437 Death poems

Children picking up our bones Will never know that these were once As quick as foxes on the hill; And that in autumn, when the grapes Made sharp air sharper by their smell These had a being, breathing frost; And least will guess that with our bones We left much more, left what still is The look of things, left what we felt At what we saw. The spring clouds blow Above the shuttered mansion-house, Beyond our gate and the windy sky Cries out a literate despair. We knew for long the mansion's look And what we said of it became A part of what it is ... Children, Still weaving budded aureoles, Will speak our speech and never know, Will say of the mansion that it seems As if he that lived there left behind A spirit storming in blank walls, A dirty house in a gutted world, A tatter of shadows peaked to white, Smeared with the gold of the opulent sun.

Would it surprise you to learn that years beyond your longest winter you still get letters from your bank, your old philanthropies, cold flakes drifting through the mail-slot with your name? Though it's been a long time since your face interrupted the light in my door-frame, and the last tremblings of your voice have drained from my telephone wire, from the lists of the likely, your name is not missing. It circles in the shadow-world of the machines, a wind-blown ghost. For generosity will be exalted, and good credit outlasts death. Caribbean cruises, recipes, low-interest loans. For you who asked so much of life, who lived acutely even in duress, the brimming world awaits your signature. Cancer and heart disease are still counting on you for a cure. B'nai Brith numbers you among the blessed. They miss you. They want you back.

Though the road turn at last to death’s ordinary door, and we knock there, ready to enter and it opens easily for us, yet all the long journey we shall have gone in chains, fed on knowledge-apples acrid and riddled with grubs. We taste other food that life, like a charitable farm-girl, holds out to us as we pass— but our mouths are puckered, a taint of ash on the tongue. It’s not joy that we’ve lost— wildfire, it flares in dark or shine as it will. What’s gone is common happiness, plain bread we could eat with the old apple of knowledge. That old one—it griped us sometimes, but it was firm, tart, sometimes delectable ... The ashen apple of these days grew from poisoned soil. We are prisoners and must eat our ration. All the long road in chains, even if, after all, we come to death’s ordinary door, with time smiling its ordinary long-ago smile.

When bodies broken and all bodies seared Are counted up, uncrusted, tagged as feared, We know next day the scene will stand alone On pages white and mindless of the bone. Shall notice recognize beyond the burned, Or caption past the people tritely charred, Related dusty partness with the term Antiquity, the sense of death in stone And knowledge of the previously marred? On battlefields of Troy or Tuscany Or other places where techniques engaged, When warrior fell, or blade or boy enraged, Of them did campfire journalists of song Forget collective going, all but pathos, In wretchedness and fact of having gone? Accuse the gnostic grammar of old wars: It maims our grasp of accidental death Past putting down of papers to decry Their overlooking what it means to die.

There's little joy in life for me, And little terror in the grave; I 've lived the parting hour to see Of one I would have died to save. Calmly to watch the failing breath, Wishing each sigh might be the last; Longing to see the shade of death O'er those belovèd features cast. The cloud, the stillness that must part The darling of my life from me; And then to thank God from my heart, To thank Him well and fervently; Although I knew that we had lost The hope and glory of our life; And now, benighted, tempest-tossed, Must bear alone the weary strife.

Condemned to Hope’s delusive mine, As on we toil from day to day, By sudden blasts, or slow decline, Our social comforts drop away. Well tried through many a varying year, See Levet to the grave descend; Officious, innocent, sincere, Of every friendless name the friend. Yet still he fills Affection’s eye, Obscurely wise, and coarsely kind; Nor, lettered Arrogance, deny Thy praise to merit unrefined. When fainting Nature called for aid, And hovering Death prepared the blow, His vigorous remedy displayed The power of art without the show. In Misery’s darkest cavern known, His useful care was ever nigh, Where hopeless Anguish poured his groan, And lonely Want retired to die. No summons mocked by chill delay, No petty gain disdained by pride, The modest wants of every day The toil of every day supplied. His virtues walked their narrow round, Nor made a pause, nor left a void; And sure the Eternal Master found The single talent well employed. The busy day, the peaceful night, Unfelt, uncounted, glided by; His frame was firm, his powers were bright, Though now his eightieth year was nigh. Then with no throbbing fiery pain, No cold gradations of decay, Death broke at once the vital chain, And freed his soul the nearest way.

We shall not ever meet them bearded in heaven, Nor sunning themselves among the bald of hell; If anywhere, in the deserted schoolyard at twilight, Forming a ring, perhaps, or joining hands In games whose very names we have forgotten. Come, memory, let us seek them there in the shadows.

