Related quotes: FIVE-AND-TWENTY years have gone Since...

In Memory Of Alfred Pollexfen

FIVE-AND-TWENTY years have gone
Since old William pollexfen
Laid his strong bones down in death
By his wife Elizabeth
In the grey stone tomb he made.
And after twenty years they laid
In that tomb by him and her
His son George, the astrologer;
And Masons drove from miles away
To scatter the Acacia spray
Upon a melancholy man
Who had ended where his breath began.
Many a son and daughter lies
Far from the customary skies,
The Mall and Eades's grammar school,
In London or in Liverpool;
But where is laid the sailor John
That so many lands had known,
Quiet lands or unquiet seas
Where the Indians trade or Japanese?
He never found his rest ashore,
Moping for one voyage more.
Where have they laid the sailor John?
And yesterday the youngest son,
A humorous, unambitious man,
Was buried near the astrologer,
Yesterday in the tenth year
Since he who had been contented long.
A nobody in a great throng,
Decided he would journey home,
Now that his fiftieth year had come,
And 'Mr. Alfred' be again
Upon the lips of common men
Who carried in their memory
His childhood and his family.
At all these death-beds women heard
A visionary white sea-bird
Lamenting that a man should die;
And with that cry I have raised my cry.

poem by William Butler Yeats
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Related quotes

Ten Grey hairs and a silver one

I discovered my first grey hair
when I was Seventeen years old
It had to do with broken up my first relationship

I discovered my second grey hair
when I was Twenty years old
It had to do with the quarrels at home

I discovered my third grey hair
when I was Twenty-one years old
It had to do with searching for work

I discovered my fourth grey hair
when I was Twenty-three years old
It had to do with loosing my job

I discovered my fifth grey hair
when I was Twenty-five years old
It had to do with giving up my unborn child

I discovered my sixth grey hair
When I was Twenty-eight years old
It had to do with opening my pub

I discovered my seventh grey hair
When I was thirty years old
It had to do with giving birth to my daughter

I discovered my eight grey hair
When I was thirty –two years old
It had to do with the first day at the kinder garden school

I discovered my ninth grey hair
When I was thirty-four years old
It had to do with to find out that some thing was missing

I discovered my tenth grey hair
When I was thirty-five years old
It had to do with the fights between my sisters and mum

My one Silver hair I discovered lately
Has to do with you
Because I miss you so hard …

poem by Pascale Ost
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On the University Carrier

Who sickened in the time of his Vacancy, being forbid to go to London by reason of the Plague.

Here lies old Hobson. Death hath broke his girt,
And here, alas! hath laid him in the dirt;
Or else, the ways being foul, twenty to one
He’s here stuck in a slough, and overthrown.
’T was such a shifter that, if truth were known,
Death was half glad when he had got him down;
For he had any time this ten years full
Dodged with him betwixt Cambridge and The Bull.
And surely Death could never have prevailed,
Had not his weekly course of carriage failed;
But lately, finding him so long at home,
And thinking now his journey’s end was come,
And that he had ta’en up his latest Inn,
In the kind office of a Chamberlin
Showed him his room where he must lodge that night,
Pulled off his boots, and took away the light.
If any ask for him, it shall be said,
“Hobson has supped, and ’s newly gone to bed.”

poem by John Milton
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Forever

THOSE we love truly never die,
Though year by year the sad memorial wreath,
A ring and flowers, types of life and death,
Are laid upon their graves.

For death the pure life saves,
And life all pure is love; and love can reach
From heaven to earth, and nobler lessons teach
Than those by mortals read.

Well blest is he who has a dear one dead:
A friend he has whose face will never change—
A dear communion that will not grow strange;
The anchor of a love is death.

The blessed sweetness of a loving breath
Will reach our cheek all fresh through weary years.
For her who died long since, ah! waste not tears,
She's thine unto the end.

