Yeats Grave
Silenced by death in the grave
W b yeats couldnt save
Why did you stand here
Were you sickened in time
But I know by now
Why did you sit here?
In the grave
W.b. yeats second
Why should I blame her,
That she filled my days
With misery or that she would of late
Have taught to ignorant men most violent ways
Or hurled the little streets upon the grave
Had they but courage
Equal to desire
Sad that maud gonne couldnt stay
But she had mac bride anyway
And you sit here with me
On the isle inistree
And you are writing down everything
But I know by now
Why did you sit here
In the grave...
Why should I blame her
Had they but courage equal to desire
song performed by by Cranberries
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Related quotes
No Second Troy
Why should I blame her that she filled my days
With misery, or that she would of late
Have taught to ignorant men most violent ways,
Or hurled the little streets upon the great,
Had they but courage equal to desire?
What could have made her peaceful with a mind
That nobleness made simple as a fire,
With beauty like a tightened bow, a kind
That is not natural in an age like this,
Being high and solitary and most stern?
Why, what could she have done, being what she is?
Was there another Troy for her to burn?
poem by William Butler Yeats
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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My Father's Words
Yesterday I finally understood
“Beauty like a tightened bow”
And as read “No Second Troy”
Things, though already clear,
Became even clearer still.
Not just because of Yeats’ words,
But by what my father earlier said.
He told me that life is full of obstacles,
That some surmount those obstacles and
Move on with their lives,
While others remain adrift at sea.
He demanded courage of me,
Courage equal to my desire be happy,
And to understand people are who they are
And will not be changed by me.
My decision must be base on the good as I see,
And not anyone or anything else but that good.
A tighten bow is always ready to be fired.
So Yeats’ beauty of the tightened bow is
Not a just a reference to her visage,
But her readiness to act while others remain still.
Still because their courage does not equal their desire.
My father said I am slow to act
Because I am, in his estimation, a decent and good man.
He said decent and good men quickly fall into a lover’s trap.
And oft times decent and good men are slow to act.
Not because their courage does equal their desire, he encouraged,
But because in overcoming the obstacle they don’t want to hurt anyone.
This is not possible in a storm tossed sea, he said to me.
You must act and do so quickly.
So I must act, and it has nothing to do with
Anyone but me and what is good and right.
The course is set and I will act.
I will not live a life set in misery.
poem by Hal Caufield
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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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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Ah, Are You Digging on My Grave?
"Ah, are you digging on my grave,
My loved one? -- planting rue?"
-- "No: yesterday he went to wed
One of the brightest wealth has bred.
'It cannot hurt her now,' he said,
'That I should not be true.'"
"Then who is digging on my grave,
My nearest dearest kin?"
-- "Ah, no: they sit and think, 'What use!
What good will planting flowers produce?
No tendance of her mound can loose
Her spirit from Death's gin.'"
"But someone digs upon my grave?
My enemy? -- prodding sly?"
-- "Nay: when she heard you had passed the Gate
That shuts on all flesh soon or late,
She thought you no more worth her hate,
And cares not where you lie.
"Then, who is digging on my grave?
Say -- since I have not guessed!"
-- "O it is I, my mistress dear,
Your little dog , who still lives near,
And much I hope my movements here
Have not disturbed your rest?"
"Ah yes! You dig upon my grave...
Why flashed it not to me
That one true heart was left behind!
What feeling do we ever find
To equal among human kind
A dog's fidelity!"
"Mistress, I dug upon your grave
To bury a bone, in case
I should be hungry near this spot
When passing on my daily trot.
I am sorry, but I quite forgot
It was your resting place."
poem by Thomas Hardy
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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September
WHAT need you, being come to sense,
But fumble in a greasy till
And add the halfpence to the pence
And prayer to shivering prayer, until
You have dried the marrow from the bone?
For men were born to pray and save:
Romantic Ireland's dead and gone,
It's with O'Leary in the grave.
Yet they were of a different kind,
The names that stilled your childish play,
They have gone about the world like wind,
But little time had they to pray
For whom the hangman's rope was spun,
And what, God help us, could they save?
Romantic Ireland's dead and gone,
It's with O'Leary in the grave.
Was it for this the wild geese spread
The grey wing upon every tide;
For this that all that blood was shed,
For this Edward Fitzgerald died,
And Robert Emmet and Wolfe Tone,
All that delirium of the brave?
Romantic Ireland's dead and gone,
It's with O'Leary in the grave.
Yet could we turn the years again,
And call those exiles as they were
In all their loneliness and pain,
You'd cry, 'Some woman's yellow hair
Has maddened every mother's son':
They weighed so lightly what they gave.
But let them be, they're dead and gone,
They're with O'Leary in the grave.
poem by William Butler Yeats
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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September 1913
What need you, being come to sense,
But fumble in a greasy till
And add the halfpence to the pence
And prayer to shivering prayer, until
You have dried the marrow from the bone?
For men were born to pray and save:
Romantic Ireland's dead and gone,
It's with O'Leary in the grave.
