Death poems
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For Christmas Day in the Morning
© Anonymous
The first Nowell the Angel did sayWas to three poor Shepherds in the fields as they lay;In fields where they lay keeping their sheepIn a cold winter's night that was so deep
The Djinns
© Anonymous
Town, tower. Shore, deep, Where lower Cliffs steep; Waves gray. Where play Winds gay, -- All sleep.
The Bells of Hell
© Anonymous
The bells of hell go ting-a-ling-a-lingFor you but not for me:And the little devils how they sing-a-ling-a-lingFor you but not for me
Barbara Allan
© Anonymous
It was in and about the Martinmas time, When the green leaves were a falling,That Sir John Græme, in the West Country, Fell in love with Barbara Allan.
Hymn XIII. [Book I]
© Alline Henry
I.Death reign'd with vigour since the Fall, And rides with fury still;Nor rich nor poor, nor great nor small, Can e'er resist his will.
Hymn XII. [Book III]
© Alline Henry
I.Lord I lay me down to rest,Let me lean upon thy breast;Watch my pillow while I sleep,Thou my soul and body keep.
Hymn VIII [Book I]
© Alline Henry
I.How vain the wretch that dares employHis mind in quest of sensual joy,And for an hour of carnal mirthChain down his soul to endless death!
The Flawed Bell
© Aggeler William F.
It is bitter and sweet on winter nightsTo listen by the fire that smokes and palpitates,To distant souvenirs that rise up slowlyAt the sound of the chimes that sing in the fog.
The Campaign
© Joseph Addison
While crowds of princes your deserts proclaim,Proud in their number to enroll your name;While emperors to you commit their cause,And Anna's praises crown the vast applause,Accept, great leader, what the muse indites,That in ambitious verse records your fights,Fir'd and transported with a theme so new:Ten thousand wonders op'ning to my viewShine forth at once, sieges and storms appear,And wars and conquests fill th' important year,Rivers of blood I see, and hills of slain;An Iliad rising out of one campaign
An Account of the Greatest English Poets (complete)
© Joseph Addison
Since, dearest Harry, you will needs requestA short account of all the muse possess'd;That, down from Chaucer's days to Dryden's times,Have spent their noble rage in British rhymes;Without more preface, wrote in formal length,To speak the undertaker's want of strength,I'll try to make their sev'ral beauties known,And show their verses' worth, though not my own
Voronezh
© Aaron Rafi
The darkness drops its anchor on our lungs and wefeel the weight of each breath
