POETRY ANTHOLOGY
DEATH
A COLLECTION OF POEMS FEATURING THE THEME OF DEATH
Death takes what you love most dearly. It leaves you with a sense of hopelessness and emptiness. There is a sense of fear and anguish when you hear the word as there is an element of uncertainty that comes along with it. You do not know what to expect and you never will until you experience it for yourself.
This collection of poems written by poets from the 17th century to the 21st century feature the theme of death. Reading these poems is a journey. The poets have crafted their work to incite a specific emotion from you and ensure that you feel like you have either experienced death or are suffering from the death of another. Each poem in the collection highlights a different aspect of death, ranging from the polar ends of losing a parent to the hope that you will be reunited once again. The unique and contrasting approach that each poets take to express their thoughts regarding death make this collection a diverse and enjoyable piece to read.
Death, be not proud John Donne Death, be not proud, though some have called thee Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so; For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me. From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be, Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow, And soonest our best men with thee do go, Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery. Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men, And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell, And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then? One short sleep past, we wake eternally And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.
Funeral Blues W.H Auden Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone, Silence the pianos and with muffled drum Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come. Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead Scribbling on the sky the message ‘He is Dead’. Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves, Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves. He was my North, my South, my East and West, My working week and my Sunday rest, My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song; I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong. The stars are not wanted now; put out every one, Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun, Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood; For nothing now can ever come to any good.
Death Is Nothing At All Henry Scott-Holland
It does not count. I have only slipped away into the next room. Nothing has happened. Everything remains exactly as it was. I am I, and you are you, and the old life that we lived so fondly together is untouched, unchanged. Whatever we were to each other, that we are still. Call me by the old familiar name. Speak of me in the easy way which you always used. Put no difference into your tone. Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow.
Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes that we enjoyed together. Play, smile, think of me, pray for me. Let my name be ever the household word that it always was. Let it be spoken without an effort, without the ghost of a shadow upon it. Life means all that it ever meant. It is the same as it ever was. There is absolute and unbroken continuity. What is this death but a negligible accident? Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight? I am but waiting for you, for an interval, somewhere very near, just round the corner. All is well. Nothing is hurt; nothing is lost. One brief moment and all will be as it was before. How we shall laugh at the trouble of parting when we meet again!
O Captain! My Captain! Walt Whitman
O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done, The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won, The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring But O heart! heart! heart! O the bleeding drops of red, Where on the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead.
O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells; Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills, For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores acrowding, For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning; Here Captain! dear father! This arm beneath your head! It is some dream that on the deck, You’ve fallen cold and dead. My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still, My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will, The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done, From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won; Exult O shores, and ring O bells! But I with mournful tread, Walk the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead.
And You as Well Must Die, Beloved Dust Edna St. Vincent Millay And you as well must die, beloved dust, And all your beauty stand you in no stead; This flawless, vital hand, this perfect head, This body of flame and steel, before the gust Of Death, or under his autumnal frost, Shall be as any leaf, be no less dead Than the first leaf that fell,—this wonder fled. Altered, estranged, disintegrated, lost. Nor shall my love avail you in your hour. In spite of all my love, you will arise Upon that day and wander down the air Obscurely as the unattended flower, It mattering not how beautiful you were, Or how beloved above all else that dies.
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? Or would it still remember, tho’ it spanned A thousand heavens, while the planets fanned The vacant ether with their voices deep? Soul of my soul, no word shall be forgot, Nor yet alone, beloved, shall we see The desolation of extinguished suns, Nor fear the void wherethro’ our planet runs, For still together shall we go and not Fare forth alone to front eternity
Seasons Of Grief Belinda Stotler Shall I wither and fall like an autumn leaf, From this deep sorrow - from this painful grief? How can I go on or find a way to be strong? Will I ever again enjoy life's sweet song? Sometimes a warm memory sheds light in the dark And eases the pain like the song of a Meadow Lark. Then it flits away on silent wings and I'm alone; Hungering for more of the light it had shone. Shall grief's bitter cold sadness consume me, Like a winter storm on the vast angry sea? How can I fill the void and deep desperate need To replant my heart with hope's lovely seed? Then I look at a photo of your playful smiling face And for a moment I escape to a serene happy place; Remembering the laughter and all you would do, Cherishing the honest, caring, loving spirit of you. Shall spring's cheerful flowers bring life anew And allow me to forget the agony of missing you? Will spring's burst of new life bring fresh hope And teach my grieving soul how to cope?
