On the Tombs in Westminster Abbey
MORTALITY, behold and fear!
What a change of flesh is here!
Think how many royal bones
Sleep within this heap of stones:
Here they lie had realms and lands,
Who now want strength to stir their hands:
Where from their pulpits seal'd with dust
They preach, 'In greatness is no trust.'
Here 's an acre sown indeed
With the richest, royall'st seed
That the earth did e'er suck in
Since the first man died for sin:
Here the bones of birth have cried--
'Though gods they were, as men they died.'
Here are sands, ignoble things,
Dropt from the ruin'd sides of kings;
Here 's a world of pomp and state,
Buried in dust, once dead by fate.
poem by Francis Beaumont
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
When The Duke of Clarence Died
Let us sing in tear-choked numbers how the Duke of Clarence went,
Just to make a royal sorrow rather more pre-eminent.
Ladies sighed and sobbed and drivelled—toadies spoke with bated breath,
And the banners floating half-mast made a mockery of death,
And they said Australia sorrowed for the Prince’s death—they lied!
She had done with kings and princes ere the Duke of Clarence died.
What’s a death in lofty places? What’s a noble birth?—say I—
To the poor who die in hundreds, as a man should never die?
Can they shed a tear, or sorrow for a royal dunce’s fate?
No! for royalty has taught them how to sing the songs of hate;
O’er the sounds of grief in Europe, and the lands across the tide
Rose the growl of revolution, when the Duke of Clarence died.
We—it matters not how lonely our o’er-burdened lives are spent—
Claim in common with a Clarence, straight from Adam our descent!
Even the man they call a “bastard” has a lineage to himself,
Though he traces not his fathers through the sordid line of Guelph,
And, perhaps in some foul garret in his misery and pride,
One of Nature’s Kings was dying when the Duke of Clarence died.
Ah! the workgirl’s bloodless fingers, in the plundered human hive,
Sew the banners of rebellion, while the kings and princes thrive;
In the cold of northern winter—in the south in dust and heat—
Weary workmen preach sedition at the corners of the street.
They pre-eminent in sorrow! ’tis pre-eminence in cheek;
We shall hear what care and pain is when the slums begin to speak;
Hundreds starved to pay the shadow of a crown upon his head!
Yellow gold (at last impotent) fought with death beside his bed.
And, perhaps, a Prince of Nature sat despairing by the side
Of a noble mother STARVING when the Duke of Clarence died.
Ignoble living—splendid dead! behold the pomp of royal woe!
Lo, the funeral! battle-hero never yet was buried so.
Who and what was he? What has he done to benefit mankind?
Has he nought to show Saint Peter save a royal race behind?
Who is worthy? Who is noble? God! shall gold alone decide?
Better men like dogs were buried ere the Duke of Clarence died.
Thrones of earth and earthly rulers soon shall all be swept aside,
And ’twere better for his comfort that the Duke of Clarence died.
poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Church Monuments
While that my soul repairs to her devotion,
Here I intomb my flesh, that it betimes
May take acquaintance of this heap of dust;
To which the blast of death's incessant motion,
Fed with the exhalation of our crimes,
Drives all at last. Therefore I gladly trust
My body to this school, that it may learn
To spell his elements, and find his birth
Written in dusty heraldry and lines;
Which dissolution sure doth best discern,
Comparing dust with dust, and earth with earth.
These laugh at jet and marble put for signs,
To sever the good fellowship of dust,
And spoil the meeting. What shall point out them,
When they shall bow, and kneel, and fall down flat
To kiss those heaps, which now they have in trust?
Dear flesh, while I do pray, learn here thy stem
And true descent, that when thou shalt grow fat
And wanton in thy cravings, thou mayst know
That flesh is but the glass which holds the dust
That measures all our time; which also shall
Be crumbled into dust. Mark, here below
How tame these ashes are, how free from lust,
That thou mayst fit thyself against thy fall.
poem by George Herbert
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
You Are Unto Dust
You are made from the dust of the earth,
And the Wailing-Wall will be there for you;
For you are unto dust and you shall return unto dust,
And this is just the journey of the spirit.
To the realm of the unknown and to the things we do for love,
And until death put us apart on this side of the planet;
For the flesh goes back to where it belongs to!
Yes, back to the earth.
Death is part of us and we need to learn from others,
For we have to be prepared as well;
For he flesh goes back to where it belongs to;
And out of the dust we were made.
The dust became flesh and today we are human beings,
And from the knowledge of the things to come;
But naked we came and naked we shall return.
Shed no tears on this love,
For death comes for all of us on this earth;
And we need to learn from the facts around us as well,
For it is better to be very righteous than to be buried with evil deeds.
