Satiety
I have outlived my life, and linger on,
Knowing myself the ghost of one that was.
Come, kindly death, and let my flesh (being grass)
Nourish some beast's sad life when I am gone.
What joy is left in all I look upon?
I cannot sin, it wearies me. Alas!
I loathe the laggard moments as they pass;
I tire of all but swift oblivion.
Yet, if all power to taste the dear deceit
Be not outworn and perished utterly;
If it could be, then surely it were sweet--
I go down on my knees and pray: O God,
Send me some last illusion, ere I be
A clod--perhaps at rest--within a clod.
poem by Arthur Symons
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Related quotes
I Do Not Fear To Own Me Kin
I DO not fear to own me kin
To the glad clods in which spring flowers begin;
Or to my brothers, the great trees,
That speak with pleasant voices in the breeze,
Loud talkers with the winds that pass;
Or to my sister, the deep grass.
Of such I am, of such my body is,
That thrills to reach its lips to kiss.
That gives and takes with wind and sun and rain
And feels keen pleasure to the point of pain.
Of such are these,
The brotherhood of stalwart trees,
The humble family of flowers,
That make a light of shadowy bowers
Or star the edges of the bent:
They give and take sweet colour and sweet scent;
They joy to shed themselves abroad;
And tree and flower and grass and sod
Thrill and leap and live and sing
With silent voices in the Spring.
Hence I not fear to yield my breath,
Since all is still unchanged by death;
Since in some pleasant valley I may be,
Clod beside clod, or tree by tree,
Long ages hence, with her I love this hour;
And feel a lively joy to share
With her the sun and rain and air,
To taste her quiet neighbourhood
As the dumb things of field and wood,
The clod, the tree, and starry flower,
Alone of all things have the power.
poem by Robert Louis Stevenson
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Decima
Silent daisies out of reach,
Maidens of the starry grass,
Gazing on me as I pass
With a look too wise for speech,
Teach me resignation,--teach
Patience to the barren clod,
As, above your happier sod,
Bending to the wind's caress,
You--unplucked, alas!--no less
Sweetly manifest the god.
poem by George Santayana
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The Clown
A famous clod rescues nobody in this world,
A transaction is being made for all this recent world.
The clown or clod reads into books of logic,
Demonstrating damage, filling the time,
Accusing us and his pupils of all the crimes.
A clod who worked hard enough to ruin
Has escaped and not spoken to our mouth.
The ruins are mountains of spoken language,
The towers suddenly convert us into aliens and clods.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Grass Roots' Glass Parody Witter Bynner Spectra Current Version
All flesh is grass
and all its goodness like the flower of the field
The grass withers, the flower wilts
and the word of our God stands forever
Indeed, the people are grass.
Isaiah 40
Death ripe reaps, mower, Man, grass in life's fields,
no blade but to His blade wraith ghost soon yields.
Swiftly, surely, sharpened scythe shall pass
To gather tithe in time with Time's hour glass.
So little's garnered, strength that fond youth wields
soon sinks, who thinks winks ink earthquakeproof bields
finds loss in toss, soon tossed aside, morass
awaits sass lass, rank mocking rank, race, class.
Though each would sow
fresh seeds to show
true traces flow,
through/in/ on grow
in ALL all know
alas we pass
but once through farce
before Time's crow
thrice calls, with no
reprieve and so
weeds overgrow...
All bravado
winds staccato
turn tornado
away soon blow
breath's ribboned bow,
'mid worms below
life's strife trace race stow.
So, Mower, mow,
sweep all who weep,
would keepsakes keep,
with final coup de grâce.
(14 February 2010)
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Cease smilng, Dear! a little while be sad
Cease smiling, Dear! a little while be sad,
Here in the silence, under the wan moon;
Sweet are thine eyes, but how can I be glad,
Knowing they change so soon?
For Love's sake, Dear, be silent! Cover me
In the deep darkness of thy falling hair:
Fear is upon me and the memory
Of what is all men's share.
O could this moment be perpetuate!
Must we grow old, and leaden-eyed and gray,
And taste no more the wild and passionate
Love sorrows of to-day?
Grown old, and faded, Sweet! and past desire,
Let memory die, lest there be too much ruth,
Remembering the old, extinguished fire
Of our divine, lost youth.
O red pomegranate of thy perfect mouth!
