Rome: At the Pyramid of Cestius. (Near the graves of Shelley & Keats)
Who, then, was Cestius,
And what is he to me? -
Amid thick thoughts and memories multitudinous
One thought alone brings he.
I can recall no word
Of anything he did;
For me he is a man who died and was interred
To leave a pyramid
Whose purpose was exprest
Not with its first design,
Nor till, far down in Time, beside it found their rest
Two countrymen of mine.
Cestius in life, maybe,
Slew, breathed out threatening;
I know not. This I know: in death all silently
He does a kindlier thing,
In beckoning pilgrim feet
With marble finger high
To where, by shadowy wall and history-haunted street,
Those matchless singers lie . . .
--Say, then, he lived and died
That stones which bear his name
Should mark, through Time, where two immortal Shades abide;
It is an ample fame.
poem by Thomas Hardy
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Rome at the Pyramid of Cestius Near the Graves of Shelley and Keats (1887)
Who, then, was Cestius,
And what is he to me? -
Amid thick thoughts and memories multitudinous
One thought alone brings he.
I can recall no word
Of anything he did;
For me he is a man who died and was interred
To leave a pyramid
Whose purpose was exprest
Not with its first design,
Nor till, far down in Time, beside it found their rest
Two countrymen of mine.
Cestius in life, maybe,
Slew, breathed out threatening;
I know not. This I know: in death all silently
He does a kindlier thing,
In beckoning pilgrim feet
With marble finger high
To where, by shadowy wall and history-haunted street,
Those matchless singers lie . . .
--Say, then, he lived and died
That stones which bear his name
Should mark, through Time, where two immortal Shades abide;
It is an ample fame.
poem by Thomas Hardy
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Shane O’Neill’s Cairn
TO U. J.
When you and I on the Palos Verdes cliff
Found life more desperate than dear,
And when we hawked at it on the lake by Seattle,
In the west of the world, where hardly
Anything has died yet: we'd not have been sorry, Una,
But surprised, to foresee this gray
Coast in our days, the gray waters of the Moyle
Below us, and under our feet
The heavy black stones of the cairn of the lord of Ulster.
A man of blood who died bloodily
Four centuries ago: but death's nothing, and life,
From a high death-mark on a headland
Of this dim island of burials, is nothing either.
How beautiful are both these nothings.
poem by Robinson Jeffers
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The Man Who Died For Me
The man of whom I choose to speak
Was holy as can be,
For he was sinless, quite unique,
The man who died for me...
It was a long, long time ago
Yet changed all history,
Such that today most people know
The man who died for me...
Though famous in a foreign land,
His fame did not come free,
For some refused to understand
The man who died for me...
They schemed and plotted day and night,
Their hatred plain to see
And in their blindness chose to fight
The man who died for me...
And once arrested, he stood still,
Before them silently,
Until the time they chose to kill
The man who died for me...
Then he declared his holiness,
His future destiny
And yet not one agreed to bless
The man who died for me...
The crucifixion was decreed
At callous Calvary...
And there I wept to see him bleed...
The man who died for me...
They say He was God's Son and more,
His death brought victory...
I was baptised, now I adore
The man who died for me...
Denis Martindale, copyright, October 2011.
Tune in to the Revelation TV channel on Sky etc.
The Watch Now online option is on their website:
revelationtv-dot-com with extra links and videos.
poem by Denis Martindale
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The Thought
Into the skies, one summer's day,
I sent a little Thought away;
Up to where, in the blue round,
The sun sat shining without sound.
Then my Thought came back to me.—
Little Thought, what did you see
In the regions whence you come?
And when I spoke, my Thought was dumb.
But she breathed of what was there,
In the pure bright upper air;
And, because my Thought so shone,
I knew she had been shone upon.
Next, by night a Thought I sent
Up into the firmament;
When the eager stars were out,
And the still moon shone about.
