Shaking The Grave

shaking the grave
my weeping voice
autumn wind

by Matsuo Basho.

Away With Funeral Music

AWAY with funeral music - set
The pipe to powerful lips -
The cup of life's for him that drinks
And not for him that sips.

by Robert Louis Stevenson.

Staffs flehen cross arms
Writing zagt pale unknown
Flowers impudent
Dust shyly.
Flare
Water
Glast
Forgotten.

by August Stramm.

How Fortunate The Grave

897

How fortunate the Grave—
All Prizes to obtain—
Successful certain, if at last,
First Suitor not in vain.

by Emily Dickinson.

The flowers on her grave scarce breathe,
So sweet a flower lies hid beneath;
As if they feared their growth might stir
The sleepy earth that covers her.

by Robert Crawford.

By embracing death, the comer has come to Thy lap,
Having forsaken all, he lie’s Thy grasp,
Why not to rest in Thy fold, O Grave!,
I have got thee, for my life’s mishap.

by Mir Babar Ali Anees.

On The Grave Of A Young Cavalry Officer Killed In The Valley Of Virginia

Beauty and youth, with manners sweet, and
friends--
Gold, yet a mind not unenriched had he
Whom here low violets veil from eyes.
But all these gifts transcended be:
His happier fortune in this mound you see.

by Herman Melville.

A Woman At Her Husband's Grave

Peace to his ashes!
I cannot for the soul of me
Sorrowing bow,
Tho I search through the heart of me
Grieve for him now.
'Tis well he is gone
And heart-break is over,
A husband he was
But never a lover.

by Joseph Seamon Cotter.

The grave my little cottage is

The grave my little cottage is,
Where 'Keeping house' for thee
I make my parlor orderly
And lay the marble tea.

For two divided, briefly,
A cycle, it may be,
Till everlasting life unite
In strong society.

by Emily Dickinson.

You, Whom The Grave Cannot Bind

You, whom the grave cannot bind,
Shall a song hold you?
Still you escape from the mesh
Spun to enfold you.
Your woven texture of flesh
Short time confined you.
Sib to the sun and the wind,
Shall a song bind you?

by Lesbia Harford.

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.

by Robert Herrick.

Paa Kjære Grave

Saa mangen Slægt lig knækket Rør
sank ned for denne Kirkedør.
Velsignet I, som segned her
i Læ for Sorgers Bygevejr.


I ærlig Kamp, i ydmyg Tro
I stille stred for Børn og Bo.
Slog Kornet fejl paa karrig Jord,
I rejstes ved et Fadervor.

by Jeppe Aakjaer.

The music was such discord, all,
The flowers they stifled so!
He spoke of One on Calvary
Long centuries ago!

The hope, the faith, my grief denied,
The prayers the preacher said...
What could they mean to me, Beloved,
Beside You, lying dead!

by Ina D. Coolbrith.

One Sea-Side Grave

Unmindful of the roses,
Unmindful of the thorn,
A reaper tired reposes
Among his gathered corn:
So might I, till the morn!


Cold as the cold Decembers,
Past as the days that set,
While only one remembers
And all the rest forget, -
But one remembers yet.

by Christina Georgina Rossetti.

At A Poet's Grave

When I leave down this pipe my friend
And sleep with flowers I loved, apart,
My songs shall rise in wilding things
Whose roots are in my heart.

And here where that sweet poet sleeps
I hear the songs he left unsung,
When winds are fluttering the flowers
And summer-bells are rung.

by Francis Ledwidge.

She, At His Funeral

They bear him to his resting-place—
In slow procession sweeping by;
I follow at a stranger’s space;
His kindred they, his sweetheart I.
Unchanged my gown of garish dye,
Though sable-sad is their attire;
But they stand round with griefless eye,
Whilst my regret consumes like fire!

by Thomas Hardy.

From The Headboard Of A Grave In Paraguay

A troth, and a grief, and a blessing,
Disguised them and came this way--,
And one was a promise, and one was a doubt,
And one was a rainy day.

And they met betimes with this maiden,
And the promise it spake and lied,
And the doubt it gibbered and hugged itself,
And the rainy day-- she died.

by James Whitcomb Riley.

On A Grave At Grindelwald

Here let us leave him; for his shroud the snow,
For funeral-lamps he has the planets seven,
For a great sign the icy stair shall go
Between the heights to heaven.

One moment stood he as the angels stand,
High in the stainless eminence of air;
The next, he was not, to his fatherland
Translated unaware.

by Frederick Wiliam Henry Myers.

Those Who Have Been In The Grave The Longest

922

Those who have been in the Grave the longest—
Those who begin Today—
Equally perish from our Practise—
Death is the other way—

Foot of the Bold did least attempt it—
It—is the White Exploit—
Once to achieve, annuls the power
Once to communicate—

by Emily Dickinson.

She At His Funeral

THEY bear him to his resting-place--
In slow procession sweeping by;
I follow at a stranger's space;
His kindred they, his sweetheart I.
Unchanged my gown of garish dye,
Though sable-sad is their attire;
But they stand round with griefless eye,
Whilst my regret consumes like fire!

by Thomas Hardy.

