Death poems
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Biography In The First Person
© Stephen Dunn
This is not the way I am.
Really, I am much taller in person,
the hairline I conceal reaches back
to my grandfather, and the shyness my wife
Welcome
© Stephen Dunn
if you believe nothing is always what's left
after a while, as I did,
If you believe you have this collection
of ungiven gifts, as I do (right here
The Routine Things Around The House
© Stephen Dunn
When Mother died
I thought: now I'll have a death poem.
That was unforgivable.
Allegory Of The Cave
© Stephen Dunn
He climbed toward the blinding light
and when his eyes adjusted
he looked down and could see
Blue Squills
© Sara Teasdale
How many million Aprils came
Before I ever knew
How white a cherry bough could be,
A bed of squills, how blue!
If Death Is Kind
© Sara Teasdale
Perhaps if Death is kind, and there can be returning,
We will come back to earth some fragrant night,
And take these lanes to find the sea, and bending
Breathe the same honeysuckle, low and white.
It Will Not Change
© Sara Teasdale
It will not change now
After so many years;
Life has not broken it
With parting or tears;
Love And Death
© Sara Teasdale
Shall we, too, rise forgetful from our sleep,
And shall my soul that lies within your hand
Remember nothing, as the blowing sand
Forgets the palm where long blue shadows creep
When winds along the darkened desert sweep?
I Thought Of You
© Sara Teasdale
I thought of you and how you love this beauty,
And walking up the long beach all alone
I heard the waves breaking in measured thunder
As you and I once heard their monotone.
Stanzas
© Charlotte Bronte
IF thou be in a lonely place,
If one hour's calm be thine,
As Evening bends her placid face
O'er this sweet day's decline;
Frances
© Charlotte Bronte
SHE will not sleep, for fear of dreams,
But, rising, quits her restless bed,
And walks where some beclouded beams
Of moonlight through the hall are shed.
Gilbert
© Charlotte Bronte
I. THE GARDEN.ABOVE the city hung the moon,
Right o'er a plot of ground
Where flowers and orchard-trees were fenced
With lofty walls around:
Apostasy
© Charlotte Bronte
THIS last denial of my faith,
Thou, solemn Priest, hast heard;
And, though upon my bed of death,
I call not back a word.
Winter Stores
© Charlotte Bronte
WE take from life one little share,
And say that this shall be
A space, redeemed from toil and care,
From tears and sadness free.
The Missionary
© Charlotte Bronte
Lough, vessel, plough the British main,
Seek the free ocean's wider plain;
Leave English scenes and English skies,
Unbind, dissever English ties;
Pilate's Wife's Dream
© Charlotte Bronte
I've quenched my lamp, I struck it in that start
Which every limb convulsed, I heard it fall
The crash blent with my sleep, I saw depart
Its light, even as I woke, on yonder wall;
Over against my bed, there shone a gleam
Strange, faint, and mingling also with my dream.
The Teacher's Monologue
© Charlotte Bronte
The room is quiet, thoughts alone
People its mute tranquillity;
The yoke put on, the long task done,
I am, as it is bliss to be,
Mementos
© Charlotte Bronte
I scarcely think, for ten long years,
A hand has touched these relics old;
And, coating each, slow-formed, appears,
The growth of green and antique mould.
Parting
© Charlotte Bronte
THERE'S no use in weeping,
Though we are condemned to part:
There's such a thing as keeping
A remembrance in one's heart:
On The Death Of Anne Bronte
© Charlotte Bronte
There's little joy in life for me,
And little terror in the grave;
I've lived the parting hour to see
Of one I would have died to save.
