Scenes In London IV - The City Churchyard
I PRAY thee lay me not to rest
Among these mouldering bones;
Too heavily the earth is prest
By all these crowded stones.
Life is too gay—life is too near—
With all its pomp and toil;
I pray thee do not lay me here,
In such a world-struck soil.
The ceaseless roll of wheels would wake
The slumbers of the dead;
I cannot bear for life to make
Its pathway o'er my head.
The flags around are cold and drear,
They stand apart, alone;
And no one ever pauses here,
To sorrow for the gone.
No: lay me in the far green fields
The summer sunshine cheers;
And where the early wild flower yields
The tribute of its tears.
Where shadows the sepulchral yew,
Where droops the willow tree,
Where the long grass is filled with dew—
Oh! make such grave for me!
And passers-by, at evening's close,
Will pause beside the grave,
And moralize o'er the repose
They fear, and yet they crave.
Perhaps some kindly hand may bring
Its offering to the tomb;
And say, As fades the rose in spring,
So fadeth human bloom.
But here there is no kindly thought
To soothe, and to relieve;
No fancies and no flowers are brought,
That soften while they grieve.
Here Poesy and Love come not—
It is a world of stone;
The grave is bought—is closed—forgot!
And then life hurries on.
Sorrow and beauty—nature—love—
Redeem man's common breath;
Ah! let them shed the grave above—
Give loveliness to death.
poem by Letitia Elizabeth Landon
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The Fall of Usher
An elegy on Edgar Allan Poe
"Thou wert the Morning Star among the living,
Ere thy fair light had fled;
But, having died, thou art like Hesperus giving
New splendor to the dead." - Plato's Aster.
"Thou art gone to the grave!" but thy spirit is shining,
And singing afar in the Realms of the Blest ;
While the living are left by thy cold grave reclining,
And mourning for thee while they long for thy rest---
Left mourning for thee while they long for thy rest!
"Thou art gone to the grave!" thou art gone where thy slumber
No more shall be broken by sorrow or pain---
Soon to rise with that host which no mortal can number,
To lie down no more in that Valley again!
No more to lie down in that Valley again!
"Thou art gone to the grave!" there is none can restore thee,
Or bring thee again from that Silent Abode !
But the Conqueror of Death went to dwell there before thee,
And He has prepared thee the way to thy God!
Prepared thee the way to thy Beautiful God !
"Thou art gone to the grave!" thou art silently sleeping
A sleep which no sorrow shall ever molest;
And, in longing for which, my poor heart now is keeping
This silent lament in its grave in my breast!
Like Shelley for Keats, in its grave in my breast!
"Thou art gone to the grave!" let the dark Weeping Willow
Bend over thy grave where thy beauty was laid!
While thy form, thus reclined on the earth for its pillow,
Shall live in the Spring-flowers which bloom at thy head---
To feed the young Butterflies born at thy head.
"Thou art gone to the grave!" where the Violets are springing,
And feeding upon thee above the damp sod,
Now thy Pandemos mourns, while thy spirit is singing,
And drinking delight from the Fountains of God ---
With thine Ullalume lost from the Fountains of God.
poem by Thomas Holley Chivers
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Grave Digger
I am a quite, humble, honest and very generous man
who likes to aid people around as much as I can
And I should not be utterly despised for my vocation
Just because I am a grave digger by profession
Indeed, I do not desire or wish the dead
People should live long and loved side by side
Pure life with no baseness, shame or sin to hide
But if no one dies how shall I pay my debts I dread
I pray and mourn any human that rests below
And as the grasses in the cemetery wave
I passionately take care of every stone grave
In passing the dirt and dust I blow
I never wrong a grave with fears and tears untrue
Nor can I be blamed for carrying on my job with no faith
There must be wisdom and sense in death
Life cannot continue forever, once all must be thru
And yet people find but faults in my case
I have never been saluted in friendly grace
They pass me by without leaving any embrace
In a sublime whisper: Here come the funeral face
For I am near you when your light is in halt
when the blood creeps, and the nerves tingle and prick
And the heart heavily throbs; it is tattered and sick
And all the world comes to a close; the wheels of being thwart
Come at night within the cemetery walls
When the moon light shines on time wracked stones
Those who lie with legacies and dreams dead unborn
As the lunar splendor stretches shadows as it falls
Those who lie beneath their fancies and fears
when alive sorrow and grief dug deepening down
And with muffled motions blindly drown
The agony and anguish of their life in tears.
