But this it was that made me moveAs light as carrier-birds in air;I loved the weight I had to bear,Because it needed help of Love:Nor could I weary, heart or limb,When mighty Love would cleave in twainThe lading of a single pain,And part it, giving half to him. Talk what you please of future springAnd sun-warmd sweet to-morrow:Strippd bare of hope and everything,No more to laugh, no more to sing,I sit alone with sorrow. Here he may lie at ease and wonderWhy the old ship waits,And hark for the surge and the strong thunderOf the full Straits,And look for the fishing fleet at morning,Shadows like lost souls,Slide through the fog where the seals warningBetrays the shoals,And watch for the deep-sea liner climbingOut of the bright West,With a salmon-sky and her wake shiningLike a terns breast, And never know he is done for everWith the old seas pride,Borne from the fight and the full endeavor. It whispers of the long ago;Its love, its loss, its aching woe,And buried sorrows stir;And tears like those we shed of oldRoll down our cheeks as we beholdOur faded lavender. I bore it;friends soothed me: my grief looked sublimeAs the ransom of Italy. A-top of arch and stairway,Of crypt and donjan cell,Of council hall, and chamber,Of wall, and ditch, and well,High over grated turretsWhere clinging ivies run,A thousand scarlet poppiesEnticed the rising sun,Upon the topmost turret,With death and damp below,Three hundred years of spoilage,The crimson poppies grow. When I tread the verge of Jordan, Only a dad with a brood of four,One of ten million men or morePlodding along in the daily strife,Bearing the whips and the scorns of life,With never a whimper of pain or hate,For the sake of those who at home await. You can close your eyes and pray that she'll come back For webmasters |. that men and women were flexible, real, alive! The sixth age shiftsInto the lean and slippered pantaloon,With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wideFor his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,Turning again toward childish treble, pipesAnd whistles in his sound. I was obliged to work, he says. and whence came they? If flowers grow in heaven, Lord, then pick a bunch for me. Sweet Jesus, take this message, To our dear mother up above; Tell her how we miss her, And give her all our love. The better days of life were ours;The worst can be but mine:The sun that cheers, the storm that lowers,Shall never more be thine.The silence of that dreamless sleepI envy now too much to weep;Nor need I to repineThat all those charms have passd away,I might have watchd through long decay. How calm they sleep beneath the shadeWho once were weary of the strife,And bent, like us, beneath the loadOf human life! I heard a voice from heaven, saying unto me, "Write, From henceforth blessed are the dead which die in the Lord: even so saith the Spirit; for they rest from their labours.". THE QUEEN MOTHER: NATION'S FAREWELL: Poem chosen for Queen Mother's funeral. Down in the fields all prospers well,But now from the fields come father, come at the daughters call,And come to the entry mother, to the front door come right away. You gave me life, you gave me love Please watch over me from above. Well walk in a sweet posie-garden out there, Where moonlight and starlight are streaming, And the flowers and the birds are filling the air With the fragrance and music of dreaming. Oh, there will pass with your great passingLittle of beauty not your own,Only the light from common water,Only the grace from simple stone! David Harkins wrote to The Daily Mail on Tuesday January 14th 2003 as follows: I was 23 when I first met Anne LLoyd, my inspiration for the poem I called Remember Me. And the night shall be filled with music,And the cares, that infest the day,Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,And as silently steal away. Preview your poem and adjust layout below. XXIIThe path by which we twain did go,Which led by tracts that pleased us well,Thro four sweet years arose and fell,From flower to flower, from snow to snow:And we with singing cheerd the way,And, crownd with all the season lent,From April on to April went,And glad at heart from May to May:But where the path we walkd beganTo slant the fifth autumnal slope,As we descended following Hope,There sat the Shadow feard of man;Who broke our fair companionship,And spread his mantle dark and cold,And wrapt thee formless in the fold,And dulld the murmur on thy lip,And bore thee where I could not seeNor follow, tho I walk in haste,And think, that somewhere in the wasteThe Shadow sits and waits for me. Sorrow is my own yardwhere the new grassflames as it has flamedoften before but notwith the cold firethat closes round me this year.Thirtyfive yearsI lived with my husband.The plumtree is white todaywith masses of flowers.Masses of flowersload the cherry branchesand color some bushesyellow and some redbut the grief in my heartis stronger than theyfor though they were my joyformerly, today I notice themand