death poems

Wow, too kewl! *smiles*

Stone Roses - How Do You Sleep - lyrics

I've seen your severed head at a banquet for the dead
All dressed up dinner, looked so fine
Your shining silver salver so tastefully powdered
With the finest military quick lime

Now try and picture this, as I gave you a kiss
The apple in your mouth slipped in mine
The orchestra played the sweetest serenade
We laughed as we put away your wine

So raise your glasses, here's a toast to wasted lives
May all their ghosts come back to haunt you
And tell you how they died

How do you sleep?
How do you last the night and keep the dogs at bay?
How do you feel when you close your eyes, and try and drift away?
Does it feel any better now?
Does it mean any more when the angel of death comes knock, knocking,
And banging at your door?

When all the fun was over, I put you on my shoulder
took you home, away from it all
Shot down and claimed, mounted and framed
Tastefully hung up on my wall
Are my dreams your nightmares? I hope they all come true
Get off your knees, the party's over
I'm coming home to you

How do you sleep?
How do you last the night and keep the dogs at bay?
How do you feel when you close your eyes, and try and drift away?
Does it feel any better now?
Does it mean any more when the angel of death comes knock, knocking,
And banging at your door, at your door?

"For certain is death for the born
And certain is birth for the dead;
Therefore over the inevitable
Thou shouldst not grieve."

"Stone Roses - How Do You Sleep" Good one Endy!

Puerto Rican Obituary
by Pedro Pietri

"Puerto Rican Obituary" was first read in 1969 at a rally in support of the Young Lords Party, an anti-imperialist Latino youth group in New York. Like the Black Panther Party, the Young Lords were community activists, supporting demands for fair and affordable housing and decent health care, and they ran free breakfast programs for children. They linked their neighborhood militancy to a program that called for the end of U.S. imperial adventurism in Vietnam and elsewhere, third world liberation, an end to the oppression of the poor and people of color, and the building of a socialist society. The Young Lords were destroyed by U.S. government provocations in the mid 1970s, but Pedro Pietri continued on as a radical activist and poet?-he saw no distinction between these roles. Most notably he helped to found and sustain the Nuyorican Poets Café, an acclaimed center for oppositional arts and literature.

Pedro Pietri was born in Ponce, Puerto Rico in 1944 and raised in Harlem. After high school, he was drafted into the U.S. army, served in Vietnam, and returned to the United States a fierce opponent of that war and the system that spawned it. "I realised who the real enemy was, and it was not the Vietcong in their black pajamas, but the mercenaries who invaded their country." On fire with rage against the system, he wrote, "Puerto Rican Obituary," first published in a collection of his work with the same title by Monthly Review Press in 1973, as well as eight other volumes of verse. Pedro Pietri died of cancer, aged 59, on March 3, 2004.

The power, insight, and message of "Puerto Rican Obituary" continue to resonate among activists and dreamers all over the world. As the New York Times put it recently "three decades ago, a poem ignited a movement."?-Eds.

Puerto Rican Obituary

They worked
They were always on time
They were never late
They never spoke back
when they were insulted
They worked
They never took days off
that were not on the calendar
They never went on strike
without permission
They worked
ten days a week
and were only paid for five
They worked
They worked
They worked
and they died
They died broke
They died owing
They died never knowing
what the front entrance
of the first national city bank looks like

Juan
Miguel
Milagros
Olga
Manuel
All died yesterday today
and will die again tomorrow
passing their bill collectors
on to the next of kin
All died
waiting for the garden of eden
to open up again
under a new management
All died
dreaming about america
waking them up in the middle of the night
screaming: Mira Mira
your name is on the winning lottery ticket
for one hundred thousand dollars
All died
hating the grocery stores
that sold them make-believe steak
and bullet-proof rice and beans
All died waiting dreaming and hating

Dead Puerto Ricans
Who never knew they were Puerto Ricans
Who never took a coffee break
from the ten commandments
to KILL KILL KILL
the landlords of their cracked skulls
and communicate with their latino souls

Juan
Miguel
Milagros
Olga
Manuel
From the nervous breakdown streets
where the mice live like millionaires
and the people do not live at all
are dead and were never alive

Juan
died waiting for his number to hit
Miguel
died waiting for the welfare check
to come and go and come again
Milagros
died waiting for her ten children
to grow up and work
so she could quit working
Olga
died waiting for a five dollar raise
Manuel
died waiting for his supervisor to drop dead
so he could get a promotion

