Yet nothing can to nothing fall,Nor any place be empty quite;Therefore I think my breast hath allThose pieces still, though they be not unite;And now, as broken glasses showA hundred lesser faces, soMy rags of heart can like, wish, and adore,But after one such love, can love no more.

Funeral poems for Grandma

One benefit of social media is that you can announce the death of a loved one to extended family and friends all at once. Remember the love that we once shared Some poems sum up words we can't express during an emotional time. When the sun breaks through the clouds And a warm beam shines down upon your face, It's me reaching out from Heaven to touch your cheeks And whisper, "I'm alright. ‘A time to sicken and to swoon,When Science reaches forth her armsTo feel from world to world, and charmsHer secret from the latest moon?’ Behold, ye speak an idle thing:Ye never knew the sacred dust:I do but sing because I must,And pipe but as the linnets sing: And one is glad; her note is gay,For now her little ones have ranged;And one is sad; her note is changed,Because her brood is stol’n away. Was a young man in his strengthLaid beneath this low mound’s length,Heeding naught?Did a maiden’s parents wailAs they saw her, pulseless, pale,Hither brought? Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,Till on the haunting flares we turned our backsAnd towards our distant rest began to trudge.Men marched asleep. He toiled to rouse us from our sleep,And now he takes his rest,And we—it is not ours to weep,But follow his behest. know that I’m with you and will always be. Spatial depths of being surviveThe birth to death recurrencesOf feet dancing on earth of sand; Vibrations of the dance surviveThe sand; the sand, elect, survivesThe dancer. There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground,And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;And frogs in the pools singing at night,And wild plum-trees in tremulous white;Robins will wear their feathery fireWhistling their whims on a low fence-wire;And not one will know of the war, not oneWill care at last when it is done.Not one would mind, neither bird nor treeIf mankind perished utterly;And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn,Would scarcely know that we were gone. See! Like Bunyan’s pilgrim with his pack,Forth went the dreaming youthTo seek, to find, and make his ownWisdom, virtue, and truth.Life was his book, and patientlyHe studied each hard page;By turns reformer, outcast, priest,Philosopher and sage. Life is but a Stopping Place Not a bird upon the boughCan repress its rapture,Not a bud that blossoms nowBut doth beauty capture. I come! Although you may feel a bit torn apart, and never moreThy sunny smile shall gladden me;But I may pass the old church door,And pace the floor that covers thee. I made them indeedSpeak plain the word “country,” I taught them, no doubt,That a country’s a thing men should die for at need.I prated of liberty, rights, and aboutThe tyrant turned out. Should auld acquaintance be forgot,and never brought to mind?Should auld acquaintance be forgot,and auld lang syne? MISS ME – BUT LET ME GO You may even consider including a verse that your mom adored and often quoted. Ah!

My soulSmooth’d itself out, a long-cramp’d scrollFreshening and fluttering in the wind.Past hopes already lay behind.What need to strive with a life awry?Had I said that, had I done this,So might I gain, so might I miss.Might she have loved me? Some women bear children in strength,And bite back the cry of their pain in self-scorn.But the birth-pangs of nations will wring us at lengthInto such wail as this!—and we sit on forlornWhen the man-child is born. Butterfly poems can be printed on this personalized bookmark.

We know not what it means, dear, this desolate heart-pain;This dread to take our daily way, and walk in it again;We know not to what other sphere the loved who leave us go,Nor why we ‘re left to wonder still, nor why we do not know. I know I must be old (how age deceives! what atones?They scratch his name on the Abbey-stones.My riding is better, by their leave. One of your best. nice piece of art here, We all have(or will be) there. I know I must be dying (Death draws near)—I know I must be dying, for I craveLife—life, strong life, and think not of the grave,And turf-bound silence, in the frosty year.

Good night! Read from some humbler poet,Whose songs gushed from his heart,As showers from the clouds of summer,Or tears from the eyelids start; Who, through long days of labor,And nights devoid of ease,Still heard in his soul the musicOf wonderful melodies.

When will the clouds be aweary of fleeting?When will the heart be aweary of beating?And nature die?Never, O, never, nothing will die; The stream flows,The wind blows,The cloud fleets,The heart beats,Nothing will die. after life’s cares and sorrows, he burned properly The crazed household clock with its whirrRang midnight within as he stood,He heard the low sighing of herWho had striven from his birth for his good;But he still only asked the spring starlight, the breeze,What great thing or small thing his history would borrow.
Our lives will be fuller Earth, that nourished thee, shall claimThy growth, to be resolved to earth again,And, lost each human trace, surrendering upThine individual being, shalt thou goTo mix for ever with the elements,To be a brother to the insensible rockAnd to the sluggish clod, which the rude swainTurns with his share, and treads upon. O Helen fair, beyond compare!I’ll make a garland of thy hairShall bind my heart for evermairUntil the day I die.