My lips' life-fruitage, might I taste and die
Here in thy garden, where the scented south
Wind chastens agony;
Reap death from thy live lips in one long kiss,
And look my last into thine eyes and rest:
What sweets had life to me sweeter than this
Swift dying on thy breast?
Or, if that may not be, for Love's sake, Dear!
Keep silence still, and dream that we shall lie,
Red mouth to mouth, entwined, and always hear
The south wind's melody,
Here in thy garden, through the sighing boughs,
Beyond the reach of time and chance and change,
And bitter life and death, and broken vows,
That sadden and estrange.
poem by Ernest Christopher Dowson
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Sonnet- When a Child
The saddest thing in life I know is when,
I can’t prevent the death of a young child;
All my years of learning seem a waste, then;
My heart with anger fills; my mind grows wild.
I shudder in myself and almost cry;
Was there a freak chance of saving life, still?
I ask myself, my God, the question 'Why;
Death cruel stole the child's soul while still ill!
’Tis alright when an old man diseased dies;
The bud had flowered; fruit was yet unripe;
The child had not a speck or stain of vice;
Who can the mother's lament ever wipe?
Alas! None can query the act of God;
He is the Wisest One; We are but clod!
poem by John Celes
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Sonnet- When a Child Dies!
The saddest thing in life I know is when,
I can’t prevent the death of a young child;
My years of learning all seem awaste, then;
My heart with anger fills; my mind grows wild.
I shudder within myself, almost cry;
Was there a freak chance of saving life still?
I ask myself, my God, the question- 'Why
Death cruel stole the child's soul while still ill? ’
’Tis alright when an old man, diseased dies;
The bud had flowered; fruit was yet unripe;
The child had not a speck or stain of vice;
Who can the mother's lament ever wipe?
Alas! None can query the acts of God;
He is the Wisest One; we are but clod!
poem by John Celes
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I Sometimes Wonder If the Mighty God
I sometimes wonder if the mighty God
Cares aught about the little deeds of men;
And if their day and time can reach his ken
Or raise their breath above the hungry sod.
Does He who lightly holds th' eternal rod,
Now taut, now loose, the threads of Why and When?
Giving passing heed--or be they one or ten--
To one-time flesh but now the wind-blown clod?
If men can die who never yet knew life,
And, smiling, hold it is no strange affair;
Or live when death were welcome boon of strife,
Torn, broken sheaves the ghostly reapers spare;
The saints must grieve for earthly sorrows rife,
And God must heed, yea surely, God must care.
poem by Joseph Seamon Cotter
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The first dragon (sestina)
They went to find a thing that belched fire
a killer, a dragon what could it be?
To defeat it, to win they did aspire,
to set the people from its terror free,
it was huge as it could never tire
and where it went, there was only agony.
Those brave humble men were of all fear free
were like a mighty force that did aspire
to make men godly, as t no man should be,
to snatch from that beast it’s devouring fire
and to bring to it just death and agony
and in this quest they would not tire.
Yet all of the great brave men do aspire
to in the unknown find knowledge free
to test skill against the beast and to tire
to measure if plans full of follies be,
later to chance, to fight using its fire,
even in using if there is only agony.
They wanted the truth of its power to be free,
free to use in destruction like the strange fire
that came from heaven that fell in agony
that has the capacity to even gods to tire,
they constructed weapons that should be
the main goal to which warriors do aspire.
It may that other men could easily tire
of this overwhelming quest whose worth could be
not lovely high things, to which to aspire,
nor a guiding light sparkling over the free
but quenching of life by its terrible fire,
with it only acts of death and agony.
Then like destiny, which doomed in agony,
like the first discoverers of divine secret fire,
the beast would rise and in raving anger be
really ruthless and from tricks it will not tire,
its intimate knowledge would not come free,
to seek power in which men as fools aspire.
In pride anything to be, finishing foes with fire
while endlessly to be free they do aspire
while men tire in wars only breeding agony.
poem by Gert Strydom
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O death, rock me on sleep
O death! rock me on sleep,
Bring me on quiet rest;
Yet pass my guiltless ghost
Out of my careful breast:
Toll on the passing bell,
Ring out the doleful knell,
Let the sound of my death tell,
For I must die,
There is no remedy,
For now I die.
My pains who can express?
Alas! they are so strong,
My dolor will not suffer strength
My life for to prolong:
Toll on the passing bell, etc.