Is a long ride
from Spanish Harlem
to long island cemetery
where they were buried
First the train
and then the bus
and the cold cuts for lunch
and the flowers
that will be stolen
when visiting hours are over
Is very expensive
Is very expensive
But they understand
Their parents understood
Is a long non-profit ride
from Spanish Harlem
to long island cemetery

Juan
Miguel
Milagros
Olga
Manuel
All died yesterday today
and will die again tomorrow
Dreaming
Dreaming about queens
Clean-cut lily-white neighborhood
Puerto Ricanless scene
Thirty-thousand-dollar home
The first spics on the block
Proud to belong to a community
of gringos who want them lynched
Proud to be a long distance away
from the sacred phrase: Que Pasa

These dreams
These empty dreams
from the make-believe bedrooms
their parents left them
are the after-effects
of television programs
about the ideal
white american family
with black maids
and latino janitors
who are well train
to make everyone
and their bill collectors
laugh at them
and the people they represent

Juan
died dreaming about a new car
Miguel
died dreaming about new anti-poverty programs
Milagros
died dreaming about a trip to Puerto Rico
Olga
died dreaming about real jewelry
Manuel
died dreaming about the irish sweepstakes

They all died
like a hero sandwich dies
in the garment district
at twelve o'clock in the afternoon
social security number to ashes
union dues to dust

They knew
they were born to weep
and keep the morticians employed
as long as they pledge allegiance
to the flag that wants them destroyed
They saw their names listed
in the telephone directory of destruction
They were train to turn
the other cheek by newspapers
that mispelled mispronounced
and misunderstood their names
and celebrated when death came
and stole their final laundry ticket

They were born dead
and they died dead

Is time
to visit sister lopez again
the number one healer
and fortune card dealer
in Spanish Harlem
She can communicate
with your late relatives
for a reasonable fee
Good news is guaranteed

Rise Table Rise Table
death is not dumb and disable
Those who love you want to know
the correct number to play
Let them know this right away
Rise Table Rise Table
death is not dumb and disable
Now that your problems are over
and the world is off your shoulders
help those who you left behind
find financial peace of mind

Rise Table Rise Table
death is not dumb and disable
If the right number we hit
all our problems will split
and we will visit your grave
on every legal holiday

Those who love you want to know
the correct number to play
let them know this right away
We know your spirit is able
Death is not dumb and disable
RISE TABLE RISE TABLE

Juan
Miguel
Milagros
Olga
Manuel
All died yesterday today
and will die again tomorrow
Hating fighting and stealing
broken windows from each other
Practicing a religion without a roof
The old testament
The new testament
according to the gospel
of the internal revenue
the judge and jury and executioner
protector and eternal bill collector

Secondhand **** for sale
learn how to say Como Esta Usted
and you will make a fortune
They are dead
They are dead
and will not return from the dead
until they stop neglecting
the art of their dialogue
for broken english lessons
to impress the mister goldsteins
who keep them employed
as lavaplatos porters messenger boys
factory workers maids stock clerks
shipping clerks assistant mailroom
assistant, assistant assistant
to the assistant's assistant
assistant lavaplatos and automatic
artificial smiling doormen
for the lowest wages of the ages
and rages when you demand a raise
because is against the company policy
to promote SPICS SPICS SPICS

Juan
died hating Miguel because Miguel's
used car was in better running condition
than his used car
Miguel
died hating Milagros because Milagros
had a color television set
and he could not afford one yet
Milagros
died hating Olga because Olga
made five dollars more on the same job
Olga
died hating Manuel because Manuel
had hit the numbers more times
than she had hit the numbers
Manuel
died hating all of them
Juan
Miguel
Milagros
and Olga
because they all spoke broken english
more fluently than he did

And now they are together
in the main lobby of the void
Addicted to silence
Off limits to the wind
Confine to worm supremacy
in long island cemetery
This is the groovy hereafter
the protestant collection box
was talking so loud and proud about

Here lies Juan
Here lies Miguel
Here lies Milagros
Here lies Olga
Here lies Manuel
who died yesterday today
and will die again tomorrow
Always broke
Always owing
Never knowing
that they are beautiful people

