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Dolores

IS he well blessed who has no eyes to scan
The woeful things that shadow all our life:
The latent brute behind the eyes of man,
The place and power gained and stained by strife,
The weakly victims driven to the wall,
The subtle cruelties that meet us all
Like eyes from darksome places? Blessed is he
Who such sad things is never doomed to see!

The crust of common life is worn by time,
And shines deception, as a thin veneer
The raw plank hides, or as the frozen mere
Holds drowned men embedded in its slime;
The ninety eat their bread of death and crime,
And sin and sorrow that the ten may thrive.

O, moaning sea of life! the few who dive
Beneath thy waters, faint and short of breath,
Not Dante-like, who cannot swim in death
And view its secrets, but must swiftly rise,—
They meet the light with introverted eyes,
And hands that clutch a few dim mysteries!

Our life a harp is, with unnumbered strings,
And tones and symphonies; but our poor skill
Some shallow notes from its great music brings.
We know it there; but vainly wish and will.

O, things symbolic! Things that mock our sense—
Our five-fold, pitiable sense—and say
A thousand senses could not show one day
As sight infinite sees it; fruitful clay,
And budding bough, and nature great with child
And chill with doom and death—is all so dense
That our dull thought can never read thy words,
Or sweep with knowing hand thy hidden chords?

Have men not fallen from fair heights, once trod
By nobler minds, who saw the works of God,
The flowers and living things, still undefiled,
And spoke one language with them? And can we,
In countless generations, each more pure
Than that preceding, come at last to see
Thy symbols full of meaning, and be sure
That what we read is all they have to tell?

poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes

Life Or Death?

Every day we live, we always face death
We get closer to it, every time we take a breath
Life is special but death brings peace
Life brings reality and things you believe
Death is hard for everyone around
Death is quiet, no more bad sounds
Life is also hard, all the things we go through
Life can never be easy, no matter what you do
Death is sad, for those who cry
Death is meaningful, for those who die
Life is a work of art, it's nice to look
Life is full of teachings, like an open book
Death is the new life, might as well be dead
Death is a lot more, for what's up ahead
Life brings new things, always something new
Life brings surprises, something out the blue
Death is scary, nothing we want to see
Death is negative, a place we don't want to be
Life is full of love, with the ones close to you
Life is full of money, for those who sue
Death is empty, nothing compared to this
Death is a lot of things, too long of a list
But life is everything; don't wait till there's nothing left
Death can wait, so don't waste your last breath
So just pick your choice, which one? Life or death?

poem by Triauna Hall
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Objectified

All beautiful things meet their demise
Flowers in bloom surely will die
Frozen are the wings of the dead butterfly
Because all beautiful things meet their demise

All beautiful things meet their demise
Clouds of gray spoil the light of the skies
The ocean must fall in order to rise
Because all beautiful things meet their demise

All beautiful things meet their demise
I knew I was doomed when you first said, “Hi.”
Two ships in the night, we were bound to collide
Because all beautiful things meet their demise

All beautiful things meet their demise
Four months can pass in the blink of an eye
We lose ourselves without having to try
Because all beautiful things meet their demise

All beautiful things meet their demise
The simplest words become hard to define
You can’t see the truth when you cover your eyes
Because all beautiful things meet their demise

All beautiful things meet their demise
Your pay the price to take this ride
Slowly, you find that you’re living a lie
Because all beautiful things meet their demise

All beautiful things meet their demise
Pictures of us will fade over time
We become strangers in a world so wide
Because all beautiful things meet their demise

All beautiful things meet their demise
You’ll keep on searching for what you won’t find
You’ll lose your faith while I lose my mind
Because all beautiful things meet their demise

All beautiful things meet their demise
Sometimes your morals get left behind
It will be too late when you realize
Because all beautiful things meet their demise

poem by Vaida Marea
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Children's Eyes

Through childrens eyes I see joy
Sunshine, flowers, rainbows, smiles
Wonderful things that bright up your day

Through teenage eyes I see sorrow
Suicide, tears, shattered dreams
Sad things that make you cry

Through adult eyes I see hate
Death, destruction, war, violence
Terrible things that tear up your heart

Through my eyes, I see what they see
Joy, sorrow, hate
Things that make up life

poem by Aimee Rozen
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Disingenuousness

Here lies another box for nature,
Carbon ready;
Black to eyes down here,
Where death is at its job.