Alone, in prison strong,
I wail my destiny,
Wo worth this cruel hap that I
Should taste this misery:
Toll on the passing bell, etc.
Farewell my pleasures past,
Welcome my present pain;
I feel my torments so increase
That life cannot remain.
Cease now the passing bell,
Rung is my doleful knell,
For the sound my death doth tell,
Death doth draw nigh,
Sound my end dolefully,
For now I die.
poem by Anne Boleyn (1536)
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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Let Us Live
Life is more like life,
Death is a culture of the throat
And its power is quenching,
The soul masters the body when on arrival
Of death.
Ghosts are in death, and many are with us
To talk to about politics and governing the work
Of our professions.
These provide reputations, physical prowess,
And long distinctions
Always because of the ghost-like quality.
Let them disappear into the dawn,
Let’s laugh at the deadly living we are appalled by,
Letting merriment into our lives with flesh.
Life is more than death when faced with ourselves.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Crossroads
Standing at these crossroads yet again,
My internal satnav consumed by pain.
Nothing but darkness I seem to choose,
If I remain on this path I shall surely lose...
My sanity once more drowning in confusion,
My life's vision has become but an illusion.
I wander through this dream grasping at love,
How many more chances may come from above? ...
Amidst the gloom the light of promise shines,
It has the power to guide me to better times.
Yet these chances they are never plenty,
If I miss them I'll be running on empty...
This may be the final choice I shall make,
We should all learn with each breath that we take.
If life is but a lesson then death is merely a test,
An exam we must pass before our final rest...
Spread the love... The peace will follow...
poem by Cosmic Dreamer
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The Scent Of Love
It`s not an illusion as some say -
In between the moments of living and dying
Every one feels the scent of love.
But they tell a big lie and begin to feel contented.
How long will one live with that false pride?
I know not.
It`s a scent with thousand hands
Embracing the needy.
It`s a solace with the wings of an angel
Flying unto your moments dear.
Why are you proud of a world that doesn`t smell some love?
I know not.
The scent of love over reaches the borders of a day.
In the small smile blooming on a kid`s face,
In the sweet word whispered into ears by your dear,
And in the speechless closeness of your pet that never writes poems
The scent of a love triumphs
And you tell a big lie.
Across the skies an unprotected bird flies
It has a destination unknown, a survival instinct prompts its wings.
And you scribble stories on the enviable freedom
Of these innocent shadows doomed to extinction!
Blind and deaf all throughout this life-
How dare you call this life scentless of love?
If you can`t feel the scent of love,
Bury your head in the depths of sympathies unsolicited
And live a life of a nasty creature.
When you wake up unto reality
The last bus to reason will have left you.
The scent of love will haunt you as a ghost, rejoice.
poem by M.d Dinesh Nair
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Underneath Is A Monster
Under the fountain is a loathing monster,
How hundreds have perished from such a beast.
The internal conversation we are having
Represents the evil within and the one good of it.
This maniacal beast eavesdrops whilst we lean,
And often it speaks to the mind, fully hurting.
The voices gained are the very hallucinations
Actually, truly, properly, that we attain nightmares.
This fountain remarks as a ghoul,
They are utterly defeated by its call;
Their moments have collapsed from all the cares,
And a monster within has emerged
To be loathed forever due to the visits made.
poem by Naveed Akram
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No man is an Island, entire of itself every man is a piece of the Continent, a part of the main if a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friends or of thine own were any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in Mankind And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls It tolls for thee.
quote by John Donne
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sonnet: God Is Foremost
Abandon God and you surely perish;
All wealth however earned, you tend to leave;
How much of food can your taste-buds relish?
In truth and labor, destiny you weave.
Do not covet thy neighbor’s fast-track wealth;
The slanderers will suddenly cease- all!
More than body, important is soul’s health;
God never lets the righteous ones to fall.
All things take place as per the words of God;
In wealthy times, most men do lose their sense;
Remember man, you’re made of only clod!
More than a man, God is your best defense.
So, put your trust in God wholeheartedly,
And climb life’s ladder most courageously.
poem by John Celes
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Mother Country
Oh what is that country
And where can it be,
Not mine own country,
But dearer far to me?
Yet mine own country,
If I one day may see
Its spices and cedars,
Its gold and ivory.