Sometimes I'll read a treasured card you had given me And each word's special meaning makes me see, The precious gift of love I was fortunate to receive, And I realize you'd never want to see me grieve. Shall summer's warm brilliant sun bring new light, And free my anguished mind of its terrible plight? Will its gentle breezes chase grief's dark clouds away, And show me a clear path towards a better day? When I visit the grave where you lie in eternal peace, I know that death and heaven brought you release; I try to envision your joy on that shore across the sea, And, until I join you, that'll have to be enough for me. For all the remaining seasons of my life on earth, There'll be days I'll miss your merriment and mirth, And sometimes I'll sadly long for all the yesterdays; Missing our chats and your gentle understanding ways. Yet, the lessons of kindness and love you taught me, And the good things in life you've helped me to see; Linger as lasting gifts that comfort and will sustain, Until I journey to that peaceful shore and see you again.
On Death Percy Bysshe Shelley
The pale, the cold, and the moony smile Which the meteor beam of a starless night Sheds on a lonely and sea-girt isle, Ere the dawning of morn’s undoubted light, Is the flame of life so fickle and wan That flits round our steps till their strength is gone. O man! hold thee on in courage of soul Through the stormy shades of thy wordly way, And the billows of clouds that around thee roll Shall sleep in the light of a wondrous day, Where hell and heaven shall leave thee free To the universe of destiny.
This world is the nurse of all we know, This world is the mother of all we feel, And the coming of death is a fearful blow To a brain unencompass’d by nerves of steel: When all that we know, or feel, or see, Shall pass like an unreal mystery. The secret things of the grave are there, Where all but this frame must surely be, Though the fine-wrought eye and the wondrous ear No longer will live, to hear or to see All that is great and all that is strange In the boundless realm of unending change. Who telleth a tale of unspeaking death? Who lifteth the veil of what is to come? Who painteth the shadows that are beneath The wide-winding caves of the peopled tomb? Or uniteth the hopes of what shall be With the fears and the love for that which we see?
Tiara Mark Doty Peter died in a paper tiara cut from a book of princess paper dolls; he loved royalty, sashes and jewels. I don’t know, he said, when he woke in the hospice, I was watching the Bette Davis film festival on Channel 57 and then— At the wake, the tension broke when someone guessed the casket closed because he was in there in a big wig and heels, and someone said, You know he’s always late, he probably isn’t here yet— he’s still fixing his makeup. And someone said he asked for it. Asked for it— when all he did was go down into the salt tide of wanting as much as he wanted, giving himself over so drunk
or stoned it almost didn’t matter who, though they were beautiful, stampeding into him in the simple, ravishing music of their hurry. I think heaven is perfect stasis poised over the realms of desire, where dreaming and waking men lie on the grass while wet horses roam among them, huge fragments of the music we die into in the body’s paradise. Sometimes we wake not knowing how we came to lie here, or who has crowned us with these temporary, precious stones. And given the world’s perfectly turned shoulders, the deep hollows blued by longing, given the irreplaceable silk of horses rippling in orchards, fruit thundering and chiming down, given the ordinary marvels of form and gravity, what could he do, what could any of us ever do but ask for it.
When A Friend Bids Goodbye Kathrine Yee Baraquia My dear friend, close your eyes... hold my hand, and hear me whisper... For the times I was lost, you were there to look for me. Will you believe me when I say I love you more than you'll ever know. Will you trust me when I say ...this time you have to let me go. My dear friend, I must leave. The world no longer needs me. It's my time to be gone, until we meet again someday. Don't you cry now, I know I'll be okay. Trust that I'll never forget you. Don't be sad now, just close your eyes until it's through. Hold my hand, don't open your eyes yet... wait when I no longer whisper..
My dear friend, you'll be fine. I'll be up there watching over you. For the times I'll be gone, don't ever forget the words I whispered to you. God calls on my name... and I have to let go of your hand now... Please don't cry... and smile for me.. because I'm with the one who made us friends. Remember, I'll always love you. so come, wave me goodbye... It'll be painful but we have to... Hug me, hug me tight, feel the words I can no longer say. My dear friend, I'm going to miss you. just pray because I'll always listen. and one day, when it's your time, I'll be there for you... Just like the way I used to. ...I love you...