Thank God for one dead friend,
With face still radiant with the light of truth,
Whose love comes laden with the scent of youth,
Through twenty years of death.

poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
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I Laid Down God!

i laid down God,
and found the stranger
at my door....

hungry stare, dirty clothes,
nowhere to go...
i let him in!

i laid down God,
and found the orphaned child,
crying in the darkness,

the darkness that swallows souls.
i took the child in my arms,
and whispered, 'you are home'...

i laid down God,
traded my guns for hammer and nails...
began building houses

for the lost and dispossessed...
i laid down God,
and quit thinking about me...

found peace in involvement,
with no need to possess...
i laid down God,

and God found me!

poem by Eric Cockrell
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Little John Smith

LO, AS I WALKED PAST SMITHSONS MEADOW,
I SAW A NAKED INFANT RUN OUT OF A BARN,
HE LAUGHED AS HE RAN TOWARDS ME,
HO, WHAT BE THY NAME LAD?
AND THE YOUNG LAD REPLIED?
I AM JOHN SMITH! HE SAID AS HE RAN OFF,
THIS WAS TWENTY AND SIX YEARS AGO,
AYE, I RETURN FROM MY MANY QUESTS FROM LANDS AFAR,
AND A STRONG MALE VOICE STOPPED ME AND SAID,
WHO BE YE AND WHENCE GOEST THOU? HE ASKED
AND I SAID, AH MY GOOD MAN, I AM HARRY BOLDS OF BOLDS FARM AND I RETURN FROM MY MANY JOURNEYS AFTER TWENTY AND SIX YEARS AWAY FROM HOME, SAID I,
GOOD THEN, I AM LORD JOHN SMITH!
LORD OF THE LANDS OF SMITHSONS AND I SAY THIS TO YOU,
TELL THIS TO MY WARRIORS AS YOU PASS TROUGH THE TOWN,
THAT I, LORD SMITH HAS GRANTED YOU SAFE PASSAGE THROUGH MY LANDS FOR I KNOW OF THE BOLDS FARMS, STATED THE LAD AND HE TURNED AND WALKED OFF,
WHAT A MARVEL! TOUGHT I, LITTLE JOHN SMITH IS NOW A WARRIOR LORD AND NOW GRANTS ME SAFE PASSAGE THROUGH THIS LANDS!
IT IS WELL THEN, THE INFANT IS NOW AN ADULT,
WATCH THY STEP, LEST YOU OFFEND A LITTLE JOHN SMITH WHO MAY BE THE ONE TO GRANT YOU YOUR LIFE IN THE FUTURE!

poem by Overlord Don Manuel Ihcakeyno
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Feel No Pain

mama been laid off
papa been laid off
my brother's been laid off
for more than two years now
ooh can't get a job
billy can't get a job
ooh they gotta listen to the blues

help them to strive
help them to move on
help them to have some future
help them to live long
help them to live life
help them to smile
don't let them stay home and listen to the blues

mama been laid off
papa been laid off
billy can't get a job
for too long too long
don't let them lose
we gotta give them a chance
it's gonna come back on everyone
if you don't make them dance
don't let them stay home and listen to the blues

there's nothing sacred (why

song performed by by Sade
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Those layered Cakes

yesterday i passed by
my childhood stall by the road;
what an experience it was!
that woman in her 30s i used to see,
now only her creased forehead and face
to add another dimension between us.
how sweet her layered little squarish
suntan cakes still tasted;
those layers that i peeled off
piece by piece to savour their charms.
and as i peeled the women gave me
that more mature and
deeply heartstirring smile
that tore through the distance
between us as if each layer i had peeled carried a story of her own life.
those years of experiences
now seen in phases,
like the layers of her cake.
the child in me leapt up again.
i left behind what
have separated us
to present the innocent smile
we used to give each other.
momentarily we lived
those days when i was a child
and she a young woman.
those childhood years
when we saw people as what they were.
those childhood years
when our smiles, love
were a fountain spring of ourselves
until the days when growing up
added different shades
of feelings and thoughts
to our relationships.
i hate the layer
those creases and wrinkles
laid in me.
i prefer to see them
as a child
where she would probably be
the wise woman in some cartoon film.
how those cakes would never
be the same again.
how i loved those pink and white layers,
the pink and white that had always
carried a fairy tale behind them.

poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Never Played-Symphonies

Reflecting from my death bed
I'm balancing life's riches
Against the ditches
And the flat grey years in between
All I can see are the never laid
That's the never-played
Symphonies
I can't see those who tried to love me
Of those who felt they understood me
And I can't see those who
Very patiently
Put up with me
All I can see are the never laid
Or the never-played
Symphonies
You were one
You meant to be one
And you jumped into my face
And laughed and kissed me on the cheek
And then were gone
Forever
But not quite
Black sky in the daytime
And I don't much mind dying
When there is nothing left
To care for
Anymore
Just the never laid
That's the never-played
Symphonies
You were one
You meant to be one
And you slipped right through my fingers
No, not literally
But metaphorically
And now you're all I see
As the light fades

song performed by by Morrissey
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Brave Page Boys

Air -- "The Fierce Discharge"

In the late rebellion war,
Grand Rapids did send out
As brave and noble volunteers
As ever went down south:
Among them were the brave Page boys --
Five brothers there were in all;
They enlisted and went down south,
To obey their country's call.

John S. Page was the eldest son --
He went down south afar,
And enlisted in the Mechanics,
And served his time in the war.
Fernando Page the second son;
Served in the Infantry;
He was wounded, lost both his feet
On duty at Yorktown siege.

Charles F. Page was a noble son --
In sixty-four did enlist,
And in the same year he was killed
In the fight of the Wilderness.
This brave boy was carrying the flag,
To cheer his comrades on.
He fought in the Eight Infantry;
Now he, brave boy, is gone.

'Tis said of this brave soldier boy --
'Twas just before he died --
Stood the flag standard in the ground,
Laid down by it and died.
The friends that loved this noble boy,
How sad were they to hear
Of his death on a battle field;
His age was twenty years.

James B. Page was a fine young man --
He went in the artillery;
He served his time with all the rest,
To keep his country free.
Enos Page the youngest brother --
Made five sons in one family,
Went from Grand Rapids, here.
His age was fourteen years --

When Enos Page went from his home,
He was only a boy, you know;
He stole away from his mother dear,
For he was bound to go.
She followed him to the barracks twice,
And took him home again;
She found it was no use -- at last
With friends let him remain.

In Eight Michigan Cavalry
This boy he did enlist;
His life was almost despaired of,
On account of numerous fits,
Caused by drinking water poisoned --
Effects cannot outgrow;
In northern Alabama, I hear,
There came this dreadful blow.

How joyful were the parents of
Those noble soldier boys,
There was one missing of the five,
When they returned from war.
The one that carried the Union flag
Lies in a Southern grave,
The other brothers came back home
To Grand Rapids, their native place.

poem by Julia A Moore
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Spectral

Come brother death, come walk with me
And tell me thy tales of long ago.
Show me thy patterns in thy sands of time.
Lend me thy dark cloak against thy cold.

Come brother death, come walk by me
And sing me wraith's song, full of men's woe.
Trace me thy footprints where all the world ends.
Wrap thy slender white fingers around mine.

Come brother death, come run with me
Far to where all wind and stars do sing.
Far away from this human hurt and pain.
Far to where thy peace and darkness reign

Come brother death, come run by me
Past blood laid lands and frozen seas.
And sing me of when death shall be no more
And pain but a dust wrapped memory.

(1983)

poem by Tobbie WhiteBird Crowe
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The Wifebeater

There will be mud on the carpet tonight
and blood in the gravy as well.
The wifebeater is out,
the childbeater is out
eating soil and drinking bullets from a cup.
He strides back and forth
in front of my study window
chewing little red pieces of my heart.
His eyes flash like a birthday cake
and he makes bread out of rock.
Yesterday he was walking
like a man in the world.
He was upright and conservative
but somehow evasive, somehow contagious.
Yesterday he built me a country
and laid out a shadow where I could sleep
but today a coffin for the madonna and child,
today two women in baby clothes will be hamburg.
With a tongue like a razor he will kiss,
the mother, the child,
and we three will color the stars black
in memory of his mother
who kept him chained to the food tree
or turned him on and off like a water faucet
and made women through all these hazy years
the enemy with a heart of lies.
Tonight all the red dogs lie down in fear
and the wife and daughter knit into each other
until they are killed.

poem by Anne Sexton
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The Ballad Of The White Lady

SIR GEOFFREY met the white lady
Upon his marriage morn,
Her eyes were blue as cornflowers are,
Her hair was gold like corn.