Never knowing
the geography of their complexion

PUERTO RICO IS A BEAUTIFUL PLACE
PUERTORRIQUENOS ARE A BEAUTIFUL RACE

If only they
had turned off the television
and tune into their own imaginations
If only they
had used the white supremacy bibles
for toilet paper purpose
and make their latino souls
the only religion of their race
If only they
had return to the definition of the sun
after the first mental snowstorm
on the summer of their senses
If only they
had kept their eyes open
at the funeral of their fellow employees
who came to this country to make a fortune
and were buried without underwears

Juan
Miguel
Milagros
Olga
Manuel
will right now be doing their own thing
where beautiful people sing
and dance and work together
where the wind is a stranger
to miserable weather conditions
where you do not need a dictionary
to communicate with your people
Aqui Se Habla Espanol all the time
Aqui you salute your flag first
Aqui there are no dial soap commercials
Aqui everybody smells good
Aqui tv dinners do not have a future
Aqui the men and women admire desire
and never get tired of each other
Aqui Que Paso Power is what's happening
Aqui to be called negrito
means to be called LOVE

I Come and Stand at Every Door

I come and stand at every door
But no one hears my silent tread
I knock and yet remain unseen
For I am dead, for I am dead.

I'm only seven although I died
In Hiroshima long ago
I'm seven now as I was then
When children die they do not grow.

My hair was scorched by swirling flame
My eyes grew dim, my eyes grew blind
Death came and turned my bones to dust
And that was scattered by the wind.

I need no fruit, I need no rice
I need no sweet, nor even bread
I ask for nothing for myself
For I am dead, for I am dead.

All that I ask is that for peace
You fight today, you fight today
So that the children of this world
May live and grow and laugh and play.

Nazim Hikmet

THE LONG DEATH

for Wendy Teresa Simon
(25th September 1954 - 7th August 1979)


Radiation is like Oppression
the average daily kind of subliminal toothache
you get almost used to, the stench
of chlorine in the water, of smog in the wind.

We comprehend the disasters of the moment,
the nurding home fire, the river in flood
pouring over the sandbag levee, the airplane
crash with fragments of burnt bodies
scattered among the hunks of twisted metal,
the grenade in the marketplace, the sinking ship.

But how to grasp a thing that does not
kill you today or tomorrow
but slowly from the inside in twenty years.
How to feel that a corporate or governmental
choice means we bear twisted genes and our
grandchildren will be stillborn if our
children are very lucky.

Slow death can not be photographed for the six
oclock news. Its all statistical,
the gross national product or the prime
lending rate. Yet if our eyes saw
in the right spectrum, how it would shine,
lurid as magenta neon.

If we could smell radiation like seeping
gas, if we could sense it as heat, if we
could hear it as a low ominous roar
of the earth shifting, then we would not sit
and be poisoned while industry spokesmen
talk of acceptable millirems and ~O2
cancer per population thousand.

We acquiesce at murder so long as it is slow,
murder from asbestos dust, from tobacco,
from lead in the water, from sulphur in the air,
and fourteen years later statistics are printed
on the rise in leukemia among children.
We never see their faces. They never stand,
those poisoned children together in a courtyard,
and are gunned down by men in three-piece suits.

The shipyard workers who built nuclear
submarines, the soldiers who were marched
into the Nevada desert to be tested by the H-
bomb, the people who work in power plants,
they die quietly years after in hospital
wards- and not on the evening news.

The soft spring rain floats down and the air
is perfumed with pine and earth. Seedlings
drink it in, robins sip it in puddles,
you run in it and feel clean and strong,
the spring rain blowing from the irradiated
cloud Over the power plant.

Radiation is oppression, the daily average
kind, the kind youre almost used to
and live with as the years abrade you,
high blood pressure, ulcers, cramps, migraine,
a hacking cough you take it inside
and it becomes pain and you say, not
They are killing me but I am sick now.


Marge Piercy

MESSAGE FROM JOHN R. R. SEARL


The day will come before I die, that man on earth will not believe what they are reading.

Is it possible that there could be such people on our planet ?

What really worries me is that the number of followers who will follow those idiots will continue to grow.

Some of the things I expect these leaders of men will be telling the world, is that they suspect the ozone hole has always been there.

Their claims that if chlorofluorocarbons really destroy the ozone then there should be a hole over the factories that make it.

They no doubt will have never heard of the magnetic fields centred over the poles of this planet, not to mention the wind.