Life is a long road full of sand and,
All that is acquired on this earth is vanity!
Yes, vanity upon vanity! !
For you and i are unto dust and,
Unto dust we shall return at the end of of all things.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
God's-Acre
I like that ancient Saxon phrase, which calls
The burial-ground God's-Acre! It is just;
It consecrates each grave within its walls,
And breathes a benison o'er the sleeping dust.
God's-Acre! Yes, that blessed name imparts
Comfort to those, who in the grave have sown
The seed that they had garnered in their hearts,
Their bread of life, alas! no more their own.
Into its furrows shall we all be cast,
In the sure faith, that we shall rise again
At the great harvest, when the archangel's blast
Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and grain.
Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom,
In the fair gardens of that second birth;
And each bright blossom mingle its perfume
With that of flowers, which never bloomed on earth.
With thy rude ploughahare, Death, turn up the sod,
And spread the furrow for the seed we sow;
This is the field and Acre of our God,
This is the place where human harvests grow!
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
A Lonely God!
a lonely God...
from dust made flesh,
and filled it with
the haunting spirit of wind.
eyes that open
both in and out,
a fire kindled of bones!
who are we
to run blindly
into the sun?
to hide from the rain
that weeps for us?
idols made of fear,
the soul chokes the spirit.
we stand on the porch,
afraid to open the door!
dust and flesh,
wind and fire...
bones that cry out,
tears lost in the rain.
a lonely God...
walks away!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
A Sight Too Sad
I walked the cemetary grounds and saw
the names engraved on stones.
I knew underneath the dark green grass
lay old and brittle bones.
How they died it did not say
just that they had gone away
on a certain date, now long forgot.
All of the stones a sorry lot.
Few had flowers. Most had naught.
Some were planted anew.
But most were desolate on the ground.
Their visitations all were through.
Who were these brave souls that had lived?
I would never know.
I walked the stones that lay in rows,
pacing to and fro.
I came upon a stone so sad
turned upon its side.
I picked it up and righted it,
looked and then I cried.
It belonged to a baby that died too soon
and never got to see
a smile on my face when she was born
when she was taken from me.
Cemetary grounds are repositories
and never do they tell
where the ones that are buried there
now reside and dwell.
So, I now don't venture to these grounds.
They make me feel too low.
Would it not be better to cremate the bodies
and let their ashes blow?
poem by Edwina Reizer
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
August 05
M) The month of August
In the summer of 2005
In June I turned 18
My best friend moved back in state
In April I got a girlfriend since our first date
I met her last August
Later that year went to dust
H) I received a call on a hot summer day
The mood went a different way
She sounded like she cried
Like someone or something died
M) We started to change
Said I had become strange
We started to change
Hands against the wall
H) You wanted to escape
Cried, a victim of rape
I offered my help
M) What happened to the past?
A time that didn’t last
We changed too fast
H) You wanted to die
Then started to cry
I said I would help
You fought against the pain
Didn’t let your life dwain
You didn’t go insane
You won against the pain
M) Close to one year
Faced another fear
I broke your heart
I tore us apart
You chose a different fate
Tried to save us too late
I know there is nothing to save
I will bare this to my grave
H) M) I failed and succeeded
Helped you through his crime
We died in our prime
We are separate now
We were not meant to last
And you excepted your past
August 31,2005
My problem= M) helping her=H)
poem by Isaac Helms
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Immortal Part
When I meet the morning beam,
Or lay me down at night to dream,
I hear my bones within me say,
"Another night, another day.
"When shall this slough of sense be cast,
This dust of thoughts be laid at last,
The man of flesh and soul be slain
And the man of bone remain?
"This tongue that talks, these lungs that shout,
These thews that hustle us about,
This brain that fills the skull with schemes,
And its humming hive of dreams,--
"These to-day are proud in power
And lord it in their little hour:
The immortal bones obey control
Of dying flesh and dying soul.
"'Tis long till eve and morn are gone:
Slow the endless night comes on,
And late to fulness grows the birth
That shall last as long as earth.
"Wanderers eastward, wanderers west,
Know you why you cannot rest?
'Tis that every mother's son
Travails with a skeleton.
"Lie down in the bed of dust;
Bear the fruit that bear you must;
Bring the eternal seed to light,
And morn is all the same as night.
"Rest you so from trouble sore,
Fear the heat o' the sun no more,
Nor the snowing winter wild,
Now you labour not with child.
"Empty vessel, garment cast,
We that wore you long shall last.
--Another night, another day."
So my bones within me say.
