En.Citatepedia^®.ro

To Laurels

A funeral stone
Or verse, I covet none;
But only crave
Of you that I may have
A sacred laurel springing from my grave:
Which being seen
Blest with perpetual green,
May grow to be
Not so much call'd a tree,
As the eternal monument of me.

poem by Robert Herrick
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The Curse Has Killed The Laurel Tree

The power of Dracula's curse is felt everywhere in Transylvania
The countryside is run down
The towns are feeling older than they should
Bridges are broken apart in pieces
And the minions of the undead grow in numbers more and more every day

And interestingly enough
Someway, somehow
The curse has killed the laurel tree

Walking up to the laurel tree
While protecting myself from the effects of evil
While being blessed in the time of sunlight
I can tell the laurel tree is so far gone
I can tell it's dead
And in my heart, I feel its pain
I feel for it, I really do
Because it didn't deserve this fate

And to the people as well as myself
We all could've prayed for the laurel tree to survive
We all could've prayed for a miracle
But now it's too late
The curse has killed the laurel tree

poem by Justin Gildow
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A Nightmare

I dreamed that I was dead. The years went by:
The world forgot that such a man as I
Had ever lived and written: other names
Were hailed with homage, in their turn to die.

Out of my grave a giant beech upgrew.
Its roots transpierced my body, through and through,
My substance fed its growth. From many lands
Men came in troops that giant tree to view.

'T was sacred to my memory and fame
My monument. But Allen Forman came,
Filled with the fervor of a new untruth,
And carved upon the trunk his odious name!

poem by Ambrose Bierce
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Easter Eve

At length the worst is o'er, and Thou art laid
Deep in Thy darksome bed;
All still and cold beneath yon dreary stone
Thy sacred form is gone;
Around those lips where power and mercy hung,
The dews of deaths have clung;
The dull earth o'er Thee, and Thy foes around,
Thou sleep'st a silent corse, in funeral fetters wound.

Sleep'st Thou indeed? or is Thy spirit fled,
At large among the dead?
Whether in Eden bowers Thy welcome voice
Wake Abraham to rejoice,
Or in some drearier scene Thine eye controls
The thronging band of souls;
That, as Thy blood won earth, Thine agony
Might set the shadowy realm from sin and sorrow free.

Where'er Thou roam'st, one happy soul, we know,
Seen at Thy side in woe,
Waits on Thy triumphs--even as all the blest
With him and Thee shall rest.
Each on his cross; by Thee we hang a while,
Watching Thy patient smile,
Till we have learned to say, "'Tis justly done,
Only in glory, LORD, Thy sinful servant own."

Soon wilt Thou take us to Thy tranquil bower
To rest one little hour,
Till Thine elect are numbered, and the grave
Call Thee to come and save:
Then on Thy bosom borne shall we descend
Again with earth to blend,
Earth all refined with bright supernal fires,
Tinctured with holy blood, and winged with pure desires.

Meanwhile with every son and saint of Thine
Along the glorious line,
Sitting by turns beneath Thy sacred feet
We'll hold communion sweet,
Know them by look and voice, and thank them all
For helping us in thrall,
For words of hope, and bright examples given
To show through moonless skies that there is light in Heaven.

O come that day, when in this restless heart
Earth shall resign her part,
When in the grave with Thee my limbs shall rest,
My soul with Thee be blest!
But stay, presumptuous--CHRIST with Thee abides
In the rock's dreary sides:
He from this stone will wring Celestial dew
If but this prisoner's heart he faithful found and true.

When tears are spent, and then art left alone
With ghosts of blessings gone,
Think thou art taken from the cross, and laid
In JESUS' burial shade;
Take Moses' rod, the rod of prayer, and call
Out of the rocky wall
The fount of holy blood; and lift on high
Thy grovelling soul that feels so desolate and dry.

Prisoner of Hope thou art--look up and sing
In hope of promised spring.
As in the pit his father's darling lay
Beside the desert way,
And knew not how, but knew his GOD would save
E'en from that living grave,
So, buried with our LORD, we'll chose our eyes
To the decaying world, till Angels bid us rise.

poem by John Keble
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Graveyard in the snow

Today, I cannot find your grave,
because the stone with your name
is set in the earth,
down, where it is not in the way,
when the caretakers mow the grass,
now you are covered with snow.

Everything is white,
so full of peace, so still,
I sit on the bench,
it is so cold, but
I feel so close to you,
after all, you are cold,
under the earth,
under this white sheet,
hidden, but there, I know.

Only a raven,
shiny in funeral coat of feathers,
black against the white,
sits with me, in a tree,
not far, insistently cawing,
a warning, an emphatic word
of solace.

The trees, dark green
under the snow,
are so silent,
I can hear a soft sliding,
when the clumps of snow
fall on the ground,
startling the raven.
He flies away,
a shadow against the clouds
of winter sky.