turn away forgetting.Today my son told methat in the meadows,at the edge of the heavy woodsin the distance, he sawtrees of white flowers.I feel that I would liketo go thereand fall into those flowersand sink into the marsh near them. Land me safe on Canaan's side: And I said unto him, Sir, thou knowest. . She is gone is one of the most classic poems used as a condolences message in sympathy cards. After this I beheld, and lo, a great multitude, which no man could number, of all nations, and kindreds, and peoples, and tongues, stood before the throne, and before the Lamb, clothed with white robes, and palms in their hands; and cried with a loud voice, saying, Salvation to our God which sitteth upon the throne, and unto the Lamb. We had a wonderful mother, One who never really grew old; Her smile was made of sunshine, And her heart was solid gold; Her eyes were as bright as shining stars, And in her cheeks fair roses you see. And I hope today she feels the love, Reflected back from me. It was about a girl and I called it Remember Me. She agreed, and I returned on the Thursday evening, when I made feeble attempts to sketch Anne. For her grace, humanity and sympathy, for her courage in adversity, for the happiness she brought to so many, for her steadfast pilgrimage of faith, for her example of service, and for the duty which she rendered unflinchingly to her country, we thank and praise Almighty God. Brought to earth the arrogant brow,And the withering tongueChastened; do your weeping now. She cherished every moment With the man who was her life; Walking hand in hand together, Facing life with all its strife. You can remember her and only that shes gone or you can cherish her memory and let it live on You can cry and close your mind, be empty and turn your back or you can do what shed want: smile, open your eyes, love and go on. We blossom and flourish as leaves on the tree, Amen. Then was triumph at Turin. Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting;The Soul that rises with us, our lifes Star,Hath had elsewhere its settingAnd cometh from afar;Not in entire forgetfulness,And not in utter nakedness,But trailing clouds of glory do we comeFrom God, who is our home:Heaven lies about us in our infancy!Shades of the prison-house begin to closeUpon the growing Boy,But he beholds the light, and whence it flows,He sees it in his joy;The Youth, who daily farther from the eastMust travel, still is Natures priest,And by the vision splendidIs on his way attended;At length the Man perceives it die away,And fade into the light of common day. Well go no more a-roving by the light of the moon.The song we sang rings hollow, and heavy runs the tune.Glad ways and words remembered would shame the wretched year.Well go no more a-roving, nor dream we did, my dear. Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue,Mother, O mother, my heart calls for you!Many a summer the grass has grown green,Blossomed and faded, our faces between:Yet, with strong yearning and passionate pain,Long I tonight for your presence again.Come from the silence so long and so deep;Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep! Funeral Poems for Mom -- Mother - Grandmother. No musing mind hath ever yet foreshapedThe face to-morrows sun shall first reveal,No heart hath eer conceivedWhat love that face will bring. With my hands Ill bind the briersRound his holy corse to gre;Ouphant fairy, light your fires;Here my body still shall be.My love is dead,Gone to his death-bed,All under the willow-tree. The precious word is Mother, she was my world you see, But now my heart is breaking cause shes no longer here with me. The seasons bring the flower again,And bring the firstling to the flock;And in the dusk of thee, the clockBeats out the little lives of men. It wasnt written for a funeral. 2. We havent always thought about The things that you have seen. You can personalise & send this condolences poem as a ribbon tied scroll with real dried flower petals in a lovely scroll box or as a special folded card in sympathy. Bread of heaven, Earth! You will know that you have played your part; Yours shall be the love that never dies: You, with Heavens peace within your heart, You, with Gods own glory in your eyes. Here is a collection of some of the best funeral poems of all time, organized by theme, sentiment, and relationship to the deceased: A loved one has died, and now its up to you to plan the funeral. Sally Collins is a writer and the founder and owner of Sympathy Message Ideas. There I shall rest till heavens shall be no more;And when this flesh shall rot and be consumd,This body, by this soul, shall be assumd;And I shall see with these same very eyesMy strong Redeemer coming in the skies.Triumph I shall, ore Sin, ore Death, ore Hell,And in that hope, I bid you all farewell. Shes the smell of certain foods you remember, flowers you pick, the fragrance of life itself. Thine angels adore thee, all veiling their sight; The world passed by, nor cared to takeThe treasure he could give;Apart he sat, content to waitAnd beautifully live;Unsaddened by long, lonely yearsOf want, neglect, and wrong,His soul to him a kingdom was,Steadfast, serene, and strong. Good night! The Queen Mother's funeral has taken place at Westminster Abbey. Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own;Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind,And, even with something of a mothers mind,And no unworthy aim,The homely nurse doth all she canTo make her foster-child, her inmate, Man,Forget the glories he hath known,And that imperial palace whence he came. You earned those wings dear mother and you will always be me angel eternal. A life made beautiful by kindly deeds, A helping hand for others needs. I shall not see the shadows,I shall not feel the rain;I shall not hear the nightingaleSing on, as if in pain:And dreaming through the twilightThat doth not rise nor set,Haply I may remember,And haply may forget. She is at once the sea and shore, Our freedom and our past. Her laughter is a source of joy, her works are warm and wise. To think of timeof all that retrospection! As we walk the paths of our unknown You wonder Where have my children gone? Where we are is where you have led us, With your special love you showed us a way, To believe in ourselves and the decisions we make. Home / Poems / Personalised Sympathy Cards - Condolence Poems / She is Gone. I wish we could love as the bees love,To rest or to roam without sorrow or sigh;With laughter, when, after the wooer had won,Love flew with a whispered good-bye. But who shall so forecast the yearsAnd find in loss a gain to match?Or reach a hand thro time to catchThe far-off interest of tears? Harkins himself played the other part. Even though the bulk of this poem describes the death of one person, one of the lines says, "two golden hearts stopped beating.". Still he wrote, but without success. In infancys unconscious day, I weak and helpless long did lay, Who oer my form did watch and pray, My Mother. I cried while I read each one! Glory be to the Father, and to the Son: Dead! So live, that when thy summons comes to joinThe innumerable caravan, that movesTo that mysterious realm, where each shall takeHis chamber in the silent halls of death,Thou go not like the quarry-slave at night,Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothedBy an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave,Like one who wraps the drapery of his couchAbout him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. But real poetry is universal; meaning is located within the words themselves. XXVIStill onward winds the dreary way;I with it; for I long to proveNo lapse of moons can canker Love,Whatever fickle tongues may say. My life would have been so different had she lived! It believes beyond believing when the world around condemns, And it glows with all the beauty of the rarest, brightest gems It is far beyond defining, it defies all explanation, And it still remains a secret like the mysteries of creation.. A many splendoured miracle man cannot understand And another wondrous evidence of Gods tender guiding hand. The six couplets all follow that same 'eitheror' pattern; various suggestions for their provenance include a condolence card or a child. How lovely are thy dwellings fair: O Lord of Hosts. A handful of earth and the breath of a prayer. Anne answered, and I introduced myself as a painter (painting was a hobby of mine back then) and asked her to pose. Should you ever be interested in the power of the internet you need only type into any of the many search engines You can shed tears that he is gone and you will find that poem, in its masculine form, in several places and all presumably originally found on www.poeticexpressions.co.uk. Suffer us not, at our last hour, for any pains of death, to fall from thee. Sun | Nation & World Apr 14th, 2002 LONDON (AP) - Held in Britain's grandest medieval church the funeral for the Queen Mother Elizabeth was a deeply traditional, carefully orchestrated. Pilgrim through this barren land; XXThe lesser griefs that may be said,That breathe a thousand tender vows,Are but as servants in a houseWhere lies the master newly dead;Who speak their feeling as it is,And weep the fulness from the mind:It will be hard, they say, to findAnother service such as this.My lighter moods are like to these,That out of words a comfort win;But there are other griefs within,And tears that at their fountain freeze;For by the hearth the children sitCold in that atmosphere of Death,And scarce endure to draw the breath,Or like to noiseless phantoms flit;But open converse is there none,So much the vital spirits sinkTo see the vacant chair, and think,How good! In a rare entrepreneurial fit, Harkins formed his own theatre company with a friend to direct and a young woman to play the female lead. Beyond the parting and the meetingI shall be soon;Beyond the farewell and the greeting,Beyond this pulses fever beating,I shall be soon.Love, rest, and home!Sweet hope!Lord, tarry not, but come. All that breatheWill share thy destiny. Then place them in my mothers arms and tell her theyre from me. Twenty years ago a shy, lovelorn Cumbrian baker, David Harkins, wrote a poem. I was shocked. But nothing on Earth can separate you. Hopefully one of these verses will have resonated with you and be fitting for your mothers funeral service, reading or eulogy. 