Death poems
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The Gifts
© Isabel Ecclestone Mackay
I GIVE you Life, O child, a garden fair;
I give you Love, a rose that blossoms there--
I give a day to pluck it and to wear!
Garden Dream
© Margaret Widdemer
But I was planting out my garden-close
With wands of lily and with slips of rose,
And their scented wavings made the air so sweet
That I could not listen to the trampling feet . . .
(Yet there blew a perfume from the garden-bed
That changed the evil weeds to white and red!)
Me prove it nowWhoever doubt
© Emily Dickinson
Me prove it nowWhoever doubt
Me stop to prove itnow
Make hastethe Scruple! Death be scant
For Opportunity
The Inner Fields
© Sri Aurobindo
Floating like stars upon a strip of sky.
This world behind is made of truer stuff
Than the manufactured tissue of earth's grace.
There we can walk and see the gods go by
And sip from Hebe's cup nectar enough
To make for us heavenly limbs and deathless face.
Lines On The Anio At Tivoli
© Frances Anne Kemble
One river from the mountain springs was born,
Into three several streams its course was torn.
Pharsalia - Book IV: Caesar In Spain. War In The Adriatic Sea. Death Of Curio.
© Marcus Annaeus Lucanus
Should mix with ours, the vanquished. Destiny
Has run for us its course: one boon I beg;
Bid not the conquered conquer in thy train."
The Eld
© Richard Monckton Milnes
Oh! blessèd, blessèd be the Eld,
Its echoes and its shades,--
The tones that from all time outswelled,
The light that never fades;--
Dedication
© Lola Ridge
I would be a torch unto your hand,
A lamp upon your forehead, Labor,
In the wild darkness before the Dawn
That I shall never see…
The pilgrimage to Mecca
© George Canning
What holy rites Mohammed's laws ordain,
What various duties bind his faithful train,-
The Princes' Quest - Part the Second
© William Watson
A fearful and a lovely thing is Sleep,
And mighty store of secrets hath in keep;
Deeds
© Archibald Lampman
'Tis well with words, oh masters, ye have sought,
To turn men's eyes yearning to the great and true,
Ambrose
© James Russell Lowell
Never, surely, was holier man
Than Ambrose, since the world began;
With diet spare and raiment thin
He shielded himself from the father of sin;
With bed of iron and scourgings oft,
His heart to God's hand as wax made soft.
A Phylactery
© John Hay
Wise men I hold those rakes of old
Who, as we read in antique story,
When lyres were struck and wine was poured,
Set the white Death's Head on the board--
Memento mori.
Summer Afternoon (Bodiam Castle, Sussex)
© Edith Wharton
And this was thine: to lose thyself in me,
Relive in my renewal, and become
The light of other lives, a quenchless torch
Passed on from hand to hand, till men are dust
And the last garland withers from my shrine.
A Lament For The Princes Of Tyrone And Tyrconnel
© James Clarence Mangan
O WOMAN of the piercing wail,
Who mournest oer yon mound of clay
The Manor Garden
© Sylvia Plath
The fountains are dry and the roses over.
Incense of death. Your day approaches.
The pears fatten like little buddhas.
A blue mist is dragging the lake.
