Death of a Loved
One
Dust hath closed Helen's eyes
.
I am sick, I must die.
Lord, have mercy on us!
Strength
stoops unto the grave,
Worms feed on Hector brave;
Swords may
not fight with fate,
Earth still holds open her gate.
"Come,
come!" the bells do cry.
I am sick, I must die.
Lord, have mercy on us.
Wit with his
wantonness tasteth death's bitterness;
Hell's executioner hHath no
ears for to hear
What vain art can reply. I am sick, I must die.
Lord, have mercy on us.
Haste,
therefore, each degree,
To welcome destiny;
Heaven is our
heritage,
Earth but a player's stage;
Mount we unto the sky.
I am sick, I must die.
Lord, have mercy on us.
EMILY DICKINSON [1830-1886]
Because I Could Not Stop For
Death
Because I
could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me,
The Carriage held but just Ourselves,
And Immortality.
We
slowly drove,
He knew no haste
And I had put away
My labor and my leisure too,
For his Civility,
We passed the
School, where Children strove
At Recess-in the Ring
We passed the
Fields of Gazing Grain
We passed the Setting
Sun,
Or rather-He
passed Us
The Dews drew quivering and chill,
For only Gossamer, my Gown
,My Tippet-only Tulle,
EMILY DICKINSON
[1830-1886]
I Felt a Funeral, in my
Brain
I felt a Funeral, in my Brain,
And Mourners to and fro
Kept treading-treading-till it seemed
That Sense was breaking
through,
And when they all were seated,
A Service, like a Drum
Kept
beating-beating-till I thought
My Mind was going numb,
And then I
heard them lift a Box
And creak across my Soul
With those same Boots of Lead, again,
Then Space-began to toll,
As all the Heavens were a Bell,
And Being, but an Ear,
And I, and Silence, some strange Race
Wrecked, solitary, here,
And then a
Plank in Reason, broke,
And I dropped down, and down,
And hit a
World, at every plunge,
And Finished
knowing-then,
From Blank to Blank,A Threadless
Way
EMILY DICKINSON
[1830-1886]
Tichborne's
Elegy
My prime of
youth is but a frost of cares,
My feast of joy is but a dish of
pain,
My crop of com is but a field of tares,
And all my good is
but vain hope of gain;
The day is past, and yet I saw no sun,
And now I live, and now my life is done.
My tale was
heard and yet it was not told,
My fruit is fallen and yet my leaves
are green,
My youth is spent and yet I am not old,
I saw the world and yet I was not seen;
My thread is cut and yet it is not spun,
And now I live, and now my life is done.
I sought my death and found it in
my womb,
I looked for life and saw it was a shade,
CHIDIOCK TICHBORNE
(1558-1586)
A plotter against Queen Elizabeth I, Tichborne was imprisoned in the Tower of London before his execution. Supposedly, he composed this in the Tower on the eve of execution. This became one of the more popular poems of the Age of Elizabeth, and several musical settings of: remain extant.
Its wide circulation,
whoever wrote it, testified to its immediacy and its substantial
pathos.
Fear No More the Heat 0f the
Sun
Fear no more the heat 0' the sun
Nor the furious winter's rages;
Thou thy worldly task hast done,
Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages:
Golden lads
and girls all must,
As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.
Fear no more the frown 0' the great,
Thou art past the tyrant's stroke;
Care no more to clothe and eat;
To thee the reed is as the oak:
The scepter,
learning, physic, must
All follow this, and come to dust.
Fear no more the lightning flash,
Nor the all-dreaded thunder stone;
Fear not slander, censure rash;
Thou hast finished joy and moan:
All lovers
young, all lovers must
Consign to thee, and come to dust.
No exorciser harm thee!
Nor no witchcraft charm
thee!
Ghost unlaid forbear thee!
Nothing ill come near thee!
Quiet consummation have;
And renowned be thy grave!
from Cymbeline
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
Fire and Ice
Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice.
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would
suffice.
ROBERT FROST
Song
Yes I am dead, my dearest,
Sing no sad songs for me;
Plant thou no roses at my head,
Nor shady cypress tree:
Be the green grass above me
With showers and dewdrops wet:
And if thou wilt, remember,
And if thou wilt, forget.
I
shall not see the shadows,
I shall not feel the rain;
I shall not hear the nightingale
Sing on as if in pain:
And dreaming through the twilight
That doth not rise nor set,
Haply I may remember,
And haply may forget.
A.E. HOUSEMAN
An Invite to
Eternity
Wilt thou go with me, sweet maid Say,
maiden, wilt thou go with me
Through the valley depths
of shade,
Of night and dark obscurity,
Where the path hath lost
its way,
Where the sun forgets the day,
Where there's nor life
nor light to see,
Sweet maiden, wilt thou go with me?
Where stones will turn to flooding streams,
10 Where plains will rise like ocean waves,
Wilt thou go with me sweet maiden?
