Death poems
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The Wold Vok Dead
© William Barnes
My days, wi' wold vo'k all but gone,
An' childern now a-comèn on,
The War Sonnets: II Safety
© Rupert Brooke
Dear! of all happy in the hour, most blest
He who has found our hid security,
Shriven
© Henry Cuyler Bunner
A.D. 1425.
I have let the world go.
Thats the door that closed
Behind the holy father. I am shrived.
Bring Them Not Back
© James Benjamin Kenyon
Yet, O my friendpale conjurer, I call
Thee friendbring, bring the dead not back again,
By a Bier-Side
© John Masefield
Beauty was in this brain and in this eager hand:
Death is so blind and dumb Death does not understand.
Death drifts the brain with dust and soils the young limbs' glory,
Death makes justice a dream, and strength a traveller's story.
Death drives the lovely soul to wander under the sky.
Death opens unknown doors. It is most grand to die.
To The Men Of Kent
© William Wordsworth
OCTOBER 1803
VANGUARD of Liberty, ye men of Kent,
Ye children of a Soil that doth advance
Her haughty brow against the coast of France,
Written on a Wall at Woodstock
© Queen Elizabeth I
Oh Fortune, thy wresting wavering state
Hath fraught with cares my troubled wit,
Eavesdropping
© Katharine Lee Bates
THOUGH the winds but stir on their hoary thrones
Of hemlock and pungent pine,
The Breaking Point
© Stephen Vincent Benet
And I began to think . . .
Ah, well,
What matter how I slipped and fell?
Or you, you gutter-searcher say!
Tell where you found me yesterday!
To A Derelict
© Robert Laurence Binyon
O travelled far beyond unhappiness
Into a dreadful peace!
Why tarriest thou here? The street is bright
With noon; the music of the tidal sound
In a Disused Graveyard
© Robert Frost
The living come with grassy tread
To read the gravestones on the hill;
The graveyard draws the living still,
But never anymore the dead.
The Bard's Incantation
© Sir Walter Scott
The Forest of Glenmore is drear,
It is all of black pine, and the dark oak-tree;
The Death of the Hired Man
© Robert Frost
Mary sat musing on the lamp-flame at the table
Waiting for Warren. When she heard his step,
She ran on tip-toe down the darkened passage
To meet him in the doorway with the news
To Count Carlo Pepoli
© Giacomo Leopardi
This wearisome and this distressing sleep
That we call life, O how dost thou support,
The White Peacock
© Stephen Vincent Benet
Go away!
Go away; I will not confess to you!
His black biretta clings like a hangman's cap; under his twitching fingers the beads shiver and click,
As he mumbles in his corner, the shadow deepens upon him;
I will not confess! . . .
With A Guitar, To Jane
© Percy Bysshe Shelley
Ariel to Miranda:-- Take
This slave of music, for the sake
Of him who is the slave of thee;
And teach it all the harmony
The Borough. Letter XXII: Peter Grimes
© George Crabbe
Now lived the youth in freedom, but debarr'd
From constant pleasure, and he thought it hard;
Hard that he could not every wish obey,
But must awhile relinquish ale and play;
Hard! that he could not to his cards attend,
But must acquire the money he would spend.
Home Burial
© Robert Frost
He saw her from the bottom of the stairs
Before she saw him. She was starting down,
Looking back over her shoulder at some fear.
She took a doubtful step and then undid it
My Dancin'-Days Is Over
© James Whitcomb Riley
What is it in old fiddle-chunes 'at makes me ketch my breath
And ripples up my backbone tel I'm tickled most to death?--
Kindo' like that sweet-sick feelin', in the long sweep of a swing,
The first you ever swung in, with yer first sweet-heart, i jing!--
Yer first picnic--yer first ice-cream--yer first o' _ever'thing_
'At happened 'fore yer dancin'-days wuz over!