Yet they were of a different kind,
The names that stilled your childish play,
They have gone about the world like wind,
But little time had they to pray
For whom the hangman's rope was spun,
And what, God help us, could they save?
Romantic Ireland's dead and gone,
It's with O'Leary in the grave.
Was it for this the wild geese spread
The grey wing upon every tide;
For this that all that blood was shed,
For this Edward Fitzgerald died,
And Robert Emmet and Wolfe Tone,
All that delirium of the brave?
Romantic Ireland's dead and gone,
It's with O'Leary in the grave.
Yet could we turn the years again,
And call those exiles as they were
In all their loneliness and pain,
You'd cry, 'Some woman's yellow hair
Has maddened every mother's son':
They weighed so lightly what they gave.
But let them be, they're dead and gone,
They're with O'Leary in the grave.
poem by William Butler Yeats
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Mohini Chatterjee
I ASKED if I should pray.
But the Brahmin said,
'pray for nothing, say
Every night in bed,
'I have been a king,
I have been a slave,
Nor is there anything.
Fool, rascal, knave,
That I have not been,
And yet upon my breast
A myriad heads have lain.'''
That he might Set at rest
A boy's turbulent days
Mohini Chatterjee
Spoke these, or words like these,
I add in commentary,
'Old lovers yet may have
All that time denied --
Grave is heaped on grave
That they be satisfied --
Over the blackened earth
The old troops parade,
Birth is heaped on Birth
That such cannonade
May thunder time away,
Birth-hour and death-hour meet,
Or, as great sages say,
Men dance on deathless feet.'
poem by William Butler Yeats
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Fifi The Flea
(ransford)
Fifi the flea fell in love
With a clown from a flea circus fair
She gave him her heart
But he still couldnt see
That for such a long time she had cared
He put himself round all the other girl fleas
Unaware that he hurt her so badly
She cried in the arms of his manager friend
And declared that she loved the clown madly
One day fifi went
And this drove the clown wild
The poor little flea started crying
Never you mind his manager said
I ought not to tell but shes dyin
Dyin for love of you little flea
Youve broken her heart with your lyin
She couldnt stand to see you throw
Her love away without tryin
The day fifi died the little clown vowed
Hed tend her grave every hour
He broke down and cried
When he saw her grave
And on it he placed a small flower
Poor little flea he wasted away
Hed lost his fifi forever
So they opened her grave
Put him inside
Now at last they are together
song performed by by Hollies
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Never Give Up
There are things in life
Can't be talked about
They only can be lived
They just keep passing by
Infront of our eyes
The stories of our lives
Makes us what we are
Every ones past includes its future within
What we have planted at past we harvest its seeds
Sometimes unconscious of our faults we take wrong steps unknown
Sometimes the life seems to us like a purple colored cartoon story books
Where the legends are always the winner heroes when the story ends
At the end of the book with proud smile upon face we turn the page down
Ah but they stay and live there inside us The colorful stories legendary character's which always and always are the heroes of every story anyways
And we figure them out there in our minds the ideal ones
As we grow up picturing out the ideal life as we had pictured it out in our minds that we used to dream about
We color the life as we want it to be forgetting about realities
There misery comes out with smiling faces covered with ugliness of the simplicity we fall in faults unaware
But somehow at the near future we harvest the weeds of our deeds disappointment slaps us there
Sometimes we understand it and sometimes don't,
Sometimes we forget and we reach out for God to blame
Some of us have special abilities to find a victim to hung on them the blame of their regrets
Forgetting that everyone is the only responsible of every decision that he takes
But the life is going on never stand there behind a regret like a grave
The grave of your faults and regrets they will never be changed
As the one who's dead under the grave which no tear would make him rise up of the grave
So are our faults and regrets never-ending circular that repeats running around itself
Just stand up and never blame anyone including yourself
Faults we do gives us the strength and the ability to discover the secrets of the life
And with the time we graduate from the greatest school in the world that's called school of the life.
poem by Sossi Khachadourian
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Smallprint
take,
take all you need
and I'll compensate your greed
with broken hearts
sell,
and I'll sell your memories
for fifteen pounds per year
but just the good days
save,
It will make you insane
and it's bending the truth
you're to blame
for all the life that you're losing
you watch this space
but I'm going all the way
and be my slave to the grave
I'm a priest god never paid
hope,
and I hope you've seen the light
cus no-one really cares
they're just pretending
sell,
and I'll sell your memories
for fifteen pounds per year
but you can keep the bad days
save,
It will make you insane
and I'm bending the truth
you're to blame
for all the life that you're losing
you watch this space
but I'm going all the way
and be my slave to the grave
I'm a priest god never paid
save,
it will make you insane
and I'm bending the truth
you're to blame
for all the life that you're losing
you watch this space
and I'm going all the way
and be my slave to the grave
I'm a priest god never paid
song performed by by Muse
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Tom O'Roughley
'THOUGH logic-choppers rule the town,
And every man and maid and boy
Has marked a distant object down,
An aimless joy is a pure joy,'
Or so did Tom O'Roughley say
That saw the surges running by.