Up there you’ll hear a rhythmic sob
Or two from living yet-to-dies –
A humming lacrimoso –
It all but cleans the eyes:

Forget it –
The dismal show of grief –
Life is only chemistry –
Our stay is only brief.
It’s we who hype it up!

Diaphragms jerk again;
The jet monotone of hearses
Feeds the disingenuousness
Of undertakers –
They seem to stare at something up ahead –
For them, it’s in the blood,
To taxi off the dead.

The March of Death

Death death death death death death death death death death death

poem by Mark R Slaughter
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Complaint of Lisa

There is no woman living who draws breath
So sad as I, though all things sadden her.
There is not one upon life's weariest way
Who is weary as I am weary of all but death.
Toward whom I look as looks the sunflower
All day with all his whole soul toward the sun;
While in the sun's sight I make moan all day,
And all night on my sleepless maiden bed.
Weep and call out on death, O Love, and thee,
That thou or he would take me to the dead.
And know not what thing evil I have done
That life should lay such heavy hand on me.

Alas! Love, what is this thou wouldst with me?
What honor shalt thou have to quench my breath,
Or what shall my heart broken profit thee?
O Love, O great god Love, what have I done,
That thou shouldst hunger so after my death?
My heart is harmless as my life's first day:
Seek out some false fair woman, and plague her
Till her tears even as my tears fill her bed:
I am the least flower in thy flowery way,
But till my time be come that I be dead,
Let me live out my flower-time in the sun,
Though my leaves shut before the sunflower.

O Love, Love, Love, the kingly sunflower!
Shall he the sun hath looked on look on me,
That live down here in shade, out of the sun,
Here living in the sorrow and shadow of death?
Shall he that feeds his heart full of the day
Care to give mine eyes light, or my lips breath?
Because she loves him, shall my lord love her
Who is as a worm in my lord's kingly way?
I shall not see him or know him alive or dead;
But thou, I know thee, O Love, and pray to thee
That in brief while my brief life-days be done,
And the worm quickly make my marriage-bed.

For underground there is no sleepless bed.
But here since I beheld my sunflower
These eyes have slept not, seeing all night and day
His sunlike eyes, and face fronting the sun.
Wherefore, if anywhere be any death,
I fain would find and fold him fast to me,
That I may sleep with the world's eldest dead,
With her that died seven centuries since, and her
That went last night down the night-wandering way.
For this is sleep indeed, when labor is done,
Without love, without dreams, and without breath,
And without thought, O name unnamed! of thee.

Ah! but, forgetting all things, shall I thee?
Wilt thou not be as now about my bed
There underground as here before the sun?
Shall not thy vision vex me alive and dead,
Thy moving vision without form or breath?
I read long since the bitter tale of her
Who read the tale of Launcelot on a day,
And died, and had no quiet after death,
But was moved ever along a weary way,
Lost with her love in the underworld; ah me,
O my king, O my lordly sunflower,
Would God to me, too, such a thing were done!

But if such sweet and bitter things be done,
Then, flying from life, I shall not fly from thee.
For in that living world without a sun
Thy vision will lay hold upon me dead,
And meet and mock me, and mar my peace in death.
Yet if being wroth, God had such pity on her,
Who was a sinner and foolish in her day,
That even in hell they twain should breathe one breath,
Why should he not in some wise pity me?
So if I sleep not in my soft strait bed,
I may look up and see my sunflower
As he the sun, in some divine strange way.

O poor my heart, well knowest thou in what way
This sore sweet evil unto us was done.
For on a holy and a heavy day
I was arisen out of my still small bed
To see the knights tilt, and one said to me
"The king;" and seeing him, somewhat stopped my breath;
And if the girl spake more, I heard her not,
For only I saw what I shall see when dead,
A kingly flower of knights, a sunflower,
That shone against the sunlight like the sun,
And like a fire, O heart, consuming thee,
The fire of love that lights the pyre of death.

Howbeit I shall not die an evil death
Who have loved in such a sad and sinless way,
That this my love, lord, was no shame to thee.
So when mine eyes are shut against the sun,
O my soul's sun, O the world's sunflower,
Thou nor no man will quite despise me dead.
And dying I pray with all my low last breath
That thy whole life may be as was that day,
That feast-day that made trothplight death and me,
Giving the world light of thy great deeds done;
And that fair face brightening thy bridal bed,
That God be good as God hath been to her.