People hate me with deep rancor and loath
Because I am a grave digger in truthful oath
And I am upset full of anguish and misery
Impossible to get a friend, were it not better not to be
Cant they understand all human things are subject to decay
Life do not go forever upon the land
For every beginning there is an end
When fate summons, even monarchs must obey
We all as humans of any color or faith
Hold common scorn and defame to eternal death
The creaking sound of cords lowering us down
As earth returns back to earth with no rising dawn
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Naples
INSCRIBED TO ROBERT C. WATERSTON, OF BOSTON.
Fold her, O Father, in Thine arms,
And let her henceforth be
A messenger of love between
Our human hearts and Thee.
I give thee joy!--I know to thee
The dearest spot on earth must be
Where sleeps thy loved one by the summer sea;
Where, near her sweetest poet's tomb,
The land of Virgil gave thee room
To lay thy flower with her perpetual bloom.
I know that when the sky shut down
Behind thee on the gleaming town,
On Baiae's baths and Posilippo's crown;
And, through thy tears, the mocking day
Burned Ischia's mountain lines away,
And Capri melted in its sunny bay;
Through thy great farewell sorrow shot
The sharp pang of a bitter thought
That slaves must tread around that holy spot.
Thou knewest not the land was blest
In giving thy beloved rest,
Holding the fond hope closer to her breast,
That every sweet and saintly grave
Was freedom's prophecy, and gave
The pledge of Heaven to sanctify and save.
That pledge is answered. To thy ear
The unchained city sends its cheer,
And, tuned to joy, the muffled bells of fear
Ring Victor in. The land sits free
And happy by the summer sea,
And Bourbon Naples now is Italy!
She smiles above her broken chain
The languid smile that follows pain,
Stretching her cramped limbs to the sun again.
Oh, joy for all, who hear her call
From gray Camaldoli's convent-wall
And Elmo's towers to freedom's carnival!
A new life breathes among her vines
And olives, like the breath of pines
Blown downward from the breezy Apennines.
Lean, O my friend, to meet that breath,
Rejoice as one who witnesseth
Beauty from ashes rise, and life from death!
Thy sorrow shall no more be pain,
Its tears shall fall in sunlit rain,
Writing the grave with flowers: 'Arisen again!'
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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Naples – 1860
I GIVE thee joy!—I know to thee
The dearest spot on earth must be
Where sleeps thy loved one by the summer sea;
Where, near her sweetest poet’s tomb,
The land of Virgil gave thee room
To lay thy flower with her perpetual bloom.
I know that when the sky shut down
Behind thee on the gleaming town,
On Baiae’s baths and Posilippo’s crown;
And, through thy tears, the mocking day
Burned Ischia’s mountain lines away,
And Capri melted in its sunny bay;
Through thy great farewell sorrow shot
The sharp pang of a bitter thought
That slaves must tread around that holy spot.
Thou knewest not the land was blest
In giving thy beloved rest,
Holding the fond hope closer to her breast,
That every sweet and saintly grave
Was freedom’s prophecy, and gave
The pledge of Heaven to sanctify and save.
That pledge is answered. To thy ear
The unchained city sends its cheer,
And, tuned to joy, the muffled bells of fear
Ring Victor in. The land sits free
And happy by the summer sea,
And Bourbon Naples now is Italy!
She smiles above her broken chain
The languid smile that follows pain,
Stretching her cramped limbs to the sun again.
Oh, joy for all, who hear her call
From gray Camaldoli’s convent wall
And Elmo’s towers to freedom’s carnival!
A new life breathes among her vines
And olives, like the breath of pines
Blown downward from the breezy Apennines.
Lean, O my friend, to meet that breath,
Rejoice as one who witnesseth
Beauty from ashes rise, and life from death!
Thy sorrow shall no more be pain,
Its tears shall fall in sunlit rain,
Writing the grave with flowers: “Arisen again!”