As I lie dreaming
It rises, that land:
There rises before me
Its green golden strand,
With its bowing cedars
And its shining sand;
It sparkles and flashes
Like a shaken brand.
Do angels lean nearer
While I lie and long?
I see their soft plumage
And catch their windy song,
Like the rise of a high tide
Sweeping full and strong;
I mark the outskirts
Of their reverend throng.
Oh what is a king here,
Or what is a boor?
Here all starve together,
All dwarfed and poor;
Here Death's hand knocketh
At door after door,
He thins the dancers
From the festal floor.
Oh what is a handmaid,
Or what is a queen?
All must lie down together
Where the turf is green,
The foulest face hidden,
The fairest not seen;
Gone as if never,
They had breathed or been.
Gone from sweet sunshine
Underneath the sod,
Turned from warm flesh and blood
To senseless clod,
Gone as if never
They had toiled or trod,
Gone out of sight of all
Except our God.
Shut into silence
From the accustomed song,
Shut into solitude
From all earth's throng,
Run down tho' swift of foot,
Thrust down tho' strong;
Life made an end of
Seemed it short or long.
Life made an end of,
Life but just begun,
Life finished yesterday,
Its last sand run;
Life new-born with the morrow,
Fresh as the sun:
While done is done for ever;
Undone, undone.
And if that life is life,
This is but a breath,
The passage of a dream
And the shadow of death;
But a vain shadow
If one considereth;
Vanity of vanities,
As the Preacher saith.
poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
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Love Sonnet 29 The Sweet Moments We Tend To Hold Longer
The sweet moments we tend to hold longer,
While sufferings are kept the very least,
Such when incessant winds had blown stronger,
Sweetness of life is not so much decreased;
Our lives are hewn like each a distinct shoe,
We take our pick that would seem to suffice,
Some lives so dull, some grand of so much hue,
As some dishes taste great, some lacking spice;
But mark, what we attain or hoard and keep,
Are times, not gems inside a treasure chest,
These memories of when we laugh or weep,
All pass as history like all the rest;
....May all the sweet moments themselves, repeat,
....To liven again lives simple or great.
poem by Reyvrex Questor Reyes
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Our Heav'nly Race
Just two, two choices we’ve got on this planet:
life, life and death, death;
life on earth, eternal life in heav’n above,
and death here on earth, eternal death in hell below.
But questions, questions ask we ourselves below:
‘How do we live here on this planet? ’
‘what’s our rewards aft’r death? ’
Death is inevitable gentle young man:
plants die, animals die, we too must die
and sleep in Mr. Death’s grave;
we must die in flesh, not on soul returning to God.
Isaiah holiness, let’s accept
that our death may be our sweet pillow for rest
or we due to second death eternal in hell!
poem by Eche Ononukwe
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Learn
Learn, learn, learn,—
Our beautiful world is not a field for sheep;
Not just a place wherein to laugh and weep,
To eat and drink, to dance and sigh and sleep,
And then to moulder into senseless dust.
Learn, learn, learn,—
Look up and learn—you cannot look too high!
Not for the earthly wealth which brains can buy,
Not for the sake of gold and luxury—
Treasures corrupted by the moth and rust.
Learn, learn, learn,—
As one in whom the Lord has breathed His breath,
And aye redeemèd from the power of death—
Not as the dumb brute-beast that perisheth,
Not as a soulless, thoughtless, thankless clod.
Learn, learn, learn,—
With love and awe and patience—not in haste;
Drink deeply,—do not pass by with a taste;
O make your land a garden, not a waste!—
Your mind bright, to reflect the face of God.
Learn, learn, learn,—
The mystic beauty and the truth of life;
Search out the treasures whereof earth is rife,
Search on all sides, with pain and prayer and strife;
Search even into darkness. Do not fear.
Learn, learn, learn,—
With a true, steadfast heart, lay up your hoard;
God will sort out the treasures you have stored,
And set them in His bright light, afterward.
He will make all your difficulties clear.
Learn, learn, learn,—
Death is no breaking at a certain place;
We only pause there for a little space.
And then—you would not shame Him to His face?—
You, in His Image and own Likeness made!
Learn, learn, learn,—
Walk with wide-open eyes and reverent heart.
Worship as God the beautiful in art.
Though you see now but dimly, and in part,
All shall be clear in time. Be not afraid.
poem by Ada Cambridge
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