That all things goodly and glad remain with her,
All things that make glad life and goodly death;
That as a bee sucks from a sunflower
Honey, when summer draws delighted breath,
Her soul may drink of thy soul in like way,
And love make life a fruitful marriage-bed
Where day may bring forth fruits of joy to day
And night to night till days and nights be dead.
And as she gives light of her love to thee,
Give thou to her the old glory of days long done;
And either give some heat of light to me,
To warm me where I sleep without the sun.

O sunflower make drunken with the sun,
O knight whose lady's heart draws thine to her,
Great king, glad lover, I have a word to thee.
There is a weed lives out of the sun's way,
Hid from the heat deep in the meadow's bed,
That swoons and whitens at the wind's least breath,
A flower star-shaped, that all a summer day
Will gaze her soul out on the sunflower
For very love till twilight finds her dead.
But the great sunflower heeds not her poor death,
Knows not when all her loving life is done;
And so much knows my lord the king of me.

Ay, all day long he has no eye for me;
With golden eye following the golden sun
From rose-colored to purple-pillowed bed,
From birthplace to the flame-lit place of death,
From eastern end to western of his way,
So mine eye follows thee, my sunflower,
So the white star-flower turns and yearns to thee,
The sick weak weed, not well alive or dead,
Trod under foot if any pass by her,
Pale, without color of summer or summer breath
In the shrunk shuddering petals, that have done
No work but love, and die before the day.

But thou, to-day, to-morrow, and every day,
Be glad and great, O love whose love slays me.
Thy fervent flower made fruitful from the sun
Shall drop its golden seed in the world's way,
That all men thereof nourished shall praise thee
For grain and flower and fruit of works well done;
Till thy shed seed, O shining sunflower,
Bring forth such growth of the world's garden-bed
As like the sun shall outlive age and death.
And yet I would thine heart had heed of her
Who loves thee alive; but not till she be dead.
Come, Love, then, quickly, and take her utmost breath.

Song, speak for me who am dumb as are the dead;
From my sad bed of tears I send forth thee,
To fly all day from sun's birth to sun's death
Down the sun's way after the flying sun,
For love of her that gave thee wings and breath
Ere day be done, to seek the sunflower.

poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Song

Lord, when the sense of thy sweet grace
Sends up my soul to seek thy face.
Thy blessed eyes breed such desire,
I dy in love’s delicious Fire.
O love, I am thy Sacrifice.
Be still triumphant, blessed eyes.
Still shine on me, fair suns! that I
Still may behold, though still I dy.

Though still I dy, I live again;
Still longing so to be still slain,
So gainfull is such losse of breath.
I dy even in desire of death.
Still live in me this loving strife
Of living Death and dying Life.
For while thou sweetly slayest me
Dead to my selfe, I live in Thee.

poem by Richard Crashaw
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Sea-Weeds.

The sunlight piercing through the blue wave feeds
The joyous growths that, clustered from the air,
Throw forth their fibres to the Power that breeds
Love in the lives above of all things fair —
The ever-living Sun, that through man's days
Is as the breath of all the thinks and says.
Light streams down to them in that watery mist,
E'en as thought's splendor in a human mood
Life-filling, like a glorious amethyst
Among the mountains in their solitude;
And the sea-things drink in at every pore
The nurture of the light till life is o'er.
Till life is o'er, and Death within the ooze
Then hides them from the joyous light and air;
E'en as, too, in the mind the flaming muse
Burns down to ashes in a world made bare
With want and woe, and the pain whose defeat
Must be by death — when death alone is sweet.

poem by Robert Crawford
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The best things in life are nearest Breath in your nostrils, light in your eyes, flowers at your feet, duties at your hand, the path of right just before you. Then do not grasp at the stars, but do life's plain, common work as it comes, certain that daily duties and daily bread are the sweetest things in life.

quote by Robert Louis Stephenson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Godly Happiness

Why do I do the things I should not,
Why do things go faster when I say stop,
Why do I feel as if I am a mop,
The anger I feel is quite a lot.

How can someone so great,
Love someone in such a state?
Your beautiful, your amazing,
Singing your praise, makes my heart beat like crazy.

