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On the first day of the rest of my life
put on a new black suit
in mourning for the loss
of storms that have driven me
invitations to wonder
and the great wound
I did not hope to save
Dikter om ämnet: mourning
Dikter om ämnet ”mourning” på Poets.by.
Walking therapy
who is in mourning
who with an ear is not
but not seeing how to help it
I walk to the park
to the great elm
and walnut filled with stories
and in a ruined garden
a little girl singing
Day of mourning
bells ringing all day long on one ration of sorrow
Matins
A morning where
I talk about death
though I do not believe
in mourning, grown
so old that I am ashamed
to be in the picture.
And she showed us
her cabinet where she had
very pretty prayers.
Wine-dark sea
The sea is great company
but poor entertainment.
We go out
all in mourning,
believing it a sermon and a pall.
The pain of others
Mourning filled my eyes
with leased doors.
I saw how all I own
I am not to keep.
Pathetic Fallacy
I put on my mourning
and went to the wood, where
the wind fell.
I stayed till late.
It rained sadly.
Beside the Graves
beside the graves we speak
of new-born children
loudly, laughing where the dead
are deaf the living
clutching them in realms
too gross to hear them
heavy-hearted in warm spring
flowering gay brilliance
black limousines wind slowly
with their grave mourners past the
dark pines piled with
fresh flowers flowers
for life for transience for
beauty to tell of
the dead's latency
as living we walk pushing
Mourning
On this rainy afternoon
while I walk alone the streets
the music that my shoes make
on the wet asphalt
sounds to my ears
like a funeral symphony
and my walk like a dead march.
Casually raising my eyes
to the mountain in front me
I notice that the white cloud
which in the morning
was kissing the mountain
is there no more.
So, I say to myself;
‘these wet drops falling
are not the rain drops,
Early Summer
Early summer occurs
in a calamity of falling
young
petals, birds, the
bright souls of birds.
A small dead bird
is at my feet,
tree looms
over this soul-ossuary
dignifying the small
body with her dark needles,
bird-map-lost
Obliterate—
A small mourning
shadow passes over grass,
just long enough to hide the living bird,
In the Forest
Here, O my heart, let us burn the dear dreams that are dead,
Here in this wood let us fashion a funeral pyre
Of fallen white petals and leaves that are mellow and red,
Here let us burn them in noon's flaming torches of fire.
We are weary, my heart, we are weary, so long we have borne
The heavy loved burden of dreams that are dead, let us rest,
Let us scatter their ashes away, for a while let us mourn;
We will rest, O my heart, till the shadows are gray in the west.
But soon we must rise, O my heart, we must wander again
Into the war of the world and the strife of the throng;
Let us rise, O my heart, let us gather the dreams that remain,
We will conquer the sorrow of life with the sorrow of song.
A Disagreement
You say "That man was made to mourn."
Would you have me believe it —
Believe earth holds no recompense
Until death bids me leave it —
Believe there is but misery
And toil on toil, in store for me?
No. I do not, cannot believe,
While heaven smiles above me,
That I was doom'd on earth to mourn
With naught to cheer or love me.
Wise Bard, although your dirge rings true,
I do not agree with you.