Strew on her roses -- Archives

[ Show ]

Support VoyForums

[ Shrink ]

VoyForums Announcement: Programming and providing support for this service has been a labor of love since 1997. We are one of the few services online who values our users' privacy, and have never sold your information. We have even fought hard to defend your privacy in legal cases; however, we've done it with almost no financial support -- paying out of pocket to continue providing the service. Due to the issues imposed on us by advertisers, we also stopped hosting most ads on the forums many years ago. We hope you appreciate our efforts.

Show your support by donating any amount. (Note: We are still technically a for-profit company, so your contribution is not tax-deductible.) PayPal Acct: Feedback:

Donate to VoyForums (PayPal):

[ Login ] [ Contact Forum Admin ] [ Main index ] [ Post a new message ] [ Search | Check update time | Archives: 1, [2], 3 ]

[ Next Thread | Previous Thread | Next Message | Previous Message ]

Date Posted: July 18, 03:34:pm GMT-5
Author: Xanthe
Subject:

Strew on her roses

Requiescat

Strew on her roses, roses
And never a spray of yew!
In quiet she resposes;
Ah! would that I did too.

Her mirth the world required;
She bathed it in smiles of glee.
But her heart was tired, tired,
And now they let her be.

Her life was turning, turning,
In mazes of heat and sound.
But for peace her soul was yearning,
And now peace laps her round.
Her cabined, ample spirit,
It fluttered and failed for breath.
To-night it doth inherit
The vasty hall of death.
@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@
Requiem

Under the wide and starry sky, Dig the grave and let me lie. Glad did I live and gladly die, And I laid me down with a will.

This be the verse you grave for me: Here he lies where he longed to be, Home is the sailor, home from sea, And the hunter home from the hill.

Robert Louis Stevenson
(*1850 - �1894)

---------------------------------
The Epitaph

Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth
A Youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown.
Fair Sience frown'd not on his humble birth And Melancholy mark'd him for her own.

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere;
Heav'n did a recompense as largely send:
He gave to Mis'ry all he had, a tear,
He gain'd from Heav'n ('twas all he wish'd) a friend.

No farther seek his merits to disclose,
Or draw his frailties from their dread abode.
(There they alike in trembling hope repose,)
The bosom of his Father and his God.

Thomas Gray
(*1716 �1771)

-------------------------

Oh! Death will find me.

Oh! Death will find me, long before I tire
Of watching you; and swing me suddenly Into the shade and loneliness and mire
Of the last land! There, waiting patiently, One day, I think, I'll feel a cold wind blowing, See a slow light across the Stygian tide, And hear the dead about me stir, unknowing, And tremble. And I shall know that you have died. And watch you, a broad-browed and smiling dream, Pass, light as ever, through the lightless host, Quietly ponder, start, and sway, and gleam- Most individual and bewildering ghost!- And turn, and toss your brown delightful head Amusedly, among the ancient Dead.

Rupert Brooke
(1887 - 1915)

----------------------------

[ Next Thread | Previous Thread | Next Message | Previous Message ]