The thing about my past,
Is that love never lasts,
But your love never fails,
Your love comes through the nails,
That went through Jesus' hands,
To save the worlds clans,
This was always part of God's plans.

After the time that I spent,
Learning your word and about the son you sent,
I realized the pain,
That would make a man insane,
you went through it all,
Just to save the people who stand tall.

I now know what really is worth dying for,
Because your love is so great i fall to the floor,
This is where I praise,
The one who was raised,
From death to life,
After 3 days of strife.

Before I was dirty,
But you washed me clean,
You gave my life meaning
You covered me in a beam,

You showed me things other than death,
You covered me in love, my life you did bless,
And now I follow anything you say,
Because you make my life happier, day by day.
and now when I read the things that you did,
They are no longer boring they jump out of the page, like suddenly... I opened the lid.

And out came your love, your beauty and your grace,
Out came my life and I gave it to you,
And now your love shines down on my face,
I smile and realize that were so close, we are stuck like glue :)

poem by Jordan Moore
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Baby's Death

A little soul scarce fledged for earth
Takes wing with heaven again for goal
Even while we hailed as fresh from birth
A little soul.

Our thoughts ring sad as bells that toll,
Not knowing beyond this blind world's girth
What things are writ in heaven's full scroll.

Our fruitfulness is there but dearth,
And all things held in time's control
Seem there, perchance, ill dreams, not worth
A little soul.

The little feet that never trod
Earth, never strayed in field or street,
What hand leads upward back to God
The little feet?

A rose in June's most honied heat,
When life makes keen the kindling sod,
Was not so soft and warm and sweet.

Their pilgrimage's period
A few swift moons have seen complete
Since mother's hands first clasped and shod
The little feet.

The little hands that never sought
Earth's prizes, worthless all as sands,
What gift has death, God's servant, brought
The little hands?

We ask: but love's self silent stands,
Love, that lends eyes and wings to thought
To search where death's dim heaven expands.

Ere this, perchance, though love know nought,
Flowers fill them, grown in lovelier lands,
Where hands of guiding angels caught
The little hands.

The little eyes that never knew
Light other than of dawning skies,
What new life now lights up anew
The little eyes?

Who knows but on their sleep may rise
Such light as never heaven let through
To lighten earth from Paradise?

No storm, we know, may change the blue
Soft heaven that haply death descries
No tears, like these in ours, bedew
The little eyes.

Was life so strange, so sad the sky,
So strait the wide world's range,
He would not stay to wonder why
Was life so strange?

Was earth's fair house a joyless grange
Beside that house on high
Whence Time that bore him failed to estrange?

That here at once his soul put by
All gifts of time and change,
And left us heavier hearts to sigh
'Was life so strange?'

Angel by name love called him, seeing so fair
The sweet small frame;
Meet to be called, if ever man's child were,
Angel by name.

Rose-bright and warm from heaven's own heart he came,
And might not bear
The cloud that covers earth's wan face with shame.

His little light of life was all too rare
And soft a flame:
Heaven yearned for him till angels hailed him there
Angel by name.

The song that smiled upon his birthday here
Weeps on the grave that holds him undefiled
Whose loss makes bitterer than a soundless tear
The song that smiled.

His name crowned once the mightiest ever styled
Sovereign of arts, and angel: fate and fear
Knew then their master, and were reconciled.

But we saw born beneath some tenderer sphere
Michael, an angel and a little child,
Whose loss bows down to weep upon his bier
The song that smiled.

poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Human Life’s Mystery

We sow the glebe, we reap the corn,
We build the house where we may rest,
And then, at moments, suddenly,
We look up to the great wide sky,
Inquiring wherefore we were born…
For earnest or for jest?

The senses folding thick and dark
About the stifled soul within,
We guess diviner things beyond,
And yearn to them with yearning fond;
We strike out blindly to a mark
Believed in, but not seen.

We vibrate to the pant and thrill
Wherewith Eternity has curled
In serpent-twine about God’s seat;
While, freshening upward to His feet,
In gradual growth His full-leaved will
Expands from world to world.

And, in the tumult and excess
Of act and passion under sun,
We sometimes hear—oh, soft and far,
As silver star did touch with star,
The kiss of Peace and Righteousness
Through all things that are done.