I must leave you now,
the deep cavity of my grief
is like the silence
of your snow-covered grave,
enticing me to stay.
But I have promised
a pledge to live,
before I can sleep
under the snow.

poem by Martina E. Elenbaas
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Naturally Superior

An ancient Cypress tree still stands
Beside a ruined monument.
Outlasts the works of human hands.
Nothing man made is permanent.

The tree is self sufficient.
It needs no other maintenance.
Apart from the nourishment.
The soil provides and rains enhance.

The builders of the monument.
Erected by them to impress
Are long since dead that's evident.
Outlasted by this grand Cypress.

The ancient tree's content to be.
Just what it is a simple tree.

Saturday,03 March 2012

poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Death Is a Mockery of Life

Death is a mockery of life
They who have lived it through, are dead
So what about death can be said
It lingers in the living room after the funeral

They who have lived it through are dead
We do not speak of death too much
It lingers in the living room after the funeral
We try not to think about the lonely grave

We do not speak of deah too much
It is always raining in the grave yard
We try not to think about the lonely grave
Where no one seems to be, but only was

It is always raining in the grave yard
Some flowers grow between the tombstones
As nature doesn’t care about it, live or death
Just carry on as usual

Some flowers grow between the tombstones
So what about death can be said
Just carry on as usual
Death is a mockery of life

poem by Ina SchrodersZeeders
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Written For My Son, In A Bible Which Was Presented To Him.

Welcome, thou sacred, solemn Guest,
Who com'st to guide me to the Blest.
O Fountain of eternal Truth,
Thou gracious Guardian of my Youth!
True Wisdom to my Soul dispense,
That I may learn thy Will from hence:
Still let me make thy Word my Rule,
And still despise the scorning Fool.
Inspir'd from thence, my Verse shall soar,
Till Time itself shall be no more.
Alas, my Soul! and whar is great,
In Glory of a mortal Date?
Henceforth this vain Ambition spare,
And be Eternity thy Care.

poem by Mary Barber
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Tall Trees

Watch out big ships are waiting
Salt frozen on your cheek
I saw a girl and boy arriving
And a steamer put out to sea
Tall tree
Stand in the distance
Remember
When you were green
Dont wipe
The salt from your skin
You must keep running the distance
Sun sleeps on misty morning
Light years from channel three
I feel halfway to zero
Call me a hero I might just agree
Tall tree
Stand in the distance
Remember
When you were green
Dont wipe
The salt from your skin
You must keep running the distance
And the roses you grow
Have a powerful scent
Theyll be breaking your heart
By the morning
I feel halway to zero
Call me a hero I might just agree
Tall tree
Stand in the distance
Remember
When you were green
Dont wipe
The salt from your skin
Tall tree
Tall tree
Dont wipe
The salt from your skin
You must keep running the distance
Tall tree

song performed by by Crowded House
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sacred And Eternal

I am fortunate to be a poet with words periodical
I am fortunate to write poems sacred and eternal.

I am fortunate to see the world in new look
I am fortunate to be in poetic imagination
With evergreen colors sacred and eternal.

I am fortunate to be a part and parcel of the world
That is yours and only yours
And you are for all sacred and eternal.

poem by Gajanan Mishra
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Ballade Of Cleopatra's Needle

Ye giant shades of RA and TUM,
Ye ghosts of gods Egyptian,
If murmurs of our planet come
To exiles in the precincts wan
Where, fetish or Olympian,
To help or harm no more ye list,
Look down, if look ye may, and scan
This monument in London mist!

Behold, the hieroglyphs are dumb
That once were read of him that ran
When seistron, cymbal, trump, and drum
Wild music of the Bull began;
When through the chanting priestly clan
Walk'd Ramses, and the high sun kiss'd
This stone, with blessing scored and ban -
This monument in London mist.

The stone endures though gods be numb;
Though human effort, plot, and plan
Be sifted, drifted, like the sum
Of sands in wastes Arabian.
What king may deem him more than man,
What priest says Faith can Time resist
While THIS endures to mark their span -
This monument in London mist?

ENVOY.

Prince, the stone's shade on your divan
Falls; it is longer than ye wist:
It preaches, as Time's gnomon can,
This monument in London mist!

poem by Andrew Lang
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Dirge Over A Nameless Grave

By yon still river, where the wave
Is winding slow at evening's close,
The beech, upon a nameless grave,
Its sadly-moving shadow throws.

O'er the fair woods the sun looks down
Upon the many-twinkling leaves,
And twilight's mellow shades are brown,
Where darkly the green turf upheaves.

The river glides in silence there,
And hardly waves the sapling tree:
Sweet flowers are springing, and the air
Is full of balm,-- but where is she!

They bade her wed a son of pride,
And leave the hope she cherished long:
She loved but one,-- and would not hide
A love which knew no wrong.

And months went sadly on,-- and years:--
And she was wasting day by day:
At length she died, -- and many tears
Were shed, that she should pass away.

