Time Moved Quickly
Time slipped past us
quicker than breath,
hours falling away
before we knew to hold them.
I keep replaying the small things—
your laugh, the warm hush
of simply sharing space—
bright sparks in a world too fast.
Our time was brief,
cut short before its season,
but I still carry its echo—
a soft reminder
of what we were
in the rushing dark.
Micron Jan
By Maya Angelou
When great trees fall,
rocks on distant hills shudder,
lions hunker down
in tall grasses,
and even elephants
lumber after safety.
When great trees fall
in forests,
small things recoil into silence,
their senses
eroded beyond fear.
When great souls die,
the air around us becomes
light, rare, sterile.
We breathe, briefly.
Our eyes, briefly,
see with
a hurtful clarity.
Our memory, suddenly sharpened,
examines,
gnaws on kind words
unsaid,
promised walks
never taken.
Great souls die and
our reality, bound to
them, takes leave of us.
Our souls,
dependent upon their
nurture,
now shrink, wizened.
Our minds, formed
and informed by their
radiance,
fall away.
We are not so much maddened
as reduced to the unutterable ignorance
of dark, cold
caves.
And when great souls die,
after a period peace blooms,
slowly and always
irregularly. Spaces fill
with a kind of
soothing electric vibration.
Our senses, restored, never
to be the same, whisper to us.
They existed. They existed.
We can be. Be and be
better. For they existed.
Maya Angelou. "When Great Trees Fall."
Do not stand at my grave and weep" is the first line and popular title of this bereavement poem of disputed authorship the poem was first formally published in the December 1934 issue of The Gypsy poetry magazine where it was titled "Immortality", with the author as Clare Harner (1909–1977)
By Clare Harner
Do not stand
By my grave, and weep.
I am not there,
I do not sleep-
I am the thousand winds that blow
I am the diamond glints in snow
I am the sunlight on ripened grain,
I am the gentle, autumn rain.
As you awake with morning’s hush,
I am the swift up-flinging rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight,
I am the day transcending soft night.
Do not stand
By my grave, and cry-
I am not there.
I did not die.
Clare Harner. "Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep."
This famous poem by Edgar Albert Guest (1881-1959) has been bringing comfort to grief stricken parents for years. Guest himself suffered the loss of two of his children. A Child of Mine is a popular poem to read at funerals of children. To lose a child is one of life's most awful experiences. Focusing on the gift of your few years together can bring a measure of comfort.
By Edgar A. Guest
I will lend you, for a little time,
A child of mine, He said.
For you to love the while he lives,
And mourn for when he's dead.
It may be six or seven years,
Or twenty-two or three.
But will you, till I call him back,
Take care of him for Me?
He'll bring his charms to gladden you,
And should his stay be brief.
You'll have his lovely memories,
As solace for your grief.
I cannot promise he will stay,
Since all from earth return.
But there are lessons taught down there,
I want this child to learn.
I've looked the wide world over,
In search for teachers true.
And from the throngs that crowd life's lanes,
I have selected you.
Now will you give him all your love,
Nor think the labour vain.
Nor hate me when I come
To take him home again?
I fancied that I heard them say,
'Dear Lord, Thy will be done!'
For all the joys Thy child shall bring,
The risk of grief we'll run.
We'll shelter him with tenderness,
We'll love him while we may,
And for the happiness we've known,
Forever grateful stay.
But should the angels call for him,
Much sooner than we've planned.
We'll brave the bitter grief that comes,
And try to understand.
Edgar A. Guest. "A Child Of Mine."
Death is nothing at all By Henry Scott-Holland
Death is nothing at all.
It does not count.
I have only slipped away into the next room.
Nothing has happened.
Everything remains exactly as it was.
I am I, and you are you,
and the old life that we lived so fondly together is untouched, unchanged.
Whatever we were to each other, that we are still.
Call me by the old familiar name.
Speak of me in the easy way which you always used.
Put no difference into your tone.
Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow.
Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes that we enjoyed together.
Play, smile, think of me, pray for me.
Let my name be ever the household word that it always was.
Let it be spoken without an effort, without the ghost of a shadow upon it.
Life means all that it ever meant.
It is the same as it ever was.
There is absolute and unbroken continuity.
What is this death but a negligible accident?
Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight?
I am but waiting for you, for an interval,
somewhere very near,
just round the corner.
All is well.
Nothing is hurt; nothing is lost.
One brief moment and all will be as it was before.
How we shall laugh at the trouble of parting when we meet again!
Henry Scott-Holland. “Death Is Nothing At All.”
To clear someone of blame or suspicion; to prove that someone or something is right, justified, or deserved.
Spanish literature offers a rich, diverse, and globally influential canon ranging from classical masterpieces like Cervantes’ Don Quixote (often considered the first modern novel) to contemporary works. Key genres include magical realism, historical drama, and, significantly, literature from the Spanish Golden Age. Essential reads for learners and enthusiasts include The Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafón, The House…
Fragment 3: Come, come thou bleak December wind by Samuel Taylor Coleridge Come, come thou bleak December wind,And blow the dry leaves from the tree!Flash, like a Love-thought, thro’ me, DeathAnd take a Life that wearies me.
Holy Sonnets: Batter my heart, three-person’d God by John Donne
Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep by Clare Harner. Do not stand By my grave, and weep. I am not there, I do not sleep- I am the thousand winds that blow I am the diamond glints in snow https://www.familyfriendpoems.com/poem/do-not-stand-by-my-grave-and-weep-by-clare-harner
Death is nothing at all By Henry Scott-Holland Death is nothing at all. It does not count. I have only slipped away into the next room. Nothing has happened.
My Father and I in The Time of Water
“The Soldier” is a poem written by Rupert Brooke. It is the fifth and final sonnet in the sequence 1914, published posthumously in 1915 in the collection 1914 and Other Poems. The manuscript is located at King’s College, Cambridge
Four War Poems Poem by Sheena Blackhall
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