And should you ask these experts about the greenhouse effect, they will simply say there is no such thing.

Then when you ask them about the acid rain, they simple state that it is only one per cent of what it is claimed to be.

Surely there can be none so blind as those who do not wish to see, and when that is coupled with uninhibited greed, as no doubt it will be, then it will become a sad day for Mother Earth and her children.

For we truly are, the children of Mother Earth.

Perhaps I could do no better than recite for you a little poem, which says it all.


 
DEATH OF A PLANET

Our children are crying, hear what they say.
Don't take our tomorrow and throw it away.

Our planet is dying because you don't care.
With your misguided science you're polluting our air.

You cut too much forest for monetary gain.
The ground is so thirsty, no trees, mean no rain.

You've poisoned our oceans with filthy refuse.
Our fish, many are dying through senseless abuse.

Is this the inheritance you old ones will leave?
You are stealing our birthright, and for this we grieve.

We'll have no tomorrow unless you take heed.
And cease the destruction you cause by your greed.

So list' to our crying, and hear what we say.
Give back our tomorrow, take heed today.

Stop your pollution before it's too late.
Or we'll all have no future, but share the same fate.


 
If man could only grieve for this planet, as they did for Diana, there still could be a future for all of mankind.

Prof. John R. R. Searl

The Destiny of a Poet
By ZDENEK ROTREKL (born October 1, 1920 in BRNO)

The destiny of a poet, by the way, is to be
and not to be. Not to be, against all others,
and to be, with all the others.

To be and not to be.

He cannot, after all, say anything greater than
that he shall die, and that, in love, we should
have our seconds of dying. Those seconds of
non-dying between birth and death. He cannot
speak of anything greater than of death and of
apple blossoms' gentle fall. Of all things
leaving us and floating away just as he does.
Of movement and of pasing away being only
a ride in Charon's boat. Even Charon's boat
is and is not, even time is and is not.
Even life is and is not.

The destiny of a poet is just like that:

to be and not to be.

(From THE BOOK OF APOCRYPHA, MAGIC AND INCANTTIONS/
English Translation Copyright C 1990 by
Jirina Fuchsova.

Perhaps the most erudite from among the contemporary
Czech poets, Dr. Zdenek Rotrekl spent the years
1949 through 1962 in communist prison on trumped-up
charges ( received a death sentence initially,
later reduced to life in prison. He was fully
"rehabilitated" in 1962.)
Zdenek Rotrekl lives in Brno. He received the
JAN ZAHRADNICEK PRIZE FOR CZECH POETRY in
January 1991 (only one of many honors and
prizes he was honored with since 1990.)
JF



The Sedlec Ossuary (a.k.a. Kostnice) is a small Christian chapel decorated with human bones. It's located in Sedlec, which is a suburb in the outskirts of the Czech town Kutna Hora.

Amazing

Statue of Lorenzo from the courtyard
of the Uffizi Gallery, Florence
Lorenzo de Medici
Ruler of Florence and Art Patron1449 - 1492

Whoever wants to be happy, let him be so:
about tomorrow there's no knowing.
                                           ?-Lorenzo The Magnificent

Lorenzo de' Medici ("The Magnificent") was intensely interested in the arts and scholarship. He supported many artists (including Botticelli and Michelangelo), philosophers (Marsilio Ficino and Giovanni Pico della Mirandola), musicians and authors and was a talented poet himself. The poet Angelo Poliziano and the Flemish-born composer Heinrich Isaac collaborated to produce his funeral ode. In the first stanza the poet wishes he were able to weep continuously for his late patron. The rest of the lament goes on to state that both poetry and music have fallen silent as a result of LorenzoÕs death. The fact that this idea is expressed in beautiful words and music would not have struck anyone in the time as self-contradictory since extravagant praise of rulers was traditional, and not to be taken too literally. During the third stanza the tenor voice drops out symbolizing the death of Lorenzo, and only three voices remain, with the bass repeating over and over the line line from the funeral mass, "And rest in peace." A recording of the piece is available on An Evening at the Medicis (MCA MCAD 5953, track 14). What references in this poem make it a good example of Renaissance classicism?

Angelo Poliziano: Lament on the Death of Lorenzo de' Medici (1492)

Quis dabit capiti meo
aquam? Quis oculis meis
fontem lachrimarum dabit,
ut necte fleam?
ut necte fleam?

