now, God Be Thanked Who Has Matched Us With His Hour
© Rupert Brooke
Oh! we who have known shame, we have found release there,
Where there's no ill, no grief, but sleep has mending,
Nought broken save this body, lost but breath;
Nothing to shake the laughing heart's long peace there
But only agony, and that has ending;
And the worst friend and enemy is but Death.
II. Safety
© Rupert Brooke
Dear! of all happy in the hour, most blest
He who has found our hid security,
Assured in the dark tides of the world that rest,
And heard our word, `Who is so safe as we?'
Easter-Day
© Alessandro Manzoni
Yes, HE IS RISEN. That hallowéd head
No longer lies wrapped in the cloth of the dead.
HE IS SURELY RISEN. At the side of the tomb
Lies the overturned door of the solitary room.
Like the valorous champion drunk after strife
The LORD has awaked to omnipotent life;
The Great Lover
© Rupert Brooke
O dear my loves, O faithless, once again
This one last gift I give: that after men
Shall know, and later lovers, far-removed,
Praise you, "All these were lovely"; say "He loved".
To F. W. N. A Birthday Offering
© John Henry Newman
Dear Frank, this morn has usher'd in
The manhood of thy days;
A boy no more, thou must begin
To choose thy future ways;
To brace thy arm, and nerve thy heart,
For maintenance of a noble part.
The Old Vicarage, Granchester
© Rupert Brooke
Just now the lilac is in bloom,
All before my little room;
And in my flower-beds, I think,
Smile the carnation and the pink;
Heaven
© Rupert Brooke
Fish (fly-replete, in depth of June,
Dawdling away their wat'ry noon)
Ponder deep wisdom, dark or clear,
Each secret fishy hope or fear.
The Child
© Isabel Ecclestone Mackay
I MAY not lift him in my arms. His face I may not see--
Are angel hands more tender than a mother's hands may be?
And does he smile to hear the song an angel stole from me?
Chattanooga
© Herman Melville
(November, 1863)A kindling impulse seized the host
Inspired by heaven's elastic air;
Their hearts outran their General's plan,
Though Grant commanded there -
The Troubadour. Canto 2
© Letitia Elizabeth Landon
THE first, the very first; oh! none
Can feel again as they have done;
In love, in war, in pride, in all
The planets of life's coronal,
However beautiful or bright,--
What can be like their first sweet light?
On
© Bob Kaufman
On yardbird corners of embryonic hopes, drowned in a heroin tear.
On yardbird corners of parkerflights to sound filled pockets in space.
On neuro-corners of striped brains & desperate electro-surgeons.
On alcohol corners of pointless discussion & historical hangovers.
Ode On The Death Of A Favourite Cat Drowned In A Tub Of Gold Fishes
© Thomas Gray
Twas on a lofty vase's side,
Where China's gayest art had dyed
The azure flowers that blow;
Demurest of the tabby kind,
The pensive Selima, reclined,
Gazed on the lake below.
