Poems begining by F

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For Weeks After the Funeral by Andrea Hollander Budy: American Life in Poetry #96 Ted Kooser, U.S. P

© Ted Kooser

Grief can endure a long, long time. A deep loss is very reluctant to let us set it aside, to push it into a corner of memory. Here the Arkansas poet, Andrea Hollander Budy, gives us a look at one family's adjustment to a death.
For Weeks After the Funeral

The house felt like the opera,
the audience in their seats, hushed, ready,
but the cast not yet arrived.

From The Original Draft Of The Poem To William Shelley

© Percy Bysshe Shelley

II.
This lament,
The memory of thy grievous wrong
Will fade...
But genius is omnipotent
To hallow...

Fragments - Lines 0005 - 0010

© Theognis of Megara

Lord Phoibos, when the goddess, lady Leto, bore you,
Clasping a palm tree in her slender hands,
You the most beautiful of immortals, beside the wheel-round lake,
Then all of boundless Delos was filled
With an ambrosial scent; the huge earth laughed,
And the deep waters of the hoary sea rejoiced.

For Zimmer

© Friedrich Hölderlin

The lines of life are various,
Like roads, and the borders of mountains.
What we are here, a god can complete there,
With harmonies, undying reward, and peace.

Fidele's Grassy Tomb

© Sir Henry Newbolt

The Squire sat propped in a pillowed chair,
His eyes were alive and clear of care,
But well he knew that the hour was come
To bid good-bye to his ancient home.

For Thee

© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt

What woes are there
I would not choose to bear
For thy dear sake?
Curses were blest, the ache

From: A Poet's Hope

© William Ellery Channing

Lady, there is a hope that all men have,
Some mercy for their faults, a grassy place
To rest in, and a flower-strewn, gentle grave;
Another hope which purifies our race,
That when that fearful bourn forever past,
They may find rest, - and rest so long to last.

Felix Opportunitate Mortis

© Alfred Austin

Exile or Caesar? Death hath solved thy doubt,

And made thee certain of thy changeless fate;

First Sunday After Easter

© John Keble

First Father of the holy seed,
If yet, invoked in hour of need,
Thou count me for Thine own
Not quite an outcast if I prove,
(Thou joy'st in miracles of love),
Hear, from Thy mercy-throne!

For A Sad Lady

© Dorothy Parker

And let her loves, when she is dead,
Write this above her bones:
"No more she lives to give us bread
Who asked her only stones."

For Frank Gardiner

© Owen Suffolk

It is not in a prison drear

Where all around is gloom,

Fragment Of An Ode To Maia. Written On May Day 1818

© John Keats

Mother of Hermes! and still youthful Maia!
May I sing to thee
As thou wast hymned on the shores of Baiae?
Or may I woo thee

Fragment: Apostrophe To Silence

Silence! Oh, well are Death and Sleep and Thou
Three brethren named, the guardians gloomy-winged
Of one abyss, where life, and truth, and joy
Are swallowed upyet spare me, Spirit, pity me,

Flower of Love

© Oscar Wilde

Sweet, I blame you not, for mine the fault was, had I not been made of common
clay
I had climbed the higher heights unclimbed yet, seen the fuller air, the
larger day.

Faris

In vain, in vain they threaten me!
I speed on with redoubled blows.
The haughty crags have I outgazed,
And, where such hostile front they raised,
Now in a long defile they flee,
Nor one behind another shows.