In vain to me the smiling Mornings shine, And reddening Phœbus lifts his golden fire; The birds in vain their amorous descant join; Or cheerful fields resume their green attire; These ears, alas! for other notes repine, A different object do these eyes require; My lonely anguish melts no heart but mine; And in my breast the imperfect joys expire. Yet Morning smiles the busy race to cheer, And new-born pleasure brings to happier men; The fields to all their wonted tribute bear; To warm their little loves the birds complain; I fruitless mourn to him that cannot hear, And weep the more because I weep in vain.

Mourn, mourn, ye Muses, all your loss deplore, The young, the noble Strephon is no more. Yes, yes, he fled quick as departing light, And ne’er shall rise from Death’s eternal night, So rich a prize the Stygian gods ne’er bore, Such wit, such beauty, never graced their shore. He was but lent this duller world t’ improve In all the charms of poetry, and love; Both were his gift, which freely he bestowed, And like a god, dealt to the wond’ring crowd. Scorning the little vanity of fame, Spight of himself attained a glorious name. But oh! in vain was all his peevish pride, The sun as soon might his vast luster hide, As piercing, pointed, and more lasting bright, As suffering no vicissitudes of night. Mourn, mourn, ye Muses, all your loss deplore, The young, the noble Strephon is no more. Now uninspired upon your banks we lie, Unless when we would mourn his elegy; His name’s a genius that would wit dispense, And give the theme a soul, the words a sense. But all fine thought that ravisht when it spoke, With the soft youth eternal leave has took; Uncommon wit that did the soul o’ercome, Is buried all in Strephon’s worshipped tomb; Satire has lost its art, its sting is gone, The Fop and Cully now may be undone; That dear instructing rage is now allayed, And no sharp pen dares tell ’em how they’ve strayed; Bold as a god was ev’ry lash he took, But kind and gentle the chastizing stroke. Mourn, mourn, ye youths, whom fortune has betrayed, The last reproacher of your vice is dead. Mourn, all ye beauties, put your Cyprus on, The truest swain that e’re adored you’s gone; Think how he loved, and writ, and sighed, and spoke, Recall his mien, his fashion, and his look. By what dear arts the soul he did surprise, Soft as his voice, and charming as his eyes. Bring garlands all of never-dying flowers, Bedewed with everlasting falling showers; Fix your fair eyes upon your victimed slave, Sent gay and young to his untimely grave. See where the noble swain extended lies, Too sad a triumph of your victories; Adorned with all the graces Heaven e’er lent, All that was great, soft, lovely, excellent You’ve laid into his early monument. Mourn, mourn, ye beauties, your sad loss deplore, The young, the charming Strephon is no more. Mourn, all ye little gods of love, whose darts Have lost their wonted power of piercing hearts; Lay by the gilded quiver and the bow, The useless toys can do no mischief now, Those eyes that all your arrows’ points inspired, Those lights that gave ye fire are now retired, Cold as his tomb, pale as your mother’s doves; Bewail him then oh all ye little loves, For you the humblest votary have lost That ever your divinities could boast; Upon your hands your weeping heads decline, And let your wings encompass round his shrine; In stead of flowers your broken arrows strow, And at his feet lay the neglected bow. Mourn, all ye little gods, your loss deplore, The soft, the charming Strephon is no more. Large was his fame, but short his glorious race, Like young Lucretius lived and died apace. So early roses fade, so over all They cast their fragrant scents, then softly fall, While all the scattered perfumed leaves declare, How lovely ’twas when whole, how sweet, how fair. Had he been to the Roman Empire known, When great Augustus filled the peaceful throne; Had he the noble wond’rous poet seen, And known his genius, and surveyed his mien, (When wits, and heroes graced divine abodes), He had increased the number of their gods; The royal judge had temples rear’d to’s name, And made him as immortal as his fame; In love and verse his Ovid he’ad out-done, And all his laurels, and his Julia won. Mourn, mourn, unhappy world, his loss deplore, The great, the charming Strephon is no more.

A day will come I’ll watch you reading this. I’ll look up from these words I’m writing now— this line I’m standing on, I’ll be right here, alive again. I’ll breathe on you this breath. Touch this word now, that one. Warm, isn’t it? You are the person come to clean my room; you are whichever of my three children opens the drawer here where this poem will go in a few minutes when I’ve had my say. These are the words from immortality. No one stands between us now except Death: I enter it entirely writing this. I have to tell you I am not alone. Watching you read, Eternity’s with me. We like to watch you read. Read us again.