And my Thought went past the moon
In between the stars, but soon
Held her breath and durst not stir,
For the fear that covered her;
Then she thought, in this demur:
'Dare I look beneath the shade,
Into where the worlds are made;
Where the suns and stars are wrought?
Shall I meet another Thought?
'Will that other Thought have wings?
Shall I meet strange, heavenly things?
Thought of Thoughts, and Light of Lights,
Breath of Breaths, and Night of Nights?'
Then my Thought began to hark
In the illuminated dark,
Till the silence, over, under,
Made her heart beat more than thunder.
And my Thought, came trembling back,
But with something on her track,
And with something at her side;
Nor till she has lived and died,
Lived and died, and lived again,
Will that awful thing seem plain.
poem by William Brighty Rands
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Yet Another Wound
I had died and gone to heaven,
And then fallen from grace.
Death had changed my life forever.
It sure has several shades,
But none of those we're wont to.
What is death but for its manifestations,
Wailing, contorted face muscles and eerie silences?
Death is but another cut on the bloodied body,
No more painful no more powerful.
Only you don’t live to take another.
Men have feared death since Adam died;
They paralyze at the thought of death.
Does death deserve life as its cost?
Can death wipe out life's best?
Is it not an event equalling birth?
Lightly, welcome the relief from evils it brings.
poem by Saju Abraham
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Why Did Death Take You Away?
This year marked the anniversary of your death.
When you first died I couldn't take a breath.
I can't believe you've been gone so long.
It's sad you died at twenty-nine, you were wronged.
I know death is part of life's grand design.
We mourned your death for oh so long, we still morn to this day, but we're resigned.
Death is part of lives great design.
Many think death is divine or of God's design.
So, even though death took you away.
Our love for you is always here to stay.
I still ask; Why did death take you away?
Maybe the answer to that question will never go away.
*This poem is a tribute to my little sister, Tchinina. She died on May 2,2003 at the age of 29.
poem by Nichole Kaci McKnight
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Here Lie's The truth
“Here Lies the truth”,
On Her tombstone this will be wrote.
It was never spoke when She was living,
So also in death, it will be unspoke.
By Her it was never said
it was as though pulling out Her soul,
So here lies the truth and herself dead
Both has died in sadness and woe.
Here lies the truth,
Not once by her was it cried,
Not in the days that she was living,
Not even in the day that She had died.
She must of believed that it was a sin
To open Her heart and listen to the word
So She closed her heart and locked it shut,
And She never believed in no one but Her.
Here lies the truth,
It lived but a very short life,
Though the Woman died of years of age
The truth though, never had a chance to try.
Everyone She knew had learned Her lie
They never believed a word that she said
So when She finally tried to speak the truth,
Her heart stopped; and She laid dead.
Here lies the truth
It lived but a very short life,
It was loved by neither Child or Man,
For they believe its living was but a lie.
So here in the grave it will lay dead
As it had lived in this woman's soul,
Never again will it be uttered or thought of,
Never till the end of time will it be thought of or known.
Randy L. McClave
poem by Randy McClave
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My First Love
For no reason at all she came into my thoughts and dreams
I don’t know why, I haven’t seen her since she was seventeen.
She brought with her forgotten memories I thought had gone,
but they’re still there to think about and to touch upon.
The happy and sad times that we both lived through
as teenage lovers with passions so strong and true.
We lived and breathed for each other every moment of the day,
and our hearts would break if we had to spend time away.
So strong was our love, we would have died for each other,
we experienced every emotion that was possible together.
My insane jealous nature eventually forced us to part
it left us with sadness and our first broken heart.
At the time there was nothing else worth living for,
but time heals and I found another love to adore.
Looking back, my first true love is still special to me,
we discovered what love was and how it should be.
And whenever she comes to mind I think back and smile,
and thank her for the memories that are so worthwhile.
The postman put a letter through the letterbox today
it said that my first love had recently passed away.
Even though she’s left this world she lives on in my memory
and as long as I shall live she’ll be with me.
In my thoughts and dreams I see her as she was so long ago,
and it’s over fifty years since we said our first hello.
poem by Orlando Belo
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Departed Souls
Men and women close to us, die each day and return to dust.
And for some who pass away, many can only hope and pray,
That they too, knew The Way, before they had died that day,
If Christ was not upon their heart, on that day they did depart.
The return to dust we all face, is a way to life by God’s Grace,
Through belief in His own Son, who died a death for everyone.
While they had lived in this life, they could see truths of Christ,
In the lives of many of those, who believed in Christ, who rose.
A choice must be made by all, to avoid death, from Adam’s fall,
To accept the love of Calvary, and He who died for you and me.
We need to share with everyone, Eternal Truths of God’s Son,
Men and women, girls and boys, so they can make the choice.
For there’s no time after men die, to lift up prayers into the sky,
To alter choices men had made, before bodies have been laid,
God has given man ample time, to change a heart and a mind,
It’s when men don’t believe, the Spirit of Truth that they receive.
Friend it is God’s ultimate desire, that no man perish in the fire,
But instead receive Eternal Life, through His Son Jesus Christ.
We must let loved ones know, they make a choice where to go,
When they leave this earthly state, eternity is not chance or fate.
Men need to make a determination, in regards to their salvation,
To trust in God’s saving Grace, before they ever leave this place.
No family will have to grieve, knowing in Christ they did believe,
So those left can rest assured, they died knowing Christ as Lord.
(Copyright ©01/2007)
Leonardo
The one on portrait hanging on the wall
Perhaps the best that history can recall
He lived and worked five hundred years ago
And still the legend of Leonardo grow.
A Poet, a Scientist and an Engineer
An Inventor and an Artist without peer
From near poverty to fame at a time
When to be poor was looked on as a crime.
Leonardo the greatest son of Italy
Opened the gate to modern technology
No stranger to the book of history
In five hundred years no greater one than he.
Five centuries back he said that man would fly
And the legend live his fame will never die
His dusty portrait in old frame hang on wall
Perhaps the best that history can recall.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Death
The journey of death, I think of dying as it were
a sleeping process which it brings our thoughts
the illusion of angel's, heaven, clouds and paradise,
we see ourselves in a utopia dream world,
that brings us peace and harmony. Death is a
sad word; a word that is continually present with
melancholy thoughts that haunts the mind. I always
dismiss it from my mind, but always comes back.
It's there always trying to torment me, maybe if death
wasn't so enigmatic and dreadful, our thoughts would
change. We wouldn't think about it at all. When I think
of the old age, is like thinking, death is near, it's the
nearest thing to old age. Death, death is like a cold
and lonely sigh, Death, it comes like thieves in the
night, it takes you and it wont give you a notice nor a
warning. A deep anguish takes over our feelings;
death is a sad word, An empty sensation and a huge
grief, that torture's the soul and mind. Death we can't
defeated, escape or make it null. A reminder each
day that time will eventually stop and become eternal.
Death the only sure thing we inherit from the second
we are born, death, death, I cannot comprehend the
purpose to all, we struggle in our journey in every way,
to at the end, become dust in the wind, and then after
time has past, not even a vestige of us.
poem by Elenushka Toledo
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The Only Thing I Fear
My thoughts on an afterlife are never clear
The thought of dying is the only thing I fear
But to the reaper's scythe I too must fall
The journey through life does end for us all
Each day we live each day the end for us more near
And of those who died brave we often read of and hear
But it matters none to them now how they died
Or if their fame has travelled far and wide
Why weep for me I am not worth a tear
But if you respect me respect what I loved dear
To immortal Mother Nature respect show
She is the only God I claim to know
There will be life long after we are gone
And Mother Nature will be living on.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Today My Friend Died
Today my friend died,
I still cant believe my eyes.
It seems like my world has ended.
Today my friend died,
the cute face and sweet smile,
keeps flashing in front of my eyes.
Today my friend died,
my first and last best friend.
