Death poems
/ page 432 of 560 /
I Am
© Judith Skillman
Poem by Anne-Marie Derése, translated by Judith Skillman.I am the red brand
on the shoulder of the condemned,
the gallows and the rope,
the ax and the block,
I Shall not Die for Thee
© Padraic Colum
I shall not die because of you,
O woman, though you shame the swan;
They were foolish men you killed;
Do not think me a foolish man.
To A Child Embracing His Mother
© Thomas Hood
Love thy mother, little one!
Kiss and clasp her neck again,
Hereafter she may have a son
Will kiss and clasp her neck in vain.
Tom Taylor
© Robert Graves
On pay-day nights, neck-full with beer,
Old soldiers stumbling homeward here,
At Noon--And Midnight
© James Whitcomb Riley
Far in the night, and yet no rest for him! The pillow next his own
The wife's sweet face in slumber pressed--yet he awake--alone!
alone!
In vain he courted sleep;--one thought would ever in his heart
arise,--
The harsh words that at noon had brought the teardrops to her eyes.
Death
© Percy Bysshe Shelley
I.
They die--the dead return not--Misery
Sits near an open grave and calls them over,
A Youth with hoary hair and haggard eye--
Madness
© Henry James Pye
Here some grave Man whose head with prudence fraught
Was ne'er disturb'd by one eccentric thought,
Who without meaning rolls his leaden eyes,
And being stupid, fancies he is wise,
May with sagacious sneers my case deplore,
And urge the use of rest, and Hellebore.
Little Sleep's-Head Sprouting Hair In The Moonlight
© Galway Kinnell
I have heard you tell
the sun, don't go down, I have stood by
as you told the flower, don't grow old,
don't die. Little Maud,
Our Mountain Cemetery
© Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
Lonely and silent and calm it lies
Neath rosy dawn or midnight skies;
So densely peopled, yet so still,
The murmuring voice of mountain rill,
The plaint the wind mid branches wakes,
Alone the solemn silence breaks.
Ode To Walt Whitman
© Stephen Vincent Benet
"Let me taste all, my flesh and my fat are sweet,
My body hardy as lilac, the strong flower.
I have tasted the calamus; I can taste the nightbane."
Perdita
© Rolf Boldrewood
She is beautiful yet, with her wondrous hair
And eyes that are stormy with fitful light,
The delicate hues of brow and cheek
Are unmarred all, rose-clear and bright;
That matchless frame yet holds at bay
The crouching bloodhounds, Remorse, Decay.
His Ladys Death
© Pierre de Ronsard
Twain that were foes, while Mary lived, are fled;
One laurel-crowned abides in heaven, and one
The Last Rose
© John Davidson
'O WHICH is the last rose?'
A blossom of no name.
At midnight the snow came;
At daybreak a vast rose,
In darkness unfurl'd,
O'er-petall'd the world.
Song of a Train
© John Davidson
A monster taught
To come to hand
Amain,
As swift as thought
Across the land
The train.
A Loafer
© John Davidson
I hang about the streets all day,
At night I hang about;
I sleep a little when I may,
But rise betimes the morning's scout;
For through the year I always hear
Afar, aloft, a ghostly shout.
The Wizard Way
© Aleister Crowley
He had crucified a toad
In the basilisk abode,
Muttering the Runes averse
Mad with many a mocking curse.
The Twins
© Aleister Crowley
Yea ! let the south wind blow,
And the Turkish banner advance,
And the word go out : No quarter !
But I shall hod thee -so !
While the boys and maidens dance
About the shambles of slaughter !
The Rhyme of the Three Greybeards
© Henry Lawson
He'd been for years in Sydney "a-acting of the goat",
His name was Joseph Swallow, "the Great Australian Pote",
In spite of all the stories and sketches that he wrote.
The Priestess of Panormita
© Aleister Crowley
Hear me, Lord of the Stars!
For thee I have worshipped ever
With stains and sorrows and scars,
With joyful, joyful endeavour.