“Yes, love!” I answer him gently,“They’re all home long ago;”—And I sing, in my quivering treble,A song so soft and low,Till the old man drops to slumber,With his head upon his hand,And I tell to myself the numberAt home in the better land. What art can a woman be good at? Behold our wares,And sell us the one joy for which we wait.Had we lived longer, life had such for sale,With the last coin of sorrow purchased cheap,But now we stand before thy shadowy pale,And all our longings lie within thy keep—Death, can it be the years shall naught avail? Age, pain, and sorrow dropped the veils they woreAnd showed the tender eyesOf angels in disguise,Whose discipline so patiently she bore. I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man;Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly;Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces. sunshine, wild and free A poem that tells the story of your loved one. And thou art dead, as young and fairAs aught of mortal birth;And form so soft, and charms so rare,Too soon return’d to Earth!Though Earth receiv’d them in her bed,And o’er the spot the crowd may treadIn carelessness or mirth,There is an eye which could not brookA moment on that grave to look. That loss is common would not makeMy own less bitter, rather more:Too common! When this light life shall have passed away,God shall redeem me, a castaway.Shall He? I wish we could die as the birds die,To fly and to fall when our beauty was best:No trammels of time on the years of our face;And to leave but an empty nest. Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest!Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest!Thine be ilka joy and treasure,Peace. And he, O doubting child!

And the sun has set for me To think that we are now here, and bear our part! XXThe lesser griefs that may be said,That breathe a thousand tender vows,Are but as servants in a houseWhere lies the master newly dead; Who speak their feeling as it is,And weep the fulness from the mind:‘It will be hard,’ they say, ‘to findAnother service such as this.’ My lighter moods are like to these,That out of words a comfort win;But there are other griefs within,And tears that at their fountain freeze; For by the hearth the children sitCold in that atmosphere of Death,And scarce endure to draw the breath,Or like to noiseless phantoms flit; But open converse is there none,So much the vital spirits sinkTo see the vacant chair, and think,‘How good! I grudge thee this right hand of mine;I grudge thee this quick-beating heart;They never gave me coward sign,Nor played me once a traitor’s part. that warm embrace, This link will open in a new window. He is not dead, this friend — not dead,But in the path we mortals treadGot some few, trifling steps aheadAnd nearer to the end;So that you too, once past the bend,Shall meet again, as face to face, this friendYou fancy dead. Some poems sum up words we can't express during an emotional time. At first, the infant,Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms.Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchelAnd shining morning face, creeping like snailUnwillingly to school. Yet, faithful in his lot this saint has stoodThrough service and through pain;The Lord Christ he has followed, doing good;Sure, dying must be gainTo one who living hath done what he could. Why cry for a soul set free?

Ae fond kiss, and then we sever;Ae fareweel, and then forever!Deep in heart-wrung tears I’ll pledge thee,Warring sighs and groans I’ll wage thee.Who shall say that Fortune grieves him,While the star of hope she leaves him?Me, nae cheerfu’ twinkle lights me;Dark despair around benights me. If I should die to-night,My friends would look upon my quiet faceBefore they laid it in its resting-place,And deem that death had left it almost fair;And, laying snow-white flowers against my hair.Would smooth it down with tearful tenderness,And fold my hands with lingering caress—Poor hands, so empty and so cold to-night! Soldiers are citizens of death’s gray land,Drawing no dividend from time’s to-morrows.In the great hour of destiny they stand,Each with his feuds, and jealousies, and sorrows.Soldiers are sworn to action; they must winSome flaming, fatal climax with their lives.Soldiers are dreamers; when the guns beginThey think of firelit homes, clean beds, and wives. I wish we could love as the bees love,To rest or to roam without sorrow or sigh;With laughter, when, after the wooer had won,Love flew with a whispered good-bye.

Did your child love to spend time in nature? My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;Exult O shores, and ring O bells!But I with mournful tread,Walk the deck my Captain lies,Fallen cold and dead. O SLEEP, my babe, hear not the rippling wave,Nor feel the breeze that round thee ling’ring straysTo drink thy balmy breath,And sigh one long farewell. The world was never made;It will change, but it will not fade.So let the wind range;For even and mornEver will beThro’ eternity.Nothing was born;Nothing will die;All things will change. Of the One who takes care of us all. And he left us There shall beIn that rich earth a richer dust concealed;A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,A body of England’s, breathing English air,Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home. If most of your contacts are on Facebook, you can instantly spread the unhappy news, which will save you hours of calling or texting family members and friends. The nearest friends can goWith anyone to death, comes so far shortThey might as well not try to go at all.No, from the time when one is sick to death,One is alone, and he dies more alone.Friends make pretense of following to the grave,But before one is in it, their minds are turnedAnd making the best of their way back to lifeAnd living people, and things they understand.But the world’s evil. When I see you in the sky, I must get air.I don’t know rightly whether any man can.’, ‘Amy!

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