She was waiting for this day,
as she had only sorrows and troubles with her.
Today my friend died,
the friend who cared about me,
the friend who solved my problem,
the friend who always fought with life.
Today my friend died,
and I think,
I am filled with problems with no solution,
a human with no confidence,
today I am here with no hope,
I am here today without happiness.
Today my friend died,
she has stepped into my life,
as a spirit of mine.
I cannot express how important she is to me.
Today my friend died,
I recall my memories with her,
and cry....
poem by Afreen Khan
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Webster
"When I and all those that hear me shall have gone to our last home, and when the mould may have gathered on our memories, as it will on our tombs:" -- Webster's Speech in the Senate, July, 1850.
The mould upon thy memory! -- No,
Not while one note is rung,
Of those divine, immortal songs
Milton and Shakespeare sung; --
Not till the night of years enshrouds
The Anglo-Saxon tongue.
No! let the flood of Time roll on,
And men and empires die; --
Genius enthroned on lofty heights
Can its dread course defy,
And here on earth, can claim the gift
Of immortality:
Can save from that Lethean tide
That sweeps so dark along,
A people's name; -- a people's fame
To future time prolong,
As Troy still lives and only lives
In Homer's deathless song.
What though to buried Nineveh
The traveller may come,
And roll away the stone that hides
That long forgotten tomb; --
He questions its mute past in vain,
Its oracles are dumb.
What though he stand where Balbec stood
Gigantic in its pride;
No voice comes o'er that silent waste,
Lone, desolate and wide; --
They had no bard, no orator,
No statesman, -- and they died.
They lived their little span of life,
They lived and died in vain; --
They sank ingloriously beneath
Oblivion's silent reign,
As sank beneath the Dead Sea wave
The Cities of the Plain.
But for those famed, immortal lands,
Greece and imperial Rome,
Where Genius left its shining mark,
And found its chosen home,
All eloquent with mind they speak,
Wood, wave and crumbling dome.
The honeyed words of Plato still
Float on the echoing air,
The thunders of Demosthenes
AEgean waters bear,
And the pilgrim to the Forum hears
The voice of Tully there.
And thus thy memory shall live,
And thus thy fame resound,
While far-off future ages roll
Their solemn cycles round,
And make this wide, this fair New World
An ancient, classic ground.
Then with our Country's glorious name
Thine own shall be entwined;
Within the Senate's pillared hall
Thine image shall be shrined;
And on the nation's Law shall gleam
Light from thy giant mind.
Our proudest monuments no more
May rise to meet the sky,
The stately Capitol o'erthrown,
Low in the dust may lie;
But mind, sublime above the wreck,
Immortal -- cannot die.
poem by Anne Lynch Botta from Poems (1848)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Run Away
(eric carmen)
She was just an average blue-eyed
Golden high school dream
An illusion nothing real could ever touch
Funny love seemed so much more intense
At seventeen
When I knew shed never love me
Half as much
I recall the desperate vow I made
I must find a way somehow to win her heart
Ive got to make her mine
Gonna run away
Till I prove that Im a man
Gonna run away
Be the best I know I can
Got to run away
Got to find my space and time
And I cannot rest a day until I make her mine
Trades were made for promises
Of a timeless memory
And I knew but still refused to comprehend
The fantasy more glamorous
Then she could ever be
Was the course of least resistance
In the end
I recall the desperate vow I made
I must find a way somehow to win her heart
Ive got to make her mine
Gonna run away
Till I prove that Im a man
Gonna run away
Be the best I know I can
Got to run away
Got to find my space and time
And I cannot rest a day until I make her mine
Long ago an innocence
Lived deep within my soul
In a yesterday where love
And dreams remain
But disillusion clouds my eyes
And the winter takes its toll
For the spring has gone
And will not come again
I recall the desperate vow I made
I must find a way somehow to win her heart
Ive got to make her mine
Gonna run away
Till I prove that Im a man
Gonna run away
Be the best I know I can
Got to run away
Got to find my space and time
And I cannot rest a day until I make her mine
Got to run away
Got to find my space and time
And I cannot rest a day until I make her mine
song performed by by Eric Carmen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Percy Bysshe Shelley
My father who owned the wagon-shop
And grew rich shoeing horses
Sent me to the University of Montreal.