6.Only Good night, beloved not farewell!A little while, and all His saints shall dwellIn hallowed unison indivisibleGood night! For All the Times you Gently Picked Me Up, For all the times you gently picked me up, When I fell down, For all the times you tied my shoes And tucked me into bed, Or needed something But put me first instead. poetry verse #3. If I should go before the rest of you Break not a flower nor inscribe a stone Nor when I'm gone speak in a Sunday voice But be the usual selves that I have known When I grew much older And troubles came my way, Those hands caressing mine Did more than words could say. So, Mother-my-Love, let me take your dear hand, And away through the starlight well wander, Away through the mist to the beautiful land, The Dreamland thats waiting out yonder. / So I lose today / My support, my light. Memories unfold as we think of you, A real mum, through and through. It was many and many a year ago,In a kingdom by the sea,That a maiden there lived whom you may knowBy the name of Annabel Lee;And this maiden she lived with no other thoughtThan to love and be loved by me. There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,The earth, and every common sightTo me did seemApparelled in celestial light,The glory and the freshness of a dream.It is not now as it hath been of yore;Turn wheresoeer I may,By night or day,The things which I have seen I now can see no more. Facebook-f Instagram Youtube. both my boys!If in keeping the feastYou want a great song for your Italy free,Let none look at me! Ere those dear eyes had opend on the light,In vain to plead, thy coming life was sold,O wakend but to sleep,Whence it can wake no more! See! Lost and Found. Or you can smile because she has lived. It never ran. I am going now to see that head that was crowned with thorns, and that face that was spit upon for me. Like Crusoe with the bootless gold we standUpon the desert verge of death, and say:What shall avail the woes of yesterdayTo buy to-morrows wisdom, in the landWhose currency is strange unto our hand?In lifes small market they had served to paySome late-found rapture, could we but delayTill Time hath matched our means to our demand.. He would often greet new friends with a poem rather than a customary hello. For the bereaved, poems about dying, the pain of loss, grief, mourning, the afterlife, or rebirth can bring comfort and be a source of inspiration and hope. Though, now, shes far away. We know when moons shall wane,When summer-birds from far shall cross the sea,When autumns hue shall tinge the golden grainBut who shall teach us when to look for thee? Eight times emerging from the floodShe mewed to every watery god,Some speedy aid to send.No dolphin came, no Nereid stirred;Nor cruel Tom, nor Susan heard;A favorite has no friend! And all the angels stood round about the throne, and about the elders and the four living creatures, and fell before the throne on their faces, and worshipped God, saying, Amen: Blessing, and glory, and wisdom, and thanksgiving, and honour, and power, and might, be unto our God for ever and ever. she remainsA lovely memory,Until Eternity;She came, she loved, and then she went away. world without end. Out of the winds and the waves riot,Out of the loud foam,He has put in to a great quietAnd a still home. Yet the lines have struck a chord with many mourners before the Queen. behold, I wait,Wearing the thorny crown through all lifes hours, Wait till thy hand shallopethe eternal gate,And change the thorns to flowers! Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,And sorry I could not travel bothAnd be one traveler, long I stoodAnd looked down one as far as I couldTo where it bent in the undergrowth;Then took the other, as just as fair,And having perhaps the better claim,Because it was grassy and wanted wear;Though as for that the passing thereHad worn them really about the same,And both that morning equally layIn leaves no step had trodden black.Oh, I kept the first for another day!Yet knowing how way leads on to way,I doubted if I should ever come back. Only a dad with a tired face,Coming home from the daily race,Bringing little of gold or fameTo show how well he has played the game;But glad in his heart that his own rejoiceTo see him come and to hear his voice. A stronger person would be hard to find, And in your heart, you were always kind. Amen. Or you can smile because she has lived, demonstrate the philosophy behind this cheering . 