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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Eversleeping
Once I travelled 7 seas to find my love
And once I sang 700 songs
Well, maybe I still have to walk 7000 miles
Until I find the one that I belong
I will rest my head side by side
To the one that stays in the night
I will lose my breath in my last words of sorrow
And whatever comes will come soon
Dying I will pray to the moon
That there once will be a better tomorrow
Once I crossed 7 rivers to find my love
And once, for 7 years, I forgot my name
Well, if I have to I will die 7 deaths just to lie
In the arms of my eversleeping aim
I will rest my head side by side
To the one that stays in the night
I will lose my breath in my last words of sorrow
And whatever comes will come soon
Dying I will pray to the moon
That there once will be a better tomorrow (x2)
I dreamt last night that he came to me
He said: "My love, why do you cry?"
For now it won't be long any more
Until in my cold grave we will lie
Until in my cold grave we will lie
song performed by by Xandria
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Eversleeping
Once I travelled 7 seas to find my love
And once I sang 700 songs
Well, maybe I still have to walk 7000 miles
Until I find the one that I belong
I will rest my head side by side
To the one that stays in the night
I will lose my breath in my last words of sorrow
And whatever comes will come soon
Dying I will pray to the moon
That there once will be a better tomorrow
Once I crossed 7 rivers to find my love
And once, for 7 years, I forgot my name
Well, if I have to I will die 7 deaths just to lie
In the arms of my eversleeping aim
I will rest my head side by side
To the one that stays in the night
I will lose my breath in my last words of sorrow
And whatever comes will come soon
Dying I will pray to the moon
That there once will be a better tomorrow (x2)
I dreamt last night that he came to me
He said: "My love, why do you cry?"
For now it won't be long any more
Until in my cold grave we will lie
Until in my cold grave we will lie
song performed by by Xandria
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Truly, Truly, This Is The End
They say deaths an open door
Into another room
Within the city of the dead
(Our New Kingdom)
They say we walk like dreams
Sharing the same breath
Seeing through the same eyes
(A collective spirit)
As we pray (As we pray)
On his grave (On his grave)
Or words fall and decay (And decay)
As we pray (As we pray)
On his grave (On his grave)
Or words fall and decay (And decay)
They say the Earth it gives no peace
Nor does it take away
We all survive the grave
(Unfortunate eternal)
They say that in times past
A king walked in the sky
Until dethroned by man
(Tribe of Judas)
As we pray (As we pray)
On his grave (On his grave)
Or words fall and decay (And decay)
As we pray (As we pray)
On his grave (On his grave)
Or words fall and decay (And decay)
Truly, truly, this is the end
Truly, truly, this is the end
Truly, truly, this is the end
Truly, truly, this is the end
It's not the same
I'm plagued with pain and I can't let go
It's not the same
I'm plagued with pain and I can't let go
It's not the same
I'm plagued with pain and I can't let go
It's not the same
I'm plagued with pain and I can't let go
This is the end
song performed by by Zao
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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To J. D. H.
(Killed at Surrey C. H., October, 1866.)
. . . . .
Dear friend, forgive a wild lament
Insanely following thy flight.
I would not cumber thine ascent
Nor drag thee back into the night;
But the great sea-winds sigh with me,
The fair-faced stars seem wrinkled, old,
And I would that I might lie with thee
There in the grave so cold, so cold!
Grave walls are thick, I cannot see thee,
And the round skies are far and steep;
A-wild to quaff some cup of Lethe,
Pain is proud and scorns to weep.
My heart breaks if it cling about thee,
And still breaks, if far from thine.
O drear, drear death, to live without thee,
O sad life -- to keep thee mine.
. . . . .
poem by Sidney Lanier
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Sonnet XXIII
Is it indeed so ? If I lay here dead,
Wouldst thou miss any life in losing mine ?
And would the sun for thee more coldly shine
Because of grave-damps falling round my head ?
I marvelled, my Beloved, when I read
Thy thought so in the letter. I am thine--
But . . . so much to thee ? Can I pour thy wine
While my hands tremble ? Then my soul, instead
Of dreams of death, resumes life's lower range.
Then, love me, Love ! look on me--breathe on me !
As brighter ladies do not count it strange,
For love, to give up acres and degree,
I yield the grave for thy sake, and exchange
My near sweet view of Heaven, for earth with thee !
poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
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Sonnet XXIII: Is It Indeed So?
