Death poems
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The Iron Crags
© Madison Julius Cawein
UPON the iron crags of War I heard his terrible daughters
In battle speak while at their feet,
In gulfs of human waters,
A voice, intoning, "Where is God?" in ceaseless sorrow beat:
A Mother In Egypt
© Marjorie Lowry Christie Pickthall
"About midnight will I go out into the midst of Egypt: and all the firstborn in the land of Egypt shall die, from the firstborn of Pharaoh that sitteth upon the throne, even unto the firstborn of the maid-servant that is behind the mill."
35. Epitaph on William Hood, Senior
© Robert Burns
HERE Souter Hood in death does sleep;
To hell if hes gane thither,
Satan, gie him thy gear to keep;
Hell haud it weel thegither.
88. The Authors Earnest Cry and Prayer
© Robert Burns
Scotland, my auld, respected mither!
Tho whiles ye moistify your leather,
Till, whare ye sit on craps o heather,
Ye tine your dam;
Freedom an whisky gang thegither!
Take aff your dram!
The Debt Unpayable
© Francis William Bourdillon
What have I given,
Bold sailor on the sea?
In earth or heaven,
That you should die for me?
137. SongFarewell to the Banks of Ayr
© Robert Burns
THE GLOOMY night is gathring fast,
Loud roars the wild, inconstant blast,
Yon murky cloud is foul with rain,
I see it driving oer the plain;
Der Scheidende
© Heinrich Heine
It has died in me, as it must,
Every idle, earthly lust,
My hatred too of wickedness,
Utterly now, even the sense,
The Battle Of Salamis
© Aeschylus
The night was passing, and the Grecian host
By no means sought to issue forth unseen.
27. The Death and Dying Words of Poor Mailie
© Robert Burns
O thou, whase lamentable face
Appears to mourn my woefu case!
My dying words attentive hear,
An bear them to my Master dear.
Sonnet LXXIV. The Winter Night
© Charlotte Turner Smith
"SLEEP, that knits up the ravell'd sleeve of care,"
Forsakes me, while the chill and sullen blast,
As my sad soul recalls its sorrows past,
Seems like a summons bidding me prepare
459. Sonnet on the Death of Robert Riddell
© Robert Burns
NO more, ye warblers of the wood! no more;
Nor pour your descant grating on my soul;
Thou young-eyed Spring! gay in thy verdant stole,
More welcome were to me grim Winters wildest roar.
The Death Of Schiller
© William Cullen Bryant
'Tis said, when Schiller's death drew nigh,
The wish possessed his mighty mind,
To wander forth wherever lie
The homes and haunts of human-kind.
119. Epitaph for Robert Aiken, Esq.
© Robert Burns
KNOW thou, O stranger to the fame
Of this much lovd, much honoured name!
(For none that knew him need be told)
A warmer heart death neer made cold.
Episode In A Library
© Zbigniew Herbert
A blonde girl is bent over a poem. With a pencil sharp as a lancet she transfers the words to a blank page and changes them into strokes, accents, caesuras. The lament of a fallen poet now looks like a salamander eaten away by ants.
When we carried him away under machine-gun fire, I believed that his still warm body would be resurrected in the word. Now as I watch the death of the words, I know there is no limit to decay. All that will be left after us in the black earth will be scattered syllables. Accents over nothingness and dust.
Astrophel And Stella-Fourth Song
© Sir Philip Sidney
Only joy, now here you are,
Fit to hear and ease my care:
Let my whispering voice obtain
Sweet reward for sharpest pain.
Take me to thee, and thee to me.
"No, no, no, no, my dear, let be."
121. Epitaph on Wee Johnnie
© Robert Burns
WHOEER thou art, O reader, know
That Death has murderd Johnie;
An here his body lies fu low;
For saul he neer had ony.
"Choose You This Day Whom Ye Will Serve"
© Oliver Wendell Holmes
YES, tyrants, you hate us, and fear while you hate
The self-ruling, chain-breaking, throne-shaking State!
The night-birds dread morning,--your instinct is true,--
The day-star of Freedom brings midnight for you!
351. Second Epistle to Robert Graham, Esq., of Fintry
© Robert Burns
Criticsappalld, I venture on the name;
Those cut-throat bandits in the paths of fame:
Bloody dissectors, worse than ten Monroes;
He hacks to teach, they mangle to expose:
The Bards Who Lived at Manly
© Henry Lawson
The camp of high-class spielers,
Who sneered in summer dress,