I learned nothing and returned home,
Roaming the fields with Bert Kessler,
Hunting quail and snipe.
At Thompson's Lake the trigger of my gun
Caught in the side of the boat
And a great hole was shot through my heart.
Over me a fond father erected this marble shaft,
On which stands the figure of a woman
Carved by an Italian artist.
They say the ashes of my namesake
Were scattered near the pyramid of Caius Cestius
Somewhere near Rome.
poem by Edgar Lee Masters
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With Three Flowers
Herewith I send you three pressed withered flowers:
This one was white, with golden star; this, blue
As Capri's cave; that, purple and shot through
With sunset-orange. Where the Duomo towers
In diamond air, and under pendent bowers
The Arno glides, this faded violet grew
On Landor's grave; from Landor's heart it drew
Its clouded azure in the long spring hours.
Within the shadow of the Pyramid
Of Cais Cestius was the daisy found,
White as the soul of Keats in Paradise.
The pansy -- there were hundreds of them hid
In the thick grass that folded Shelley's mound,
Guarding his ashes with most lovely eyes.
poem by Thomas Bailey Aldrich
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Butterfly
A caterpillar had the feeling
That change was coming
That time was stealing.
To embrace the metamorphosis
It wove a cocoon around its chest
And choose our wall to take its rest.
The young are thoughtless, often cruel
And I was no exception.
I would have destroyed it but
for Frankie’s intervention.
Frankie lived in the corner house
He was older and quite wise.
He taught me that this green cocoon
would change into a butterfly.
He bade me watch, he had me wait
to see the wonder taking shape.
We saw the Monarch first take wing
once caterpillar, now a King.
Several summers passed us by.
I still lived but Frankie died-
He was just eighteen, Young and brave
A landmine put him in his grave.
He died just before Saigon’s fall
His name’s inscribed upon the Wall
Corporal Frank Evangelista Junior,
beloved by mother and mourned by sister.
A terrible loss when Frankie died-
He might have been a butterfly.
(The incident with the Butterfly happened in 1960. Lance Corporal Frank Paul Evangelista jr.USMC died during the Vietnam war when a landmine blew up his jeep. I recall he died in March of 1969, but I altered the time lines slightly(using my poetic license) .. Had he emerged from the experience of war, he may have proved to be a great man.)
poem by John F. McCullagh
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A Death blow is a Life blow to Some
816
A Death blow is a Life blow to Some
Who till they died, did not alive become—
Who had they lived, had died but when
They died, Vitality begun.
poem by Emily Dickinson
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A True Hero
JAMES BRAIDWOOD: Died June 22, 1861.
NOT at the battle front,--writ of in story;
Not on the blazing wreck steering to glory;
Not while in martyr-pangs soul and flesh sever,
Died he--this Hero new; hero forever.
No pomp poetic crowned, no forms enchained him,
No friends applauding watched, no foes arraigned him:
Death found him there, without grandeur or beauty,
Only an honest man doing his duty:
Just a God-fearing man, simple and lowly,
Constant at kirk and hearth, kindly as holy:
Death found--and touched him with finger in flying:--
Lo! he rose up complete--hero undying.
Now, all men mourn for him, lovingly raise him
Up from his life obscure, chronicle, praise him;
Tell his last act, done midst peril appalling,
And the last word of cheer from his lips falling;
Follow in multitudes to his grave's portal;
Leave him there, buried in honor immortal.
So many a Hero walks unseen beside us,
Till comes the supreme stroke sent to divide us.
Then the LORD calls His own,--like this man, even,
Carried, Elijah-like, fire-winged, to heaven.
poem by Dinah Maria Mulock Craik
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