Is it indeed so? If I lay here dead,
Wouldst thou miss any life in losing mine?
And would the sun for thee more coldly shine
Because of grave-damps falling round my head?
I marvelled, my Belovèd, when I read
Thy thought so in the letter. I am thine--
But...so much to thee? Can I pour your wine
While my hands tremble? Then my soul, instead
Of dreams of death, resumes life's lower range.
Then, love me, Love! Look on me--breathe on me!
As brighter ladies do not count it strange,
For love, to give up acres and degree,
I yield the grave for thy sake, and exchange
My near sweet view of Heaven, for earth with thee!
poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
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Xxiii
Is it indeed so ? If I lay here dead,
Wouldst thou miss any life in losing mine ?
And would the sun for thee more coldly shine
Because of grave-damps falling round my head ?
I marvelled, my Beloved, when I read
Thy thought so in the letter. I am thine--
But . . . so much to thee ? Can I pour thy wine
While my hands tremble ? Then my soul, instead
Of dreams of death, resumes life's lower range.
Then, love me, Love ! look on me--breathe on me !
As brighter ladies do not count it strange,
For love, to give up acres and degree,
I yield the grave for thy sake, and exchange
My near sweet view of Heaven, for earth with thee !
poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
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To Isa in Heaven
Early, bright, transient, chaste as morning dew,
She sparkled, was exhaled, and went to heaven! — Young.
Where is she now?
Oh! Isa! tell me where thou art?
If death has laid his hand upon thy brow,
Has he not touched my heart?
Has he not laid it in the grave with thine,
And buried all my joys?—Speak! thou art mine!
If thou were dead,
I would not ask thee to reply;
But thou art living—thy dear soul has fled
To heaven, where it can never die!
Then why not come to me? Return—return
And comfort me, for I have much to mourn!
I sigh all day!
I mourn for thee the livelong night!
And when the next night comes, thou art away,
And so is absent my delight!
Oh! as the lone dove for his absent mate,
So is my soul for thee disconsolate!
I long for death—
For any thing—to be with thee!
I did inhale, alas! thy dying breath,
That it might have some power on me
To make me what thou art!—but, thou art dead!
And I am here!—it strengthened me instead!
Joy there is none—
It went into the grave with thee!
And grief, because my spirit is alone,
Is all that comes to comfort me!
The very air I breathe is turned to sighs,
And all mine soul is melting from mine eyes!
I hear, at even,
The liquid carol of birds;
Their music makes me think of thee in heaven,
It is so much like thy sweet words.
The brooklet whispers, as it runs along,
Our first love-story with its liquid tongue.
Wake, Isa! wake!
And come back in this world again!
Oh! come down to me, for my soul's dear sake,
And cure me of this trying pain!
I would give all that earth to man can be,
If thou wert only in this world with me!
Day after day
I seek thee, but thou art not near!
I sit down on thy grave in the cold clay,
And listen for thy soul!—oh! dear!
And when some withered leaf falls from the tree,
I start as if thy soul had spoke to me!
And so it is,
And so it ever more must ever be
To him, who has been robbed of all the bliss
He ever knew, by loving thee!
For misery, in thine absence, is my wife!
What joy had been, hadst thou remained in life!
It is now even;
The birds have sung themselves to sleep;
And all the stars seem coming out of heaven,
As if to look upon me weep!—
Oh! let me not look up to thee in vain,
But come back to me in this world again!
poem by Thomas Holley Chivers (1842)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Tribute To The Memory Of The Same Dog
LIE here, without a record of thy worth,
Beneath a covering of the common earth!
It is not from unwillingness to praise,
Or want of love, that here no Stone we raise;
More thou deserv'st; but 'this' man gives to man,
Brother to brother, 'this' is all we can.
Yet they to whom thy virtues made thee dear
Shall find thee through all changes of the year:
This Oak points out thy grave; the silent tree
Will gladly stand a monument of thee.
We grieved for thee, and wished thy end were past;
And willingly have laid thee here at last:
For thou hadst lived till everything that cheers
In thee had yielded to the weight of years;
Extreme old age had wasted thee away,
And left thee but a glimmering of the day;
Thy ears were deaf, and feeble were thy knees,--
I saw thee stagger in the summer breeze,
Too weak to stand against its sportive breath,
And ready for the gentlest stroke of death.