JOHN CLARK
A Litany in Time of
Plague
A dieu, farewell, earth's bliss;
This world uncertain is;
Fond are life's lustful joys;
Death
proves them all but toys;
None from his darts can fly;
I am sick, I must die.
Lord, have mercy on us!
Rich men, trust not in wealth,
Gold cannot buy
you health;
Physic himself must fade.
All things to end are
made,
The plague full swift goes by;
I am sick, I must die.
Lord, have mercy on us!
Beauty is but a flower
Which wrinkles will devour;
Brightness falls
from the air;
Queens have died young and fair;
THOMAS NASH
(1567-1601)
Anthem
for Doomed Youth
What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells,
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.
(Wilfred Owens WWI)
The City in the
Sea
Lo! Death has reared himself a throne
In a strange city lying alone
Far down within the dim West,
Where the good and the bad and the worst
and the best
Have gone to their eternal rest.
There shrines and palaces and towers
(Time-eaten towers that tremble not!)
Resemble nothing that is ours.
Around, by lifting winds forgot,
Resignedly beneath the sky
The
melancholy waters lie.
No
rays from the holy heaven come down
On the long night-time of that town;
But light from out the lurid sea
Streams up the turrets silently,
Gleams up the
pinnacles far and free ,
Up domes-up spires-up kingly halIs ,
Up fanes-up Babylon-like walIs
Up shadowy long-forgotten bowers
Of sculptured ivy and
stone flowers
Up many and many a marvelous shrine
Whose wreathed friezes intertwine
The viol, the
violet, and the vine.
Resignedly beneath the sky
The melancholy waters lie.
So
blend the turrets and shadows there
Not the gaily-jewelled dead
Tempt the waters from
their bed;
For no ripples curl, alas!
Along
that wilderness of glass
No swellings tell that winds may be
Upon
some far-off happier sea
No heavings hint that winds have been
On seas less hideously serene.
But Lo, a stir is in the air!
The wave there is a movement there!
As if the towers had thrust aside,
In slightly sinking, the dull tide
As if their tops had feebly given
A void within the filmy Heaven.
The waves have now a redder glow,
The
hours are breathing faint and low
And when, amid no earthly moans,
Down, down that town shall settle hence.
Hell, rising from a thousand thrones,
Shall do it reverence.
EDGAR ALLEN POE
Cool Tomb
When Abraham Lincoln was shoveled into the tombs
he forgot the copperheads and the assassin . . .
in the dust, in
the cool tombs.
And Ulysses
Grant lost all thought of con men and Wall Street,
cash and collateral turned ashes . . .
in the dust, in the cool tombs.
Pocahontas'
body, lovely as a poplar,
sweet as a red haw in November or a pawpaw
in May,
did she wonder? does she remember? . . .
in the dust, in the cool
tombs?
Take any streetful of people buying clothes and groceries,
cheering a hero or throwing confetti and blowing tin horns . . .
tell me if the lovers are losers . . .
tell me if any get more than the lovers . . .
in the dust . . . in the cool
tombs.
CARL SANBERG
Sonnet
I am in need of music that would flow
Over my fretful, feeling finger-tips,
Over my bitter-tainted, trembling lips,
With melody, deep, clear, and liquid-slow.
Oh, for the healing swaying, old and low,
Of some song sung to rest the tired dead,
A song to fall like water on my head,
And over quivering limbs, dream flushed to
glow!
There is a magic made by melody:
A spell of rest, and quiet breath, and cool
Heart, that sinks through fading colors deep
To the subaqueous stillness of the sea,
And floats forever in a moon-green pool,
Held in the arms of rhythm and of sleep.
If you would keep your soul
From spotted sight or sound,
Live like the velvet mole;
Go
burrow underground.
And there hold intercourse
With roots of trees and stones,
With rivers at their source,
And
disembodied bones.
ELIZABETH BISHOP
(1911-1979)
From In
Memoriam
Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,
The flying cloud, the
frosty light:
The year is dying in the night;
Ring out, wild bells, and let him
die.
Ring out the
old, ring in the new,
Ring, happy bells, across the snow:
The year is going, let him go;
Ring out the false, ring in the true.
Ring out the
grief that saps the mind,
For those that here we see no more;
Ring out the feud of rich and poor,
Ring in redress to all mankind.
Ring out a
slowly dying cause,
And ancient forms of party strife;
Ring in the nobler modes of life,
With sweeter manners, purer laws.
LORD ALFRED TENNYSON
(1809-1892)
Do Not go Gentle Into That Good
Night
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should bum
and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage
against the dying of the light.
Though wise
men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked
no lightning they
Do not go gentle into
that good night.
Good men, the
last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced
in a green bay,
Rage, rage against
the dying of the light.
Wild men who
caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved
it on its way,
Do not go gentle into
that good night.
Grave men,
near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like
meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage
against the dying of the light.
DYLAN THOMAS
(1914-1953)
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