Death poems
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John Donne - The Paradox
© John Donne
No Lover saith, I love, nor any other
Can judge a perfect Lover;
Hee thinkes that else none can, nor will agree
That any loves but hee;
A Valediction: Of Weeping
© John Donne
Let me pour forth
My tears before thy face, whilst I stay here,
For thy face coins them, and thy stamp they bear,
And by this mintage they are something worth,
Elegy I: Jealousy
© John Donne
Fond woman, which wouldst have thy husband die,
And yet complain'st of his great jealousy;
If swol'n with poison, he lay in his last bed,
His body with a sere-bark covered,
Holy Sonnet VII: At The Round Earth's Imagined Corners Blow
© John Donne
At the round earth's imagined corners blow
Your trumpets, angels, and arise, arise
From death, you numberless infinities
Of souls, and to your scattered bodies go,
A Hymn To God The Father
© John Donne
Wilt thou forgive that sin where I begun,
Which is my sin, though it were done before?
Wilt thou forgive that sin through which I run,
And do run still, though still I do deplore?
When thou hast done, thou hast not done,
For I have more.
The Flea
© John Donne
Mark but this flea, and mark in this,
How little that which thou deny'st me is;
It sucked me first, and now sucks thee,
And in this flea our two bloods mingled be;
For Whom The Bell Tolls
© John Donne
No man is an island,
Entire of itself.
Each is a piece of the continent,
A part of the main.
Holy Sonnet X: Death Be Not Proud
© John Donne
Death, be not proud, though some have callèd thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow
Die not, poor death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
Rainbow (II)
© Michael Burch
You made us hopeful, LORD; where is your Hope
when every lovely Rainbow bright and chill
reflects your Will?
Cleansings
© Michael Burch
Walk here among the walking scepters. Learn
inhuman patience. Flesh can only cleave
to bone this tightly if their hearts believe
that G-d is good, and never mind the Urn.
Fahr an Ice, Apologies to Robert Frost
© Michael Burch
From what I know of death, Ill side with those
whod like to have a say in how it goes:
just make mine cool, cool rocks (twice drowned in likker),
and real fahr off, instead of quicker.
In Praise of Meter
© Michael Burch
If moons and tides in interlocking dance
obey their numbers, what is left to chance?
Should poets be more laxtheir circumstance
as humble as it is?or readers wince
to see their ragged numbers thin, to hear
of Neros death, yet mourn the Cavalier?
At Wilfred Owens Grave
© Michael Burch
What the poet sees,
he sees as a swimmer underwater,
watching the shoreline blur,
sees through his breaths weightless bubbles ...
Both worlds grow obscure.
The Smile on the Face of a Kouros
© William Bronk
This boy, of course, was dead, whatever that
might mean. And nobly dead. I think we should feel
he was nobly dead. He fell in battle, perhaps,
and this carved stone remembers him
Cloris Charmes Dissolved by EUDORA.
© Anne Killigrew
For there's no Light,
But all is Night,
And Darkness that you meet.
A Pastoral Dialogue (Melibæus, Alcippe, Asteria, Licida, Alcimedon, and Amira. )
© Anne Killigrew
Melibæus. WElcome fair Nymphs, most welcome to this shade,
Distemp'ring Heats do now the Plains invade:
But you may sit, from Sun securely here,
If you an old mans company not fear.
The Discontent.
© Anne Killigrew
I.
HEre take no Care, take here no Care, my Muse,
Nor ought of Art or Labour use:
But let thy Lines rude and unpolisht go,
Upon the saying that my VERSES were made by another.
© Anne Killigrew
The Deity that ever does attend
Prayers so sincere, to mine did condescend.
I writ, and the Judicious prais'd my Pen:
Could any doubt Insuing Glory then ?
The Miseries of Man
© Anne Killigrew
As a fit Place to take the sad Relief
Of Sighs and Tears, to ease oppressing Grief.
Near to the Mourning Nimph she chose a Seat,
And these Complaints did to the Shades repeat.
On Death.
© Anne Killigrew
No subtile Serpents in the Grave betray,
Worms on the Body there, not Soul do prey;
No Vice there Tempts, no Terrors there afright,
No Coz'ning Sin affords a false delight:
No vain Contentions do that Peace annoy,
No feirce Alarms break the lasting Joy.
