Death poems

/ page 54 of 560 /

Order by :

1
. . .
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
. . .
560

Hero And Leander: The First Sestiad

© Christopher Marlowe

On Hellespont, guilty of true-love's blood,

In view and opposite two cities stood,

Derne

© John Greenleaf Whittier

NIGHT on the city of the Moor!
On mosque and tomb, and white-walled shore,
On sea-waves, to whose ceaseless knock
The narrow harbor gates unlock,

Sonnet LXVI: The Heart of the Night

© Dante Gabriel Rossetti

From child to youth; from youth to arduous man;

From lethargy to fever of the heart;

Eurydice

© Francis William Bourdillon

HE came to call me back from death

To the bright world above.

The Captive Pirate

© Caroline Norton

That the ruin'd fortress towers
Number'd his despairing hours,
And beneath their careless tread,
Sleeps-the broken-hearted dead!

Upon my Daughter Hannah Wiggin her recouery from a dangerous feaver.

© Anne Bradstreet

Bles't bee thy Name, who did'st restore

To health my Daughter dear

In Memoriam A. H. H.: 99

© Alfred Tennyson

Who wakenest with thy balmy breath
To myriads on the genial earth,
Memories of bridal, or of birth,
And unto myriads more, of death.

Earth floated then below;
The chariot paused a moment there;
The Spirit then descended;
The restless coursers pawed the ungenial soil,
Snuffed the gross air, and then, their errand done,
Unfurled their pinions to the winds of heaven.

Beranger's My Last Song Perhaps (January 1814)

© Eugene Field

When, to despoil my native France,

With flaming torch and cruel sword

From A Lost Anthology

© Marjorie Lowry Christie Pickthall

IN A STRANGE LAND.

By an unnamed river-anchorage have we raised a shrine to Apollo. If these strange winds cool the grass where he sleeps, we know not, nor if he will hear us. But round about grows the dark laurel, and here also the young oak fattens her acorns against the end of the wheat-harvest.

Sir Eldred Of The Bower : A Legendary Tale: In Two Parts

© Hannah More

There was a young and valiant Knight,
Sir Eldred was his name;
And never did a worthier wight
The rank of knighthood claim.

H. C. M. H. S. J. K. W.

© Oliver Wendell Holmes

THE dirge is played, the throbbing death-peal rung,
The sad-voiced requiem sung;
On each white urn where memory dwells
The wreath of rustling immortelles
Our loving hands have hung,
And balmiest leaves have strown and tenderest blossoms flung.

Jesus, We Look To Thee

© Charles Wesley

Jesus, we look to Thee,
Thy promised presence claim;
Thou in the midst of us shall be,
Assembled in Thy Name.

From The Woods

WHY should I, with a mournful, morbid spleen,
Lament that here, in this half-desert scene,
My lot is placed?
At least the poet-winds are bold and loud,--

Lamia. Part I

© John Keats

Upon a time, before the faery broods

Drove Nymph and Satyr from the prosperous woods,

A Christmas Eve Choral

Halleluja!
What sound is this across the dark
While all the earth is sleeping? Hark!
Halleluja! Halleluja! Halleluja!

Epistle Of Condolence From A Slave-Lord To A Cotton-Lord

© Thomas Moore

Alas ! my dear friend, what a state of affairs !
How unjustly we both are despoil'd of our rights !
Not a pound of black flesh shall I leave to my heirs,
Nor must you any more work to death little whites.