Then came a gray old man, and knelt
With bitter weeping by her tomb:--
And others mourned for him, who felt
That he had sealed a daughter's doom.

The funeral train has long past on,
And time wiped dry the father's tear!
Farewell -- lost maiden! -- there is one
That mourns thee yet -- and he is here.

poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Disturbance At The Heron House

theyre going wild, the call came in
At early morning pre-dawn, then
the followers of chaos out of control
Theyre numbering the monkeys
The monkeys and the monkeys,
The followers of chaos out of control
theyre meeting at the monument,
The call came in the monument
To liberty and honor under the honor roll
theyve gathered up the cages the cages and courageous,
The followers of chaos out of control
The call came in to party central
meeting of the green and simple,
Try to tell us something we dont know
disturbance at the heron house
A stampede at the monument
To liberty and honor under the honor roll
The gathering of grunts and greens
Cogs and grunts and hirelings
A meeting of a mean idea to hold
when feeding time has come and gone
Theyll lose the heart and head for home
Try to tell us something we dont know
Everyone allowed, everyone allowed

song performed by by REM
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Tearing A Rose

Do Not Be Afraid
To Tear The Petals
Off A Sacred Rose
For Her
Truth
Eternal
Will Never Die
To Be Revealed
Before Your Eyes
She
Waits
Nights
And Days
Eternal
Her Devotion
Will Always Live
Meet Me Under A Tree
Guide Me Blinded
By Your Touch
Wherever
Your Years
Have Chosen Us To Be

poem by Erika Conti
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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 Color of the Grave is Green

411

The Color of the Grave is Green—
The Outer Grave—I mean—
You would not know it from the Field—
Except it own a Stone—

To help the fond—to find it—
Too infinite asleep
To stop and tell them where it is—
But just a Daisy—deep—

The Color of the Grave is white—
The outer Grave—I mean—
You would not know it from the Drifts—
In Winter—till the Sun—

Has furrowed out the Aisles—
Then—higher than the Land
The little Dwelling Houses rise
Where each—has left a friend—

The Color of the Grave within—
The Duplicate—I mean—
Not all the Snows could make it white—
Not all the Summers—Green—

You've seen the Color—maybe—
Upon a Bonnet bound—
When that you met it with before—
The Ferret—cannot find—

poem by Emily Dickinson
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Horace to Melpomene

Lofty and enduring is the monument I've reared,--
Come, tempests, with your bitterness assailing;
And thou, corrosive blasts of time, by all things mortal feared,
Thy buffets and thy rage are unavailing!

I shall not altogether die; by far my greater part
Shall mock man's common fate in realms infernal;
My works shall live as tributes to my genius and my art,--
My works shall be my monument eternal!

While this great Roman empire stands and gods protect our fanes,
Mankind with grateful hearts shall tell the story,
How one most lowly born upon the parched Apulian plains
First raised the native lyric muse to glory.

Assume, revered Melpomene, the proud estate I've won,
And, with thine own dear hand the meed supplying,
Bind thou about the forehead of thy celebrated son
The Delphic laurel-wreath of fame undying!

poem by Eugene Field
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A Song For My Funeral

A Song For My Funeral

when they buried him
a young boy
in a cardboard box
somewhere in the green mountain
there was a song nobody knew
there was a song
unknown and unsung

I know the song
it has been silent for many years
buried in an unmarked grave
a dead boy does not age

I shall be writing the song
for my funeral to come
it will be there
for you to sing
wherever you are

Suchoon Mo
- Lucid Rhythms, issue 2, June 2008 -

poem by Suchoon Mo_
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The Alder Tree

Alder tree, O alder tree,
Over his grave reclining;
I've braided a wreath of the fairest flowers
That ever were fed by the spring-time showers.
Or nursed by the summer shining.
Short, but lovely, their lives have been,
Like his in the damp sod sleeping,
And I strew them now on the hillock green,
Where a mournful watch I'm keeping.

Alder tree! O alder tree!
Is it a voice of sorrow
That sighs 'mong thy leaves in the silent night,
When the radiant hue of the moonshine bright
Announceth a pleasant morrow?
'Tis a voice of wailing, O alder tree,
'Tis the evening breeze that weepeth,
'Tis the nightingale singing a song like me,
O'er the grave where my loved one sleepeth!

poem by Charles Mackay
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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
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The Maiden Speaks

How grave thou lookest, loved one! wherefore so?
Thy marble image seems a type of thee;
Like it, no sign of life thou giv'st to me;
Compared with thee, the stone appears to glow.
Behind his shield in ambush lurks the foe,
The friend's brow all-unruffled we should see.
I seek thee, but thou seek'st away to flee;
Fix'd as this sculptured figure, learn to grow!
Tell me, to which should I the preference pay?
Must I from both with coldness meet alone?
The one is lifeless, thou with life art blest.
In short, no longer to throw words away,
I'll fondy kiss and kiss and kiss this stone,
Till thou dost tear me hence with envious breast.

poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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