Sir Geoffrey gave the white lady
A posy of roses seven,
'You are the fairest May,' said he,
'That ever strayed from Heaven.'

Sir Geoffrey by the white lady
Was lured away to shame,
For seven long years of prayers and tears
No tidings of him came.

Then she who should have been his bride
A mighty oath she swore,
'For seven long years I have wept and prayed,
Now I will pray no more.

'Since God and all the saints of Heaven
Bring not my lord to me,
I will go down myself to hell
And bring him back,' said she.

She crept to the white lady's bower,
The taper's flame was dim,
And there Sir Geoffrey lay asleep,
And the white witch sat by him.

Her arm was laid across his neck,
Her gold hair on his face,
And there was silence in the room
As in a burial-place.

And there were gems and carven cups,
And 'broidered bridal gear--
'Whose bridal is this?' the lady said,
'And what knight have ye here?'

'The good knight here ye know full well,
He was your lord, I trow,
But I have taken him from your side,
And I am his lady now.

'This seven year with right good cheer
We twain our bridal keep,
So take for your mate another knight
And let my dear lord sleep.'

Then up and spake Sir Geoffrey's bride,
'What bridal cheer is this?
I would think scorn to have the lips
Who could not have the kiss!

'I would think scorn to take the half
Who could not have the whole;
I would think scorn to steal the body
Who could not take the soul!

'For, though ye hold his body fast
This seven weary year,
His soul walks ever at my side
And whispers in my ear.

'I would think scorn to hold in sleep
What, if it waked, would flee,
So let his body join his soul
And both fare forth with me;

'For I have learned a spell more strong
Than yours that laid him low,
And I will speak it for his sake
Because I love him so!'

The white lady threw back her hair,
Her eyes began to shine--
'His soul is thine these seven years?--
To-night it shall be mine!

'I have been brave to hold him here
While seven long years befell,
Rather than let a bridal be
Whose seed should flower in hell.

'I have not looked into his eyes
Nor joined my lips to his,
For fear his soul should spring to flame
And shrivel at my kiss.

'I have been brave to watch his sleep
While the long hours come and go,
To hold the body without the soul,
Because I love him so.

'But since his soul this seven year
Has sat by thee,' she said,
'His body and soul to-night shall lie
Upon my golden bed.

'Thou hast no need to speak the spell
That thou hast learned,' said she,
'For I will wake him from his sleep
And take his soul from thee.'

She stooped above him where he lay,
She laid her lips on his;
He stirred, he spake: 'These seven long years
I have waited for thy kiss.

'My soul has hung upon thy lips
And trembled at thy breath,
Thou hast given me life in a cup to drink,
As God will give me death.

'Why didst thou fear to kill my soul
Which only lives for thee?
Thou hast put seven wasted years,
O love, 'twixt thee and me.'

poem by Edith Nesbit
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With every step we take

Twenty miles, then twenty miles,
then twenty miles again.
We’ll keep on walking, day by day,
towards breast cancer’s end.

With every step, with every stair,
We train to walk this path
To raise the funds to fight the beast
And consign it to the past..

It will be hot, It may be wet
As we traverse the miles
and when we rest, beneath the stars,
We’ll sleep like stones awhile

With every step, with every mile
We’re walking towards a cure
And we would walk a thousand miles
To end its’ reign for sure..

If not in time for one we loved
Perhaps in time for others-
So many suffer scars or worse
where death’s dark angel hovers.

Twenty miles, then twenty miles,
then twenty miles again.
We’ll keep on walking, day by day,
towards breast cancer’s end.

poem by John F. McCullagh
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Move on!