It came, and we were glad; yet tears were shed;
Both man and woman wept when thou wert dead;
Not only for a thousand thoughts that were,
Old household thoughts, in which thou hadst thy share;
But for some precious boons vouchsafed to thee,
Found scarcely anywhere in like degree!
For love, that comes wherever life and sense
Are given by God, in thee was most intense;
A chain of heart, a feeling of the mind,
A tender sympathy, which did thee bind
Not only to us Men, but to thy Kind:
Yea, for thy fellow-brutes in thee we saw
A soul of love, love's intellectual law:--
Hence, if we wept, it was not done in shame;
Our tears from passion and from reason came,
And, therefore, shalt thou be an honoured name!
poem by William Wordsworth
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If I may have it, when it's dead
577
If I may have it, when it's dead,
I'll be contented—so—
If just as soon as Breath is out
It shall belong to me—
Until they lock it in the Grave,
'Tis Bliss I cannot weigh—
For tho' they lock Thee in the Grave,
Myself—can own the key—
Think of it Lover! I and Thee
Permitted—face to face to be—
After a Life—a Death—We'll say—
For Death was That—
And this—is Thee—
I'll tell Thee All—how Bald it grew—
How Midnight felt, at first—to me—
How all the Clocks stopped in the World—
And Sunshine pinched me—'Twas so cold—
Then how the Grief got sleepy—some—
As if my Soul were deaf and dumb—
Just making signs—across—to Thee—
That this way—thou could'st notice me—
I'll tell you how I tried to keep
A smile, to show you, when this Deep
All Waded—We look back for Play,
At those Old Times—in Calvary,
Forgive me, if the Grave come slow—
For Coveting to look at Thee—
Forgive me, if to stroke thy frost
Outvisions Paradise!
poem by Emily Dickinson
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To Nettie
Now has the spring her treasures all unbound,
The earth has put her wedding-garment on,
And, robed in light, with flowers and verdure crowned,
Comes forth in joy to meet the bridegroom sun.
Thou, too, in thy young life's first bloom and pride,
Joyous as spring, fresh as the morning air,
Fair as the flowers of May, comest forth a bride,
And bowest thy head, Love's golden chain to wear.
Were mine the power, thy course of life should be
Serene and tranquil as the summer sky.
No wintry blast should rudely visit thee,
No tear of sorrow ever dim thine eye.
And when that hour should come, as come it must,
And thy long summer day draw to its close,
Filled with immortal hope and heavenly trust
Thou like the sun shouldst sink to thy repose.
Vain wish, for cloudless skies, life without tears!
A wiser, higher power controls thy fate.
Sorrow and joy are each his ministers;
And each alike on human footsteps wait.
Seek then his aid who was a man of grief,
Who bore the cross and won a crown for thee,
And thou shalt walk the troubled sea of life,
As once he walked the Sea of Galilee.
poem by Anne Lynch Botta from Poems (1848)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Murrow Turning Over In His Grave
All the sainted sinners
They pay handsomely
And eventually?
They make the weapons
And they run the prisons
And they sell the justice
Cause being guilty is
Just good business
And well be standing on
The borderline
Aint no one there gonna
Stop it now
Murrow turning over in his grave
Murrow turning over in his grave
Murrow turning over in his grave
Murrow turning over in his grave
Better watch out
Murrow turning over in his grave
Hes gonna turn wild
Murrow turning over in his grave
Murrow turning over in his grave
Murrow turning over in his grave
Murrow turning over in his grave
Better watch out
Murrow turning over in his grave
Hes gonna run wild
Half-closed eyes
And the countrys deadly
Do you feel the ooze as your brain drains out
From your pneumatic drills and sharpening knives
Blood in the sky
Are you dead or alive?
All the restless people and the bitter green
Well it fakes this gold, makes the spirit mean
Murrow turning over in his grave
Murrow turning over in his grave
Murrow turning over in his grave
Murrow turning over in his grave
Better watch out
Murrow turning over in his grave
Hes gonna turn wild
Murrow turning over in his grave
Murrow turning over in his grave
Murrow turning over in his grave
Murrow turning over in his grave
Better watch out
Murrow turning over in his grave
Hes gonna run wild
song performed by by Fleetwood Mac
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Hymn - Consecration of Magnolia Cemetery
Whose was the hand that painted thee, O Death!