12. Hark! I SAIDThen, dearest, since tis so,Since now at length my fate I know,Since nothing all my love avails,Since all, my life seemd meant for, fails,Since this was written and needs must beMy whole heart rises up to blessYour name in pride and thankfulness!Take back the hope you gave,I claimOnly a memory of the same,And this beside, if you will not blame;Your leave for one more last ride with me. O thou whose care sustained my infant years,And taught my prattling lip each note of love;Whose soothing voice breathed comfort to my fears,And round my brow hopes brightest garland wove; To thee my lay is due, the simple song,Which Nature gave me at lifes opening day;To thee these rude, these untaught strains belong,Whose heart indulgent will not spurn my lay. Listen! That thou didst hope for; now upon thine eyesThe new life opens fair;Before thy feet the Blessed journey liesThrough homelands everywhere;And heaven to thee is all a sweet surprise. Beyond the smiling and the weepingI shall be soon;Beyond the waking and the sleeping,Beyond the sowing and the reaping,I shall be soon.Love, rest, and home!Sweet hope!Lord, tarry not, but come. Some women bear children in strength,And bite back the cry of their pain in self-scorn.But the birth-pangs of nations will wring us at lengthInto such wail as this!and we sit on forlornWhen the man-child is born. Your joy is your sorrow unmasked.And the selfsame well from which your laughter rises was oftentimes filled with your tears.And how else can it be?The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.Is not the cup that holds your wine the very cup that was burned in the potters oven?And is not the lute that soothes your spirit, the very wood that was hollowed with knives?When you are joyous, look deep into your heart and you shall find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy.When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight. Watch the birth of the NC Zoo's new giraffe and a chimpanzee's love for her boy, Influencer dies after live-streaming himself drinking bottles of Chinese spirit Baijiu, Not real news: Here's a look at what didn't happen this week, New group 'committed' to converting Regency Inn into housing for homeless, Two Things: Confusion near a casino restroom; parking problems and tax hikes, Jet It grounds its HondaJet fleet after fiery crash in SC, Authorities: Greensboro man charged in baby's death has history of child abuse, Greensboro police say mother was 'neglectful' in deaths of her toddler, other boy, Second person arrested following death of boys in Greensboro house fire, Greensboro police release name of homicide victim from May 19 shooting, Goodwill plans new retail center in Greensboro. The second of four brothers, he loved poetry and paintings as a young man. Extract from the article by Matt Seaton, The Guardian, Monday 16 September 2002: The first I knew of it was during the week of the Queen Mothers funeral. And when my fainting heartDesponds and murmurs at its adverse fate,Then quietly the angels bright lips part,Murmuring softly, Wait! One moment stood he as the angels stand,High in the stainless eminence of air;The next, he was not, to his fatherlandTranslated unaware. Cummings admired his mother, Rebecca Haswell Clarke Cummings, immensely. Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother,Why wert not thou born in my fathers dwelling?So might we talk of the old familiar faces How some they have died, and some they have left me,And some are taken from me; all are departed;All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. Our hearts are filled with memories, our eyes are full of tears. It has been read at many memorial services throughout the world, and after receiving the royal seal of approval is sure to be read at many more. Still had she gazed; but midst the tideTwo angel forms were seen to glide,The genii of the stream:Their scaly armors Tyrian hueThrough richest purple to the viewBetrayed a golden gleam.The hapless nymph with wonder saw:A whisker first and then a claw,With many an ardent wish,She stretched in vain to reach the prize.What female heart can gold despise?What cats averse to fish? When knights so fair are rotten,And captains true asleep,And singing lips are dust-stoppedSix English earth-feet deep? Poetry read at a funeral is an eloquent way to pay tribute to the life and legacy of someone you love. the death-owl loud doth singTo the nightmares as they go.My love is dead,Gone to his death-bed,All under the willow-tree. Here are some funeral poems for mom that you can use. Theories about the poem's authorship have been flying around the British media. Leaves have their time to fall,And flowers to wither at the north-winds breath,And stars to setbut all.Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh! We are almost thereour last walk on this heightI must bid you good-bye at that cross on the mountain.See the sun glowing red, and the pulsating lightFill the valley, and rise like the flood in a fountain! He held his hands for daisies white,And then for violets blue,And took them all to bed at nightThat in the green fields grew,As childhoods sweet delight. When Im a name on the family treeI know what they will say of me:She was the daughter of see aboveShe was the wife of see belowShe was the mother of so and so.With these I wish to live and die,But they are they and I am I.I am the oneWho loved the hot August sun.Moss like gray lace hung from very large trees.The breathless green of tropical seas.A shining sail up the path of the moon.A dance out of doors to a lilting tune.Books and more books of every kindAnd a quick-witted argument to sharpen the mind.But anything, anything, I dont care,To try and escape the dismally bareShe was the daughter ofShe was the wife ofShe was the mother of. Where the wave of moonlight glossesThe dim gray sands with light,Far off by furthest RossesWe foot it all the night,Weaving olden dancesMingling hands and mingling glancesTill the moon has taken flight;To and fro we leapAnd chase the frothy bubbles,While the world is full of troublesAnd anxious in its sleep.Come away, O human child!To the waters and the wildWith a faery, hand in hand,For the worlds more full of weeping than you can understand. I have been laughing, I have been carousing,Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies,All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. You taught us love and how to fight, You gave us strength, you gave us might. Each day, when the glow of sunsetFades in the western sky,And the wee ones, tired of playing,Go tripping lightly by,I steal away from my husband,Asleep in his easy-chair,And watch from the open door-wayTheir faces fresh and fair. He gave up writing immediately when I found what I was really looking for and worked either in the factory, or as a cleaner for several years. I shall be telling this with a sighSomewhere ages and ages hence:Two roads diverged in a wood, and II took the one less traveled by,And that has made all the difference. . THE NATION'S FAREWELL: I'M TOUCHED ..I'M MOVED; Queen to make address on TV. Quick, boys!An ecstasy of fumbling,Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;But someone still was yelling out and stumblingAnd floundring like a man in fire or limeDim, through the misty panes and thick green light,As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.If in some smothering dreams you too could paceBehind the wagon that we flung him in,And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,His hanging face, like a devils sick of sin;If you could hear, at every jolt, the bloodCome gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cudOf vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,My friend, you would not tell with such high zestTo children ardent for some desperate glory,The old Lie: Dulce et decorum estPro patria mori. Personalised Sympathy Cards Condolence Poems, Personalised Sympathy Cards - Condolence Poems. The words were slightly different, but there it was. The it in question is the poem chosen by the Queen to be read at the funeral of the Queen Mother. I know not if I could have borneTo see thy beauties fade;The night that followd such a mornHad worn a deeper shade:Thy day without a cloud hath passd,And thou wert lovely to the last,Extinguishd, not decayd;As stars that shoot along the skyShine brightest as they fall from high. I loved a love once, fairest among women;Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. But otherwise Fate wills it, for, behold,Our gathered strength of individual pain,When Times long alchemy hath made it gold,Dies with ushoarded all these years in vain,Since those that might be heir to it the mouldRenew, and coin themselves new griefs again. -- Ecclesiastes 12: 1-7; read by the Most Rev. Held in Britain's grandest medieval church, chaperoned by military guards and filled with somber Bach fugues and biblical verses, the funeral for the Queen Mother Elizabeth was a deeply traditional, Although these artistic interests tended to set him apart in his working-class milieu, they were also his consolation, he says, for his shyness. The BBC, which came under fire for its coverage on the day of the Queen Mother's death, attracted an average of five million viewers for its coverage, peaking at 7.1m viewers. I wish my grave were growing green,A winding-sheet drawn ower my een,And I in Helens arms lying,On fair Kirconnell lea. or you can do what she'd want: smile, open your eyes, love and go on. Pleasure follows in her path,Love itself flies after,And the brook a music hathSweet as childhoods laughter. Tears for my lady deadHeliodore!Salt tears, and strange to shed,Over and oer;Tears to my lady dead,Love do we send,Longed for, rememberd,Lover and friend!Sad are the songs we sing,Tears that we shed,Empty the gifts we bringGifts to the dead!Go, tears, and go, lament,Fare from her tomb,Wend where my lady wentDown through the gloom!Ah, for my flower, my love,Hades hath taken IAh, for the dust aboveScattered and shaken!Mother of blade and grass,Earth, in thy