A Soldier's Grave

Then in the lull of midnight, gentle arms
Lifted him slowly down the slopes of death
Lest he should hear again the mad alarms
Of battle, dying moans, and painful breath.

And where the earth was soft for flowers we made
A grave for him that he might better rest.
So, Spring shall come and leave it seet arrayed,
And there the lark shall turn her dewy nest

by Francis Ledwidge.

February 2, 1901

Her sacred body bear: the tenement
Of that strong soul now ranked with God's Elect
Her heart upon her people's heart she spent;
Hence is she Royalty's lodestar to direct.

The peace is hers, of whom all lands have praised
Majestic virtues ere her day unseen.
Aloft the name of Womanhood she raised,
And gave new readings to the Title, Queen.

by George Meredith.

It Was A Grave, Yet Bore No Stone

876

It was a Grave, yet bore no Stone
Enclosed 'twas not of Rail
A Consciousness its Acre, and
It held a Human Soul.

Entombed by whom, for what offence
If Home or Foreign born—
Had I the curiosity
'Twere not appeased of men

Till Resurrection, I must guess
Denied the small desire
A Rose upon its Ridge to sow
Or take away a Briar.

by Emily Dickinson.

Anacreon's Grave

HERE where the roses blossom, where vines round the laurels are twining,
Where the turtle-dove calls, where the blithe cricket is heard,
Say, whose grave can this be, with life by all the Immortals

Beauteously planted and deck'd?--Here doth Anacreon sleep
Spring and summer and autumn rejoiced the thrice-happy minstrel,
And from the winter this mound kindly hath screen'd him at last.

by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe.

The Grave Of The Grammarian Lysias

Very close to you, as you enter on the right, in the Beirut
library, we buried the sage Lysias,
the grammarian. The spot is beautifully right.
We placed him near those things of his that he perhaps
remembers even there -- scholia, texts, grammars,
scriptures, numerous commentaries in tomes on hellenisms.
This way, his grave will also be seen and honored
by us, when we pass among the books.

by Constantine P. Cavafy.

Xlvii: For My Funeral

O thou that from thy mansion
Through time and place to roam,
Dost send abroad thy children,
And then dost call them home,

That men and tribes and nations
And all thy hand hath made
May shelter them from sunshine
In thine eternal shade:

We now to peace and darkness
And earth and thee restore
Thy creature that thou madest
And wilt cast forth no more.

by Alfred Edward Housman.

Behold, The Grave Of A Wicked Man

Behold, the grave of a wicked man,
And near it, a stern spirit.

There came a drooping maid with violets,
But the spirit grasped her arm.
"No flowers for him," he said.
The maid wept:
"Ah, I loved him."
But the spirit, grim and frowning:
"No flowers for him."

Now, this is it --
If the spirit was just,
Why did the maid weep?

by Stephen Crane.

Catullus At His Brother’s Grave

Through many lands and over many seas
I come, my Brother, to thine obsequies,
To pay thee the last honours that remain,
And call upon thy voiceless dust, in vain.
Since cruel fate has robbed me even of thee,
Unhappy Brother, snatched away from me,
Now none the less the gifts our fathers gave,
The melancholy honours of the grave,
Wet with my tears I bring to thee, and say
Farewell! farewell! for ever and a day.

by Robert Fuller Murray.

On Robert Emmet's Grave

VI.
No trump tells thy virtues—the grave where they rest
With thy dust shall remain unpolluted by fame,
Till thy foes, by the world and by fortune caressed,
Shall pass like a mist from the light of thy name.

VII.
When the storm-cloud that lowers o'er the day-beam is gone,
Unchanged, unextinguished its life-spring will shine;
When Erin has ceased with their memory to groan,
She will smile through the tears of revival on thine.

by Percy Bysshe Shelley.

Dust unto dust,
To this all must;
The tenant hath resign'd
The faded form To waste and worm-
Corruption claims her kind.

Through paths unknown
Thy soul hath flown,
To seek the realms of woe,
Where fiery pain
Shall purge the stain
Of actions done below.

In that sad place,
By Mary's grace,
Brief may thy dwelling be
Till prayers and alms,
And holy psalms,
Shall set the captive free.

by Sir Walter Scott.

Grave paa begge Sider,
og Grave i hundredvis bag,
fattige Grave, som vokser i Tal
for hver en mørkedræbt Dag;

spadeklappede Tuer,
som ingen Ligkranse bær',
der sidder med graadsløve Øjne
et Spøgelse stille paa hver,

et Haab, som tæredes langsomt
og døde den Brystsyges Død,
et Haab, som knækked, da Stormen
hen over Ungskoven brød.

Bag mig ligger der Grave,
vel en for hvert Skridt, jeg gik,
og foran mig skærer fra Taagen
Graverens Spadestik.

by Viggo Stuckenberg.