Therefore they shall do my will
To-day while I am master still,
And flesh and soul, now both are strong,
Shall hale the sullen slaves along,
Before this fire of sense decay,
This smoke of thought blow clean away,
And leave with ancient night alone
The stedfast and enduring bone.
poem by Alfred Edward Housman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Sonnets 09: Let You Not Say Of Me When I Am Old
Let you not say of me when I am old,
In pretty worship of my withered hands
Forgetting who I am, and how the sands
Of such a life as mine run red and gold
Even to the ultimate sifting dust, "Behold,
Here walketh passionless age!"—for there expands
A curious superstition in these lands,
And by its leave some weightless tales are told.
In me no lenten wicks watch out the night;
I am the booth where Folly holds her fair;
Impious no less in ruin than in strength,
When I lie crumbled to the earth at length,
Let you not say, "Upon this reverend site
The righteous groaned and beat their breasts in prayer."
poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Mick Jagger, R.I.P.
Where will you be, Sir Michael Jagger,
Deep in the earth, all dust and bones,
You with the ego and testosterone swagger,
Proud to be king of the Rolling Stones?
Where will you be when your songs are forgotten
And somebody else is a household name?
Your bones will decay and your flesh go rotten,
This is the end of your glory and fame.
You never could get no Satisfaction
With Honky-tonk Women or sweet Lady Jane,
You've gone to a place where you don't feel pleasure,
You don't even have the reassurance of pain.
I guess you would like your Mother's Little Helper,
Something to prove you do really count,
Time Waits For No Man, the party is over,
You Can't Always Get What You Want.
poem by John Thorkild Ellison
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Before Departing
Regarding the One, who died for sin, don’t plan to leave without Him,
Don’t you dare leave this earth, unless you’ve experienced New Birth,
Man’s Spiritual Birth, in God’s Son, The Lamb who died for everyone,
The Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, who died so we can have new life.
All men are born on earth naturally, but, shall end their lives spiritually,
And all must become Born Again, as God’s mandate to reach Heaven,
This is The Lord’s only doable plan, for every mortal woman and man,
To reach from this earth immortality, then move into Heaven, eternally.
The Lord does not change, so we must, to avoid returning to the dust,
At the moment of our last breath, consigned to Hell and eternal death,
This change that God’s speaking of, is a glorious change from above,
A change God can make in all of us, through the Spirit of Christ Jesus.
Most will choose Heaven, not Hell, the choice believed sound and well,
But based on merit of their own, while dismissing belief in Christ alone,
As hearts may not be at the place, to understand God’s work of Grace,
Fact, that no one’s good, no not one, and our trust must be in His Son.
In Christ alone we find our Salvation, man’s Redeemer for every nation,
Our salvation alone is in the Name, Christ Jesus, who all men proclaim,
The Savior Himself has told all men, to get into Heaven, be Born Again,
This Truth indeed must be in our heart, before from earth, we do depart.
(Copyright ©10/2009)
Buddha at the Bodhi tree (Sri Lanka)
Here, to the oldest living tree
Pilgrims have flown, sailed, crawled and bussed
To feel its shade to know its strength
The world’s not owned but held in trust
It never withers, fresh shoots grow
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust
Does not apply to such a tree
The world’s not owned but held in trust
Buddha, in this tree’s motherland
Had conquered self and fear and lust
Now every seed the message gives
The world’s not owned but held in trust
Treasures you covet, things possessed
Silver and gold all turn to rust
Others will claim your home, your land
The world’s not owned but held in trust
Your little self’s a puff of smoke
To every living thing be just
Power brings responsibilities
The world’s not owned but held in trust
The fluttering leaves eternal tell
Man’s not immortal, die we must
Live a full life but live it well
The world’s not owned, but held in trust
poem by Sheena Blackhall
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The New Ezekiel
What, can these dead bones live, whose sap is dried
By twenty scorching centuries of wrong?
Is this the House of Israel, whose pride
Is as a tale that's told, an ancient song?
Are these ignoble relics all that live
Of psalmist, priest, and prophet? Can the breath
Of very heaven bid these bones revive,
Open the graves and clothe the ribs of death?
Yea, Prophesy, the Lord hath said. Again
Say to the wind, Come forth and breathe afresh,
Even that they may live upon these slain,
And bone to bone shall leap, and flesh to flesh.
The Spirit is not dead, proclaim the word,
Where lay dead bones, a host of armed men stand!
I ope your graves, my people, saith the Lord,
And I shall place you living in your land.
poem by Emma Lazarus
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Because You Never Talk to Me...
all that is left of me will be
bones suffering takes the flesh and breaks
the nerves the sad times long
enough shall mellow these
bones into powder decently turning
later into a hundred or more
dusts then you shall
identify with me for dust
too is your final destiny
everything you are shall be dust too
you too shall mellow
now is the best time to talk
in the common ground of our final existence
but it will be too late
the strong wind by then
has blown us all away
scattered specks
lacking the specifics....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Hymn 24
The rich sinner dying.
