Death poems
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Oh! Death Will Find Me, Long Before I Tire
© Rupert Brooke
Oh! Death will find me, long before I tire
Of watching you; and swing me suddenly
Songs of the Autumn Days
© George MacDonald
We bore him through the golden land,
One early harvest morn;
The corn stood ripe on either hand-
He knew all about the corn.
Written At Trenton Falls
© Frances Anne Kemble
O God! how full of happiness I stood!
Looking into the eyes that were my day,
And felt my soul, borne like that rushing flood,
In eddying tumults of delight away.
Mesopotamia
© Rudyard Kipling
1917They shall not return to us, the resolute, the young,
The eager and whole-hearted whom we gave:
But the men who left them thriftily to die in their own dung,
Shall they come with years and honour to the grave?
The Mary Gloster
© Rudyard Kipling
I've paid for your sickest fancies; I've humoured your crackedest whim --
Dick, it's your daddy, dying; you've got to listen to him!
Good for a fortnight, am I? The doctor told you? He lied.
I shall go under by morning, and -- Put that nurse outside.
The Dead To The Living
© Edith Nesbit
Work while it is day: the night cometh, when no man can work.
IN the childhood of April, while purple woods
The Paradox
© Paul Laurence Dunbar
I am the mother of sorrows,
I am the ender of grief;
I am the bud and the blossom,
I am the late-falling leaf.
Lukannon
© Rudyard Kipling
I met my mates in the morning (and oh, but I am old!)
Where roaring on the ledges the summer ground-swell rolled;
I heard them lift the chorus that dropped the breakers' song --
The beaches of Lukannon -- two million voices strong!
Miles Keogh's Horse
© John Hay
On the bluff of the Little Big-Horn,
At the close of a woful day,
Custer and his Three Hundred
In death and silence lay.
Parables
© Dinah Maria Mulock Craik
WE clutch our joys as children do their flowers;
We look at them, but scarce believe them ours,
Till our hot palms have smirched their colors rare
And crushed their dewy beauty unaware.
In The Gray Of The Evening. Autumn.
© Paul Hamilton Hayne
WHEN o'er yon forest solitudes
The sky of autumn evening broods--
A heaven whose warp, but palely bright,
Shot through with woofs of crimson light,
Metamorphoses: Book The Fourth
© Ovid
The End of the Fourth Book.
Translated into English verse under the direction of
Sir Samuel Garth by John Dryden, Alexander Pope, Joseph Addison,
William Congreve and other eminent hands
Natalias Resurrection: Sonnet XXV
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
Oh, miracle of love! That death, which seems
So hard a master when he holds his prize,
Whom no cajoleries, nor stratagems
Of beauty's power, nor wisdom's sophistries,
The Last Rhyme of True Thomas
© Rudyard Kipling
The King has called for priest and cup,
The King has taken spur and blade
To dub True Thomas a belted knight,
And all for the sake o' the songs he made.
The Last of the Light Brigade
© Rudyard Kipling
There were thirty million English who talked of England's might,
There were twenty broken troopers who lacked a bed for the night.
They had neither food nor money, they had neither service nor trade;
They were only shiftless soldiers, the last of the Light Brigade.
On An Air Of Rameau
© Arthur Symons
A melancholy desire of ancient things
Floats like a faded perfume out of the wires;
Pallid lovers, what unforgotten desires,
Whispered once, are retold in your whisperings?
Songs of the Night Watches (complete)
© Jean Ingelow
Come out and hear the waters shoot, the owlet hoot, the owlet hoot;
Yon crescent moon, a golden boat, hangs dim behind the tree, O!
The dropping thorn makes white the grass, O sweetest lass, and sweetest
lass;
Come out and smell the ricks of hay adown the croft with me, O!”
The Rude Rat And The Unostentatious Oyster
© Guy Wetmore Carryl
Upon the shore, a mile or more
From traffic and confusion,
In the Matter of One Compass
© Rudyard Kipling
Oh, drunken Wave! Oh, driving Cloud!
Rage of the Deep and sterile Rain,
By love upheld, by God allowed,
We go, but we return again!