The Old Man's Funeral

Ye sigh not when the sun, his course fulfilled,
His glorious course, rejoicing earth and sky,
In the soft evening, when the winds are stilled,
Sinks where his islands of departure spread
O'er the warm-colored heaven and ruddy mountain head.

Why weep ye then for him, who, having won
The bound of man's appointed years, at last.
Life's blessings all enjoyed, life's labors done,
Serenely to his final rest has passed;
While the soft memory of his virtues yet
Lingers like twilight hues, when the bright sun is set?

by William Cullen Bryant.

Tonight there came a news that you, oh beloved, would come -
Be my head sacrificed to the road along which you will come riding!
All the gazelles of the desert have put their heads on their hands
In the hope that one day you will come to hunt them….
The attraction of love won't leave you unmoved;
Should you not come to my funeral,
you'll definitely come to my grave.
My soul has come on my lips (e.g. I am on the point of expiring):
Come so that I may remain alive -
After I am no longer - for what purpose will you come?

by Amir Khusro.

The Grave And The Rose

The Grave said to the Rose,
"What of the dews of dawn,
Love's flower, what end is theirs?"
"And what of spirits flown,
The souls whereon doth close
The tomb's mouth unawares?"
The Rose said to the Grave.

The Rose said, "In the shade
From the dawn's tears is made
A perfume faint and strange,
Amber and honey sweet."
"And all the spirits fleet
Do suffer a sky-change,
More strangely than the dew,
To God's own angels new,"
The Grave said to the Rose.

by Victor Marie Hugo.

Cupid's Funeral

BY his side, whose days are past,
Lay bow and quiver!
And his eyes that stare aghast
Close, with a shiver.
God nor man from Death, at last,
Love may deliver.
Though—of old—we vowed, my dear,
Death should not take him;
Mourn not thou that we must here
Coldly forsake him;
Shed above his grave no tear—
Tears will not wake him.

Cupid lieth cold and dead—
Ended his flying,
Pale his lips, once rosy-red,
Swift was his dying.
Place a stone above his head,
Turn away, sighing.

by Victor James Daley.

Lines Suggested By A Sight Of Waltham Cross

Time-mouldering crosses, gemmed with imagery
Of costliest work and Gothic tracery,
Point still the spot, to hallowed Wedlock dear,
Where rested on its solemn way the bier
That bore the bones of Edward's Elinor
To mix with Royal dust at Westminster.
Far different rites did thee to dust consign,
Duke Brunswick's daughter, princely Caroline:
A hurrying funeral, and a banished grave,
High-minded Wife, were all that thou couldst have.
Grieve not, great Ghost, nor count in death in losses;
Thou in thy life-time hadst thy share of crosses

by Charles Lamb.

The Grave Of Love

I DUG, beneath the cypress shade,
   What well might seem an elfin's grave;
And every pledge in earth I laid,
   That erst thy false affection gave.

I press'd them down the sod beneath;
   I placed one mossy stone above;
And twined the rose's fading wreath
   Around the sepulchre of love.

Frail as thy love, the flowers were dead
   Ere yet the evening sun was set:
But years shall see the cypress spread,
   Immutable as my regret.

by Thomas Love Peacock.

Na Rua Em Funeral Ei-La Que Passa

Na rua em funeral ei-la que passa,
A romaria eterna dos aflitos,
A procissão dos tristes, dos proscritos,
Dos romeiros saudosos da desgraça.


E na choça a lamúria que traspassa
O coração, além, ânsias e gritos
De mães que arquejam sobre os probrezitos
Filhos que a Fome derrubou na praça.


Entre todos, porém, lânguida e bela,
Da juventude a virginal capela
A lhe cingir de luz a fronte baça,


Vai Corina mendiga e esfarrapada,
A alma saudosa pelo amor vibrada,
- A Stella Matutina da Desgraça!


by Augosto dos Anjos.

O ye who claim to be our loyal friends
Come now and build for us a funeral pyre,
And lay our emptied bodies on the fire,
Pray for our souls, murmur your sad amens;
And while the gold and scarlet flame ascends
Let he who best can play upon the lyre,
Pluck slow regretful notes of deep desire,
Sing subtle songs of love that never ends.
and when at last the embers growing cold
Gather ye up our ashes in an urn
Of porphyry, and seek a forest old
There underneath some vast and mighty oak
choose ye our grave, spread over us a cloak
Of woven violets and filmy fern.

by Harry Crosby.

Epitaph [to This Grave Is Committed]

I was a friend, On this sad stone a pious look bestow,
Nor uninstructed read this tale of woe;
And while the sigh of sorrow heaves thy breast,
Let each rebellious murmur be supprest;
Heaven's hidden ways to trace, for us, how vain!
Heaven's wise decrees, how impious, to arraign!
Pure from the stains of a polluted age,
In early bloom of life, they left the stage:
Not doom'd in lingering woe to waste their breath
One moment snatch'd Them from the power of Death:
They liv'd united, and united died;
Happy the friends, whom Death cannot divi
O man, to thee, to all.

by James Beattie.