Death poems
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The Passing Strange
© John Masefield
Out of the earth to rest or range
Perpetual in perpetual change,
The unknown passing through the strange.
C.l.m.
© John Masefield
IN the dark womb where I began
My mother's life made me a man.
Through all the months of human birth
Her beauty fed my common earth.
I cannot see, nor breathe, nor stir,
But through the death of some of her.
The Everlasting Mercy
© John Masefield
Thy place is biggyd above the sterrys cleer,
Noon erthely paleys wrouhte in so statly wyse,
Com on my freend, my brothir moost enteer,
For the I offryd my blood in sacrifise.
John Lydgate.
Death In Life
© Madison Julius Cawein
Within my veins it beats
And burns within my brain;
For when the year is sad and sear
I dream the dream again.
Sibylline
© Madison Julius Cawein
THERE is a glory in the apple boughs
Of silver moonlight; like a torch of myrrh,
Dora
© Edward Thomas
SHE knelt upon her brother's grave,
My little girl of six years old--
He used to be so good and brave,
The sweetest lamb of all our fold;
Pain
© Edward Thomas
The Man that hath great griefs I pity not;
Tis something to be great
In any wise, and hint the larger state,
Though but in shadow of a shade, God wot!
Exchange
© Vlanes (Vladislav Nekliaev)
Today your things depart. Your faience cup
fell off the table at sunrise and cracked.
Your old grey dog did not come up
the stairs. I went to look for him, he had died
in the long grass, near your library,
under your favourite mango-tree.
Sonnets To Europa
© Vlanes (Vladislav Nekliaev)
Frost apple on a knotted whirling bough
of dark becoming where it cannot be.
So much both for the soil and for the tree,
so much for things that are becoming now.
In November (2)
© Archibald Lampman
With loitering step and quiet eye,
Beneath the low November sky,
I wandered in the woods, and found
A clearing, where the broken ground
Propertius
© Vlanes (Vladislav Nekliaev)
The dead dont know how to cry, they dont
have any hopes to lose, any illusions
to bargain for. Theyre lost
like limpid feathers of a slow bird,
too slow to make it to the other shore.
Wreath Of Sonnets
© Vlanes (Vladislav Nekliaev)
And if sometimes they happen to perform
Some droning dance which smells of here and now,
With springing forms and circles staying warm,
They start to tremble on a pointed prow
Of universe and dream of their home
In whirls destroying leaves to leave a bough.
Melpomene
© Peter Huchel
The forest bitter, spiky,
no shore breeze, no foothills,
the grass grows matted, death will come
with horses' hooves, endlessly
The Passing Of Arthur
© Alfred Tennyson
That story which the bold Sir Bedivere,
First made and latest left of all the knights,
Told, when the man was no more than a voice
In the white winter of his age, to those
With whom he dwelt, new faces, other minds.
Ode (From The Gaelic)
© George Borrow
Is luaimnach mo chodal an nochd.
Oh restless, to night, are my slumbers;
Sonnets XLIX: L: LI: LII: Willowwood
© Dante Gabriel Rossetti
I
I sat with Love upon a woodside well,
To Florence
© George Gordon Byron
Oh Lady! when I left the shore,
The distant shore which gave me birth,
I hardly thought to grieve once more
To quit another spot on earth:
