Death poems
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Sonnet 6: Some Lovers Speak
© Sir Philip Sidney
Some lovers speak when they their Muses entertain,
Of hopes begot by fear, of wot not what desires:
Of force of heav'nly beams, infusing hellish pain:
Of living deaths, dear wounds, fair storms, and freezing fires.
Elegy XII
© John Donne
COME Fates ; I fear you not ! All whom I owe
Are paid, but you ; then 'rest me ere I go.
To A February Primrose
© George MacDonald
I have no words. But fragrant is the breath,
Pale beauty, of thy second life within.
There is a wind that cometh for thy death,
But thou a life immortal dost begin,
Where in one soul, which is thy heaven, shall dwell
Thy spirit, beautiful Unspeakable!
Pharsalia - Book II: The Flight Of Pompeius
© Marcus Annaeus Lucanus
This was made plain the anger of the gods;
The universe gave signs Nature reversed
In monstrous tumult fraught with prodigies
Her laws, and prescient spake the coming guilt.
In Memory of General Grant
© Henry Abbey
WHITE wings of commerce sailing far,
Hot steam that drives the weltering wheel,
Sighs And Grones
© George Herbert
O do not use me
After my sinnes! look not on my desert,
But on thy glorie! then thou wilt reform,
And not refuse me: for thou onely art
The mighty God, but I a sillie worm:
O do not bruise me!
Toward the Close
© Robert Crawford
Time grows upon us until we exhaust
Hope's possibilities, and then we die
The Episode Of Nisus And Euryalus
© George Gordon Byron
'In vain you damp the ardour of my soul,'
Replied Euryalus; 'it scorns control!
Hence, let us haste! '- their brother guards arose,
Roused by their call, nor court again repose;
The pair, bouyed up on Hope's exulting wing,
Their stations leave, and speed to seek the king.
The Crusader
© Robert Laurence Binyon
Effigy mailed and mighty beneath thy mail
That liest asleep with hand upon carved sword--hilt
As ready to waken and strong to stand and hail
Death, where hosts are shaken and hot life spilt;
Of The Loss of Time
© John Hoskins
If life be time that here is lent,
And time on earth be cast away,
Whoso his time hath here misspent,
Hath hastened his own dying day:
So it doth prove a killing crime
To massacre our living time.
The Art Of War. Book III.
© Henry James Pye
Your footsteps now the arsenals have trod
Where lie the treasures of the warrior God;
Yet 'midst his ranks to serve is little fame,
Little avails the soldier's ardent flame,
Unless to all the heights of art you climb,
And reach of martial skill the true sublime.
To Goethe
© Robert Laurence Binyon
Goethe, who saw and who foretold
A world revealed
New--springing from its ashes old
On Valmy field,
Bigotry's Victim
© Percy Bysshe Shelley
I.
Dares the lama, most fleet of the sons of the wind,
The lion to rouse from his skull-covered lair?
When the tiger approaches can the fast-fleeting hind
The Iron Cross
© Madison Julius Cawein
THEY pass, with heavy eyes and hair,
Before the Christ upon the Cross,
The Nations, stricken with their loss,
And lifting faces of despair.
Sonnet 12
© Richard Barnfield
Some talke of Ganymede th' Idalian Boy
And some of faire Adonis make their boast,