breastLull her that gentlest wasGently to rest! Sonnets are full of love, and this my tomeHas many sonnets: so here now shall beOne sonnet more, a love sonnet, from meTo her whose heart is my hearts quiet home,To my first Love, my Mother, on whose kneeI learnt love-lore that is not troublesome;Whose service is my special dignity,And she my lodestar while I go and come.And so because you love me, and becauseI love you, Mother, I have woven a wreathOf rhymes wherewith to crown your honored name:In you not fourscore years can dim the flameOf love, whose blessed glow transcends the lawsOf time and change and mortal life and death. The night is not all dark,Nor is the day all it seems,But each may bring me this reliefMy dreams and dreams. As a young woman, she giggled all the way through TS Eliot's reading for assorted royals, clocking the author's social standing instantly (she described him as "a rather lugubrious man in a suit who looked like a bank manager") but remaining unmoved by The Waste Land, one of modernism's greatest achievements ("I think it was called 'The Desert'"). "God Saw You Getting Tired" by Unknown. Do quickly all thou hast to do,Nor I nor mine will hindrance make;I shall be free when thou art through;I grudge thee naught that thou must take! The nearest he came to literary achievement was when the Sunday Times magazine bought a piece hed written for its Day in the Life slot. For the Lamb which is in the midst of the throne shall feed them, and shall lead them unto living fountains of waters: and God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes. I mount! You can only have one mother Patient kind and true; No other friend in all the world, Will be the same to you. 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 anchord 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. Vigil strange I kept on the field one night;When you my son and my comrade dropt at my side that day,One look I but gave which your dear eyes returnd with a look I shall never forget,One touch of your hand to mine O boy, reachd up as you lay on the ground,Then onward I sped in the battle, the even-contested battle,Till late in the night relievd to the place at last again I made my way,Found you in death so cold dear comrade, found your body son of responding kisses, (never again on earth responding,)Bared your face in the starlight, curious the scene, cool blew the moderate night-wind,Long there and then in vigil I stood, dimly around me the battle-field spreading,Vigil wondrous and vigil sweet there in the fragrant silent night,But not a tear fell, not even a long-drawn sigh, long, long I gazed,Then on the earth partially reclining sat by your side leaning my chin in my hands,Passing sweet hours, immortal and mystic hours with you dearest comradenot a tear, not a word,Vigil of silence, love and death, vigil for you my son and my soldier,As onward silently stars aloft, eastward new ones upward stole,Vigil final for you brave boy, (I could not save you, swift was your death,I faithfully loved you and cared for you living, I think we shall surely meet again,)Till at latest lingering of the night, indeed just as the dawn appeard,My comrade I wrapt in his blanket, envelopd well his form,Folded the blanket well, tucking it carefully over head and carefully under feet,And there and then and bathed by the rising sun, my son in his grave, in his rude-dug grave I deposited,Ending my vigil strange with that, vigil of night and battle-field dim,Vigil for boy of responding kisses, (never again on earth responding,)Vigil for comrade swiftly slain, vigil I never forget, how as day brightend,I rose from the chill ground and folded my soldier well in his blanket,And buried him where he fell. I hope and pray with all my might that I still make you proud. The traveller hears me now and then,And sometimes harshly will he speak:This fellow would make weakness weak,And melt the waxen hearts of men.Another answers, Let him be,He loves to make parade of painThat with his piping he may gainThe praise that comes to constancy.A third is wroth: Is this an hourFor private sorrows barren song,When more and more the people throngThe chairs and thrones of civil power? She is Gone. Yet not to thine eternal resting-placeShalt thou retire alonenor couldst thou wishCouch more magnificent. Your inspiration led us on, pursuing happiness. As a fond mother, when the day is oer,Leads by the hand her little child to bed,Half willing, half reluctant to be led,And leave his broken playthings on the floor,Still gazing at them through the open door,Nor wholly reassured and comfortedBy promises of others in their stead,Which, though more splendid, may not please him more;So Nature deals with us, and takes awayOur playthings one by one, and by the handLeads us to rest so gently, that we goScarce knowing if we wish to go or stay,Being too full of sleep to understandHow far the unknown transcends the what we know.
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