God keeps His holy mysteries
Just on the outside of man’s dream;
In diapason slow, we think
To hear their pinions rise and sink,
While they float pure beneath His eyes,
Like swans adown a stream.

Abstractions, are they, from the forms
Of His great beauty?—exaltations
From His great glory?—strong previsions
Of what we shall be?—intuitions
Of what we are—in calms and storms,
Beyond our peace and passions?

Things nameless! which, in passing so,
Do stroke us with a subtle grace.
We say, ‘Who passes?’—they are dumb.
We cannot see them go or come:
Their touches fall soft, cold, as snow
Upon a blind man’s face.

Yet, touching so, they draw above
Our common thoughts to Heaven’s unknown,
Our daily joy and pain advance
To a divine significance,
Our human love—O mortal love,
That light is not its own!

And sometimes horror chills our blood
To be so near such mystic Things,
And we wrap round us for defence
Our purple manners, moods of sense—
As angels from the face of God
Stand hidden in their wings.

And sometimes through life’s heavy swound
We grope for them!—with strangled breath
We stretch our hands abroad and try
To reach them in our agony,—
And widen, so, the broad life-wound
Which soon is large enough for death.

poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
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Until Her Death

UNTIL her death!' the words read strange yet real,
Like things afar off suddenly brought near:--
Will it be slow or speedy, full of fear,
Or calm as a spent day of peace ideal?
II.

Will her brown locks lie white on coffin pillow?
Will these her eyes, that sometime were called sweet,
Close, after years of dried-up tears, or meet
Death's dust in midst of weeping? And that billow,--

III.

Her restless heart,--will it be stopped, still heaving?
Or softly ebb 'neath age's placid breath?
Will it be lonely, this mysterious death,
Fit close unto her solitary living,--

IV.

A turning of her face to the wall, nought spoken,
Exchanging this world's light for heaven's;--or will
She part in pain, from warm love to the chill
Unknown, pursued with cries of hearts half-broken?

With fond lips felt through the blind mists of dying,
And close arms clung to in the struggle vain;--
Or, these all past, will death to her be gain,
Unto her life's long question God's replying?

VI.

No more. Within his hand, divine as tender,
He holds the mystic measure of her days;
And be they few or many, His the praise,--
In life or death her Keeper and Defender.

VII.

Then, come He soon or late, she will not fear Him;
Be her end lone or loveful, she'll not grieve;
For He whom she believed in--doth believe--
Will call her from the dust, and she will hear Him.

poem by Dinah Maria Mulock Craik
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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How Do I Love You? (Sonnet Corona)

(after Elizabeth Barrett Browning)

There is no way
that I can truly express my love for you,
the yearning of every day
not even in the things that I say and do,

the simple things
that fit into the puzzle of life,
and heartfelt tidings
outbalances the every day strife

that comes naturally to a consort, or wife
is all unclear in the quite need,
and its truth never pierces like a knife,
it is from beyond any act or deed

but is like childhood faith, without pain
it’s somewhat difficult to explain.

It’s somewhat difficult to explain
how love is supposed to be
in rays of sunlight, drops of rain
and everything that we see

totally without iniquity
even in sorrow, pain, joy,
as a natural instinct, sprouting free
from every ploy

or whatever life brings, in sincerity
it is in every heart beat, every breath,
the things that you are to me
surpassing even the power of death,

that against adversity can endure
as something sweet, something pure.

III

As something sweet, something pure,
our love is always striving to be true
coming free from any pressure and being sure
it bonds me to you in all that I pursue,

my world, everything that is dear,
gets a own clarity
when you are near and without fear
we take on the responsibility

that living together brings
loosing ourselves in each other,
finding meaning in small happenings
in things that brings blithe and bother

and I am attracted to you’re dear smiling face;
you surpass any other grace.

You surpass any other grace
beauty or splendour that I do see,
everything is in the praise
of you who loves me,

blessed I am among men
to have found a heart as kind,
that comes alive when
I am near and if I call to mind

among the greatest things that I have experienced
you reign supreme with your lasting love
that comes unprejudiced
as the finest blessing from above:

in every single day I am truly alive;
although we are hardly yet through the fight of life.