'And wisdom is a butterfly
And not a gloomy bird of prey.
'If little planned is little sinned
But little need the grave distress.
What's dying but a second wind?
How but in zig-zag wantonness
Could trumpeter Michael be so brave?'
Or something of that sort he said,
'And if my dearest friend were dead
I'd dance a measure on his grave.'
poem by William Butler Yeats
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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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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Be Not Proud
Oh Death be not proud,
Oh Grave be not shallow
For out reaching your darkened hand
And refusing a boy, to become a man.
Oh grave I feel your sting
And Death I hear you sing
From the lives that you do take
From the lives, to you we gave.
Oh grave, be not proud
For taking the little child
For refusing them yet to grow,
Unto the Adults, they'll never know.
Death be not proud
For arriving as a thief
To break the heart and shatter the soul
To only fill it, with your grief.
Death be not proud
Grave be not victorious
Pain be not loud
Sorrow, be not continuous.
Randy L. McClave
poem by Randy McClave
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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When I'm dead and gone
When Im dead and in the grave
Will you still love me or will you hate me?
If I look down on earth will I see you cry?
If I looked above my grave
Will I see you there or the flowers you left?
When the rot becomes my closest friend
Will you be blaming and hationg me?
Im so alone now those days are over.
Of the days when I walked in the storms.
If I were to knock on the door
Would I be wecolmed in and home?
Will I be fogotten or forgiven?
I simply left behind the life where I did not fit.
I decided my own time of departure.
I decided it was my time to leave.
When the moon was full I left
I left the whispers behind and gave my life away.
I just couldnt decide and deal with some things
But I ve got plenty of time now Im in my coffin
Locked in my coffin still quizzing my suicide.
When the bugs eat my flesh and bones
Will you miss me?
Im sorry I ended my life this way
I had no other choice but to choose my death.
Please dont be angry with me.
Im sorry I didnt explain why
Amy Kerswell
poem by Amy Louise Kerswell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Shallow Grave
When I fall in endless sleep
I hope that I'll be buried deep
Let me be the one that fortune favours
Even good children got shallow graves
Throw another clown to the lions
Throw another Joan on the blaze
Cast me away on the cruel calm ocean
and leave me for days and days and days and days and days
I won't lie in this poor shallow grave
I won't lie, I won't lie in this poor shallow grave
Dig me down deep where the dead men sleep
I won't lie in this poor shallow grave
Bless the poor 'cos like the rich
They all end up in a ditch
In this world of fools and knaves
Even good children got shallow graves
The tinker, the tailor, the fabulous five
Nobody gets out of this alive
Chorus
Dig me down deep where the dead men sleep
I won't lie in this poor shallow grave
Dig me down deep where the dead men sleep
I won't lie in this poor shallow grave
Dig me down, dig me down, dig me down deep
I won't lie in this poor shallow grave
song performed by by Elvis Costello
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Death makes us equal in the grave but not in eternity.
Epitaph
Even such is time, which takes in trust
Our youth, our joys, and all we have,
And pays us but with age and dust,
Who in the dark and silent grave
When we have wandered all our ways
Shuts up the story of our days,
And from which earth, and grave, and dust
The Lord will raise me up, I trust.
poem by Sir Walter Raleigh
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Even Such Is Time
Even such is time, which takes in trust
Our youth, our joys, and all we have,
And pays us but with age and dust,
Who in the dark and silent grave
When we have wandered all our ways
Shuts up the story of our days,
And from which earth, and grave, and dust
The Lord will raise me up, I trust.
poem by Sir Walter Raleigh
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Sir Walter Raleigh (The night before his death)
Even such is time, which takes in trust
Our youth, our joys, and all we have,
And pays us nought but age and dust;
Which in the dark and silent grave,
When we have wandered all our ways,
Shuts up the story of our days!
And from which grave, and earth, and dust,
The Lord shall raise me up, I trust.'
poem by Sir Walter Raleigh
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Only A Soldier's Grave
Only a soldier's grave! Pass by,
For soldiers, like other mortals, die.
Parents had he - they are far away;
No sister weeps o'er the soldier's clay;
No brother comes, with tearful eye;
It's only a soldier's grave - pass by.
True, he was loving, and young, and brave,
Though no glowing epitaph honors his grave;
No proud recital of virtues known,
Of griefs endured, or triumphs won;
No tablet of marble, or obelisk high; -
Only a soldier's grave: - pass by.
Yet bravely he wielded his sword in fight,
And he gave his life in the cause of right!
When his hope was high, and his youthful dream
As warm as the sunlight on yonder stream;
His heart unvexed by sorrow or sigh; -
Yet, 'tis only a soldier's grave: - pass by.
Yet, we should mark it - the soldier's grave,
Some one may seek him in hope to save!
Some of the dear ones, far away,
Would bear him home to his native clay:
'Twere sad, indeed, should they wander nigh,
Find not the hillock, and pass him by.
poem by S.A. Jones
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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