In the false aspect of a ruthless foe,
Despair and sorrow waiting on thy breath --
O gentle Power! who could have wronged thee so?
Thou rather shouldst be crowned with fadeless flowers,
Of lasting fragrance and celestial hue;
Or be thy couch amid funereal bowers,
But let the stars and sunlight sparkle through.
So, with these thoughts before us, we have fixed
And beautified, O Death! thy mansion here,
Where gloom and gladness -- grave and garden -- mixed,
Make it a place to love, and not to fear.
Heaven! shed thy most propitious dews around!
Ye holy stars! look down with tender eyes,
And gild and guard and consecrate the ground
Where we may rest, and whence we pray to rise.
poem by Henry Timrod
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Hymn Sung At The Consecration Of Magnolia Cemetery, Charleston, S.C.
Whose was the hand that painted thee, O Death!
In the false aspect of a ruthless foe,
Despair and sorrow waiting on thy breath --
O gentle Power! who could have wronged thee so?
Thou rather shouldst be crowned with fadeless flowers,
Of lasting fragrance and celestial hue;
Or be thy couch amid funereal bowers,
But let the stars and sunlight sparkle through.
So, with these thoughts before us, we have fixed
And beautified, O Death! thy mansion here,
Where gloom and gladness -- grave and garden -- mixed,
Make it a place to love, and not to fear.
Heaven! shed thy most propitious dews around!
Ye holy stars! look down with tender eyes,
And gild and guard and consecrate the ground
Where we may rest, and whence we pray to rise.
poem by Henry Timrod
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Sonnet 23 - Is it indeed so? If I lay here dead
XXIII
Is it indeed so? If I lay here dead,
Wouldst thou miss any life in losing mine?
And would the sun for thee more coldly shine
Because of grave-damps falling round my head?
I marvelled, my Beloved, when I read
Thy thought so in the letter. I am thine—
But . . . so much to thee? Can I pour thy wine
While my hands tremble ? Then my soul, instead
Of dreams of death, resumes life's lower range.
Then, love me, Love! look on me—breathe on me!
As brighter ladies do not count it strange,
For love, to give up acres and degree,
I yield the grave for thy sake, and exchange
My near sweet view of Heaven, for earth with thee!
poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Scenes In London II - Oxford Street
LIFE in its many shapes was there,
The busy and the gay;
Faces that seemed too young and fair
To ever know decay.
Wealth, with its waste, its pomp, and pride,
Led forth its glittering train;
And poverty's pale face beside
Asked aid, and asked in vain.
The shops were filled from many lands,
Toys, silks, and gems, and flowers;
The patient work of many hands,
The hope of many hours.
Yet, mid life's myriad shapes around
There was a sigh of death;
There rose a melancholy sound,
The bugle's wailing breath.
They played a mournful Scottish air,
That on its native hill
Had caught the notes the night-winds bear
From weeping leaf and rill.
'Twas strange to hear that sad wild strain
Its warning music shed,
Rising above life's busy train,
In memory of the dead.
There came a slow and silent band
In sad procession by:
Reversed the musket in each hand,
And downcast every eye.
They bore the soldier to his grave;
The sympathyzing crowd
Divided like a parted wave
By some dark vessel ploughed.
A moment, and all sounds were mute,
For awe was over all;
You heard the soldier's measured foot,
The bugle's wailing call.
The gloves were laid upon the bier,
The helmet and the sword,
The drooping war-horse followed near,
As he, too, mourned his lord.
Slowly—I followed too—they led
To where a church arose,
And flung a shadow o'er the dead,
Deep as their own repose.
Green trees were there—beneath the shade
Of one, was made a grave;
And there to his last rest was laid
The weary and the brave.
They fired a volley o'er the bed
Of an unconscious ear;
The birds sprang fluttering overhead,
Struck with a sudden fear.
All left the ground, the bugles died
Away upon the wind;
Only the tree's green branches sighed
O'er him they left behind.
Again, all filled with light and breath,
I passed the crowded street—
Oh, great extremes of life and death,
How strangely do ye meet!
poem by Letitia Elizabeth Landon
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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