Psa. 49:6,9; Eccl. 8:8; Job 3:14,15.
In vain the wealthy mortals toil,
And heap their shining dust in vain,
Look down and scorn the humble poor,
And boast their lofty hills of gain.
Their golden cordials cannot ease
Their pained hearts or aching heads,
Nor fright nor bribe approaching death
From glitt'ring roofs and downy beds.
The ling'ring, the unwilling soul
The dismal summons must obey,
And bid a long, a sad farewell
To the pale lump of lifeless clay.
Thence they are huddled to the grave,
Where kings and slaves have equal thrones;
Their bones without distinction lie
Amongst the heap of meaner bones.
poem by Isaac Watts
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Psalm 138
I will praise you with my whole heart
In Christ alone I stand
I will worship you with all of me
I will raise your name throughout the land
Out of the depths of my soul I cried
And my King He heard my pleas
By His loving-kindness and His truth
I will come to Him on bended knee
And every King will bow His head
And every prince fall down
And every tongue it shall confess
Before the royal crown
That Jesus Christ is Lord of all
And all the kings of men but dust
All other gods are swept away
In God alone all men must trust
And even in the midst of trouble
Your hand it stretched out to me
Your eye is on the meek and lowly
You came to earth to set them free
poem by Frank McEleny
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
what do we do to Mother Earth?
do not burn
let the leaves fall to the ground
let them stay there
layer by layer
heap upon heap
let mother earth
hug all the leaves
let the affection be
strong and heavy
let the leaves die
and rot and become
water and become dust
to dust
let all of us see this dust
we shall do what mother earth
and nature loves best
to dust we shall return
and be its permanent part
close to the bosom
of mother earth
forever
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
History Stones People.
History stones people.
They stoned Moses, David and Linclon,
history did that for all to see
Marbel and cement,
that's all it leaves behind
of a long changing life.
Great heroes of time,
fall under the mercy
of the sculptor's knife.
History stones faces,
in a way that would make
ecclestias cringe.
History stones feet,
in a way that would make
piligrims cry.
History stones life
to always stay fresh,
yet, what is life without
the sins of the flesh.
All the radical kids
get stoned
and never change
or even move a muscle.
All the sword raising warriors
history stoned
without blood in their veins.
You can see all the victims
that history stoned
when you walk in the park,
they got kings
and queens
hell, they even got Gods.
They are there captive
in history's stones,
never to be again what they were;
wilting flesh and
breakable bones.
People look up at them
they are victims too.
History's stones fall far,
even on to you.
Those stoned to live
are like the ones stoned to die.
enslaved to the search
of the frozen smile.
Life is a burning bush
that doesn't get consumed.
not a dead rock
or a statue of history.
It's a fusing wind
of happinnes and misery.
An exploding volcano
of courage and fear.
It is the stem of the flower
struggling through the seasons
to stand and bloom
above the drying soil.
Life is the fighting wave
you see at sea
forgotten and denied
by the stones of history.
poem by Samuel Katz
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Dead Or Alive
There in the shadows, looks like a hand
Without its owner, to give it a command
Its got a purpose but I dont know what it is
Im in trouble
There in the streets, looks like a man
But something wrong that I dont understand
His eyes are open but he dont see a thing
His skin is peeling off, his bones are sticking out
Im getting scared
Oh my God (is it dead? )
Is it living? (is it dead? )
Is it dead or alive?
(is it dead? ), is it dead? (is it dead? )
Is it dead? (is it dead? )
Is it dead or alive?
Hiding in the cupboards, like little mice
Hiding in the frigerator, that isnt nice
Its not an animal, it dont have legs
No one else can see it
It moves so fast, corner of my eye
Look again its gone, its hiding
Wont somebody help me, doesnt anybody care?
It waits so patiently, for me to lose my guard
Im getting scared
Is it dead, is it
(is it dead)
Is it dead
(is it dead)
Is it dead or alive
(is it dead)
Is it dead
(is it dead)
Is it dead, is it
I remember there was a time
When dead and buried meant just that
Underneath the cold dark ground
Things stay put!
Oh them bones they make them bodies walk
Them bones, them bones
If they could only talk!
Is it dead (fade)
song performed by by Oingo Boingo
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
The Dark At The End Of The Night
The dark at the end of the night
The hole in the ground
The worms:
This is what I fear
The nothingness that lasts forever
And the disintegration that makes all I am
Smell terribly for a while
And then on and on,
Bones and dust
Dust and dust.
Oh the fear of the ground
And the fear of that nothingness forever-
poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!