And Death Shall Have No Dominion by Dylan Thomas And death shall have no dominion. Dead man naked they shall be one With the man in the wind and the west moon; When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone, They shall have stars at elbow and foot; Though they go mad…
Let me die a youngman’s deathnot a clean and in betweenthe sheets holy water deathnot a famous-last-wordspeaceful out of breath death When I’m 73and in constant good tumourmay I be mown down at dawnby a bright red sports caron my way homefrom an allnight party Or when I’m 91with silver hairand sitting in a barber’s…
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
And death shall have no dominion. Dead man naked they shall be one With the man in the wind and the west moon; When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone, They shall have stars at elbow and foot; Though they go mad they shall be sane, Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again; Though lovers be lost love shall not; And death shall have no dominion.
And death shall have no dominion. Under the windings of the sea They lying long shall not die windily; Twisting on racks when sinews give way, Strapped to a wheel, yet they shall not break; Faith in their hands shall snap in two, And the unicorn evils run them through; Split all ends up they shan’t crack; And death shall have no dominion.
And death shall have no dominion. No more may gulls cry at their ears Or waves break loud on the seashores; Where blew a flower may a flower no more Lift its head to the blows of the rain; Though they be mad and dead as nails, Heads of the characters hammer through daisies; Break in the sun till the sun breaks down, And death shall have no dominion.
Let me die a youngman’s death not a clean and in between the sheets holy water death not a famous-last-words peaceful out of breath death
When I’m 73 and in constant good tumour may I be mown down at dawn by a bright red sports car on my way home from an allnight party
Or when I’m 91 with silver hair and sitting in a barber’s chair may rival gangsters with hamfisted tommyguns burst in and give me a short back and insides
Or when I’m 104 and banned from the Cavern may my mistress catching me in bed with her daughter and fearing for her son cut me up into little pieces and throw away every piece but one
Let me die a youngman’s death not a free from sin tiptoe in candle wax and waning death not a curtains drawn by angels borne ‘what a nice way to go’ death
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.
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)
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 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.”