Although we are hardly yet through the fight of life,
still with time we struggle on,
you are the one
who supports me, as my sentry, my dearest wife

and through the strife
that destiny demands, until it is done
no one can leave each other or be gone
as we are bonded and the challenges is rife,

we live with no lies, with truth between us,
we walk hand in hand and eye to eye
although sometimes we are frightened,
every thing we do discuss,
as children of God under the clear blue sky,
to each other we have opened.

To each other we have opened,
the doors of our hearts and souls
we have straightened,
the lines of our narrow lives, letting out the ghouls,

we have experienced the secrets of the body’s bliss
have unbarred our inner selves, every windowpane
in every single kiss
with warmth and understanding tried to explain

the beauty of loving each other
we have opened doors that cannot be shut again
in sheer nudity without a bother,
we have bonded without restrain

and I read intimacy as time flies,
in the silences in your eyes.

VII

In the silences in your eyes
there is an own language and every gesture
have more hues to it than the skies
in its structure, it’s simplicities and its nature

and some things I do not comprehend or hear
while you unfold with petals while you are flowering,
as I am far too near to distinguish lustrous things as clear
and it’s as if I am in the middle of spring

and the fragility with which you unfold,
is very striking, takes my breath away, taking it hither
while I hold you in the cold
of this winter, as if it will whither,

as if like a blooming rose you cannot stay,
there is no way.

[Reference: Sonnet XLIII “How do I love thee? Let me count the ways” by Elizabeth Barrett Browning.]

poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The New York Times

Oh,
It makes no sense to me
Yeah, I was living in a different world when I heard the news
I keep having the same bad dream
And it makes me want to hurt all the people who have done this thing to you
When I see your face, I can see you smile
Read all about you in the new york times
When I see your eyes, I can see your light
When I think about what happened
It makes me crazy
It makes no sense to me,
This eye for an eye thing,
It has gone too far
I dont know anyone who doesnt hurt inside
I would like to believe we could learn from this
And maybe some day we can make things right
I want to believe in this world
I want to believe in this life
I want to believe in a world that does not seem real
When you read between the lines
When I see your face, I can see you smile
Read all about you in my new york times
When I see your eyes, I can see your light
When I read about the world
It makes me crazy
I want to believe in this world
I want to believe in this life
I want to believe in a world that does not seem real
When you read between the lines
Gotta read between the lines
Whoa, gotta read between the lines
I really want to believe I can make things right
I want to believe I can learn to feel alright inside
I want to believe I can learn to make things right
Oh, I want to believe in this world
I want to believe in this life
I want to believe in a world that does not seem real
When I read the new york times
I see your face, I see your smile
Read all about you in the new york times
I can see your eyes, I can see your light
When I think about what happened
It just makes me crazy
When I close my eyes
You seem so alive
I really think about you
I want to believe we can make things right
I want to believe
I want to believe
I want to believe
I want to believe
Oh, I want to believe in this world
I want to believe in this life
I want to believe in a world that does not seem real
When I read the new york times

song performed by by Everclear
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Letter to Kimani, my son

I am writing you to let you know
My son how much I love you so
I miss you and I wish I were there
For you I will always care

I would change time if I could
To mend my mistakes yes I would
I wish I could make things right
For your love I will always fight

My boy you are so smart
That’s why you are dear to my heart
So far you are now from me
A great man you shall one day be

As much as I try and try
Your picture brings tears to my eyes
Time stands still while I look
My feelings I could fill a book

Your voice I sometimes here on the phone
But the pain still won’t leave me alone
A thousand words can’t say what I feel
The pains I have just won’t heal

I love you more than words can tell
I wish I had a wishing well
I would wish away all the sorrow
I’d wish you a brighter tomorrow

You deserve better than what I did for you
I did my best that’s all I could do
God bless the day you came to me just as you are
You are my guiding light and my lucky star

The things you do are so clever
My love for you will change never
So far from his father my lovable boy
Your light brings me so much joy

No matter where, no matter when
For my love you can always depend
No matter the pain nor the strife
I will love you more than life

I love you more than I could ever show
I love you more than you will ever know
Without you life is no longer fun
You are my life, my legacy, and my son

poem by Wilfred Mellers
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To Men

Sirs, when you pity us, I say
You waste your pity. Let it stay,
Well corked and stored upon your shelves,
Until you need it for yourselves.

