#poe

When I have fears that I may cease to be Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain, Before high-piled books, in charactery, Hold like rich garners the full ripen'd grain; When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face, Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance, And think that I may never live to trace Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance; And when I feel, fair creature of an hour, That I shall never look upon thee more, Never have relish in the faery power Of unreflecting love;--then on the shore Of the wide world I stand alone, and think Till love and fame to nothingness do sink. ↗

— John Keats

#poetry #death

The poet will only be recited until the death of his language. The violinist will only give recitals until the bowing of nose hairs. ↗

— Bauvard

#greatness #humor #music #noses #poetry

How heron comes It is a negligence of the mind not to notice how at dusk heron comes to the pond and stands there in his death robes, perfect servant of the system, hungry, his eyes full of attention, his wings pure light ↗

— Mary Oliver

#nature #poetry #death

It is commonly asserted and accepted that Paradise Lost is among the two or three greatest English poems; it may justly be taken as the type of supreme poetic achievement in our literature. ↗

— John Drinkwater

#achievement #among #asserted #commonly #english

Sprawled out on the front lawn Looking up at an ordinary sky It could fall on me and somehow be The day I didn't die ↗

— Nick Burd

#poetry #death

The cemetery is my sense of comfort, my sanctuary in a world of darkness, the one piece of light that i have in my life. ↗

— Jessica Sorensen

#death

This world that was our home for a brief spell never brought us anything but pain and grief; its a shame that not one of our problems was ever solved. We depart with a thousand regrets in our hearts. ↗

— Omar Khayyám

#grief #home #life #pain #poetry

The bustle in a house The morning after death Is solemnest of industries Enacted upon earth,-- The sweeping up the heart, And putting love away We shall not want to use again Until eternity ↗

— Emily Dickinson

#poetry #death

He feeds upon her face by day and night, And she with true kind eyes looks back on him, Fair as the moon and joyful as the light: Not wan with waiting, not with sorrow dim; Not as she is, but was when hope shone bright; Not as she is, but as she fills his dream. ↗

— Christina Rossetti

#gabriel-rossetti #lizzie-siddal #poetry #pre-raphaelite #dreams

What do you think has become of the young and old men? And what do you think has become of the women and children? They are alive and well somewhere, The smallest sprout shows there is really no death, And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the end to arrest it, And ceas'd the moment life appear'd. All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses, And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier. ↗

— Walt Whitman

#homage #life #poem #reflection #song