'THE foxes have holes,
And the birds of the air have nests,
But where shall the heads of the sons of men
Be laid, be laid?'
'Where the cold corpse rests,
Where the sightless moles
Burrow and yet cannot make it afraid,
Rout but cannot wake it again,
There shall the heads of the sons of men
Be laid, be laid!'

poem by Francis William Lauderdale Adams
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Senses

The words were broken into sounds
And the time was cracked in seconds.
The seconds were dismantled slowly.
I grasped my love and I laid it in remembrance,
I grasped my remembrance and I laid it in grievance,
I grasped my grievance and I laid it in reason,
I grasped my reason and I laid it in self,
I grasped myself and I stepped into the light,
I grasped the light and I laid it over the candle wax.
The candle dropped the light.
In the light, the sense of life became clear.
I grasped the sense of life and I laid it over the sense of death.
In this sense of life and death you laid
The seconds, which were dismantled.
They melted in pieces of eternity.
I took those pieces and I gave them to The Lord.
I gave love your name.
I grasped my love and I laid it in remembrance
And I heard the empty bell ringing in the sky.
The bell would ring for someone else,
But I remembered you

poem by Marieta Maglas
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Belgravia by Night

'Move on!'

'THE foxes have holes,
And the birds of the air have nests,
But where shall the heads of the sons of men
Be laid, be laid?'

'Where the cold corpse rests,
Where the sightless moles
Burrow and yet cannot make it afraid,
Rout but cannot wake it again,
There shall the heads of the sons of men
Be laid, be laid!'

poem by Francis William Lauderdale Adams
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How’s My Boy?

“HO, Sailor of the sea!
How’s my boy—my boy?”
“What’s your boy’s name, good wife,
And in what good ship sail'd he?”
“My boy John— He that went to sea—
What care I for the ship, sailor?
My boy's my boy to me.
“You come back from sea,
And not know my John?
I might as well have ask’d some landsman
Yonder down in the town.
There ’s not an ass in all the parish
But he knows my John.

“How’s my boy—my boy?
And unless you let me know
I’ll swear you are no sailor,
Blue jacket or no,
Brass buttons or no, sailor,
Anchor and crown or no!
Sure his ship was the ‘Jolly Briton’”—
“Speak low, woman, speak low!”
“And why should I speak low, sailor,
About my own boy John?
If I was loud as I am proud
I’d sing him over the town!
Why should I speak low, sailor?”
“That good ship went down.”

“How’s my boy—my boy?
What care I for the ship, sailor?
I was never aboard her.
Be she afloat or be she aground,
Sinking or swimming, I’ll be bound,
Her owners can afford her!
I say, how’s my John?”
“Every man on board went down,
Every man aboard her.”
“How’s my boy—my boy?
What care I for the men, sailor?
I’m not their mother—
How’s my boy—my boy?
Tell me of him and no other!
How ’s my boy—my boy?”

poem by Sydney Thompson Dobell
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He who had been dead was dead no more

‘He's mine' boasted the grave in victory
'He is dead so now he belongs to me'
But Death had forgotten about the One
Who's God's One and Only Belovèd Son.

Jesus had arrived upon that sad scene
giving hope where only despair had been.
'I am the Resurrection and Life, ' said He
'The power of Death is subject to me.'

'Where have you laid him? ' sadly Jesus sighed
'Come and see, Lord, ' both the women replied.
Seeing their helplessness at the graveside
Deep tears of sorrow the Son of God cried.

They opened the tomb, rolled the stone away
Then they heard Jesus in a loud voice say
'Lazarus come out' and amazingly they saw
That he who had been dead was dead no more.

'Remove the grave clothing and let him go'
and each semblance of death was removed so
and His power over death Jesus did show
it that town of Bethany long ago.

poem by Royston
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On The University Carrier Who Sickn'd In The Time Of His Vacancy, Being Forbid To Go To London, By Reason Of The Plague

Here lies old Hobson, Death hath broke his girt,
And here alas, hath laid him in the dirt,
Or els the ways being foul, twenty to one,
He's here stuck in a slough, and overthrown.
'Twas such a shifter, that if truth were known,
Death was half glad when he had got him down;
For he had any time this ten yeers full,
Dodg'd with him, betwixt Cambridge and the Bull.
And surely, Death could never have prevail'd,
Had not his weekly cours of carriage fail'd;
But lately finding him so long at home,
And thinking now his journeys end was come,
And that he had tane up his latest Inne,
In the kind office of a Chamberlin
Shew'd him his room where he must lodge that night,
Pull'd off his Boots, and took away the light:
If any ask for him, it shall be sed,
Hobson has supt, and 's newly gon to bed.