We do appreciate God's thought
In forming you, before He brought
Us into life. His art was crude,
But oh, so virile in its rude

Large elemental strength: and then
He learned His trade in making men;
Learned how to mix and mould the clay
And fashion in a finer way.

How fine that skilful way can be
You need but lift your eyes to see;
And we are glad God placed you there
To lift your eyes and find us fair.

Apprentice labour though you were,
He made you great enough to stir
The best and deepest depths of us,
And we are glad he made you thus.

Ay! we are glad of many things.
God strung our hearts with such fine strings
The least breath movces them, and we hear
Music where silence greets your ear.

We suffer so? but women's souls
Like violet powder dropped on coals,
Give forth their best in anguish. Oh,
The subtle secrets that we know,

Of joy in sorrow, strange delights
Of ecstasy in pain-filled nights,
And mysteries of gain in loss
Known but to Christ upon the Cross!

Our tears are pitiful to you?
Look how the heaven-reflecting dew
Dissolves its life in tears. The sand
Meanwhile lies hard upon the strand.

How could your pity find a place
For us, the mothers of the race?
Men may be fathers unaware,
So poor the title is you wear,

But mothers -? Who that crown adorns
Knows all its mingled blooms and thorns;
And she whose feet that path hath trod
Has walked upon the heights with God.

No, offer us not pity's cup.
There is no looking down or up
Between us: eye looks straight in eye:
Born equals, so we live and die.

poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Sonnets XCIX: C: Newborn Death

I
To-day Death seems to me an infant child
Which her worn mother Life upon my knee
Has set to grow my friend and play with me;
If haply so my heart might be beguil'd
To find no terrors in a face so mild,—
If haply so my weary heart might be
Unto the newborn milky eyes of thee,
O Death, before resentment reconcil'd.
How long, O Death? And shall thy feet depart
Still a young child's with mine, or wilt thou stand
Fullgrown the helpful daughter of my heart,
What time with thee indeed I reach the strand
Of the pale wave which knows thee what thou art,
And drink it in the hollow of thy hand?
II
And thou, O Life, the lady of all bliss,
With whom, when our first heart beat full and fast,
I wandered till the haunts of men were pass'd,
And in fair places found all bowers amiss
Till only woods and waves might hear our kiss,
While to the winds all thought of Death we cast:—
Ah, Life! and must I have from thee at last
No smile to greet me and no babe but this?
Lo! Love, the child once ours; and Song, whose hair
Blew like a flame and blossomed like a wreath;
And Art, whose eyes were worlds by God found fair:
These o'er the book of Nature mixed their breath
With neck-twined arms, as oft we watched them there:
And did these die that thou mightst bear me Death?

poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
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Psalm 89 last part

v.47ff
8,8,8,8,8,8
Life, death, and the resurrection.

Think, mighty God, on feeble man;
How few his hours! how short his span!
Short from the cradle to the grave
Who can secure his vital breath
Against the bold demands of death,
With skill to fly, or power to save?

Lord, shall it be for ever said,
"The race of man was only made
For sickness, sorrow, and the dust?"
Are not thy servants day by day
Sent to their graves, and turned to clay?
Lord, where's thy kindness to the just?

Hast thou not promised to thy Son
And all his seed a heav'nly crown?
But flesh and sense indulge despair:
For ever blessed be the Lord,
That faith can read his holy word,
And find a resurrection there.

For ever blessed be the Lord,
Who gives his saints a long reward
For all their toil, reproach, and pain:
Let all below and all above
Join to proclaim thy wondrous love,
And each repeat their loud Amen.

poem by Isaac Watts
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Death, Inevitable Death

Death, inevitable Death.
So now You come to show Your world,
Hence the blackened cloak – unfurled.
And peering down upon my form
– Bereft of pity – Your eyes of storm.

Death, inexorable Death.
‘When? ’ The only question out of Thee.
My dream retorts 'But ne’er for me! ’
But now awake, I bid you so –
My giving tears cry ‘Where to go? ’

Death, adamant Death.
You cast Your spell and guide me 'way,
For life and I have had our day.
And what of me? I prey You, tell!
Be glorious in Heaven or gnarled in Hell?

Death, ineluctable Death.
Oh wiry ghoul, I'm here to follow –
I leave my body grey and shallow.
‘Come! ’ You bid in thund’ring tones,
‘Beg farewell to shattered bones.’

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