O That my head were
waters, and my eyes
a fount of tears,
that I might weep by day
and weep by night!

Sic turtur viduus solet,
sic cygnus moriens solet,
sic luscinia conqueri.
Heu miser, miser!
O dolor, dolor!

So mourns the widowed turtledove,
so mourns the dying swan,
so mourns the nightingale
Ah, woe is me!
O grief, o grief!

Laurus impetu fulminis
illa illa iacet subito,
Laurus omnium celebris
Musarum choris, nympharum choris.
(Bass: Et requiescamus in pace.)

Lightning has struck
our laurel tree,
our laurel so dear
to all the muses and the dances of the nymphs.
(Bass: And rest in peace.)

Sub cuius patula coma
et Phoebi lyra blandius
insonat et vox dulcius;
nunc murta omnia,
nunc surda omnia.

Beneath whose spreading boughs
Phoebus himself more sweetly
played and sang.
Now all is mute
and there is none to hear.

Two more (a bit more subtle):

Gods by Anne Sexton

Ms. Sexton went out looking for the gods.
She began looking in the sky
?-expecting a large white angel with a blue crotch.

No one.

She looked next in all the learned books
and the print spat back at her.

No one

She made a pilgrimage to the great poet
and he belched in her face.

No one.

She prayed in all the churches of the world
and learned a great deal about culture.

No one.

She went to the Atlantic, the Pacific, for surely God...

No one.

She went to the Buddha, the Brahma, the Pyramids
and found immense postcards.

No one.

Then she journeyed back to her own house
and the gods of the world were shut in the lavatory.

At last!
she cried out,
and locked the door.
--------------------------------------------
Stopping by Woods by Robert Frost

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it's queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there's some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

ty for posting the frost poem.

i am an ass for not posting it myself b4.

Of course, it could just be some guy checking out the woods...

:-D

yeah ofcourse..

From WIlliam Carlos WIlliams, a small poem that is more appropriate than I care to think:

'The Hurricane'

The tree lay down
on the garage roof
and stretched, You
have your heaven,
it said, go to it.

A modern poem from Iraq


DEATH AND THE RIVER

By:- Badr Shakir al-Sayyab
Translated by:- Lena Jayyusi and Christopher Middleton

Buwayb
Buwayb

Bells of a tower lost in the sea bed
dusk in the trees, water in the jars
spilling rain bells
crystals melting with a sigh
`Buwayb ah Buwayb,"
and a longing in my blood darkens
for you Buwayb

river of mine, forlorn as the rain.
I want to run in the dark
gripping my fists tight
carrying the longing of a whole year
in each finger, like someone bringing you
gifts of wheat and flowers.
I want to peer across the crests of the hills,
catch sight of the moon
as it wades between your banks, planting shadows filling baskets
with water and fish and flowers.
I want to plunge into you, following the moon,
hear the pebbles hiss in your depths,
sibilance of a thousand birds in the trees.
Are you a river or a forest of tears?
And the insomniac fish, will they sleep at dawn?
And these stars, will they stop and wait
feeding thousands of needles with silk?

And you Buwayb .
I want to drown in you, gathering shells,
building a house with them, where the overflow
from stars and moon
soaks into the green of trees and water,
and with your ebb in the early morning go to the sea. For death is a strange world fascinating to children, and its door was in you, mysterious, Buwayb . Buwayb ah Buwayb.
twenty years have passed each one a lifetime.
And this day when the dark closes in,
when I lie still and do not sleep,
and listen with my conscience keen-a great tree reaching toward first light, sensitive
its branches, birds, and fruit-
I feel like rain the blood, the tears shed
Shed by the sad world;
my death bells ring and shake my veins,
and in my blood a longing darkens
for a bullet whose deadly ice
might plow through my soul in its depths, hell
setting the bones ablaze.
I want to run out and link hands with others in the struggle,
clench my fists and strike Fate in the face.
I want to drown in my deepest blood
that I may share with the human race its burden
and carry it onward, giving birth to life
My death
shall be a victory.

www.angelfire.com/nt/Gilgamesh/deathA.html


Peace,
Endy

Posted under another topic but good here as well:

the lesson of the moth
By Don Marquis, in "archy and mehitabel," 1927


i was talking to a moth
the other evening
he was trying to break into
an electric light bulb
and fry himself on the wires

why do you fellows
pull this stunt i asked him
because it is the conventional
thing for moths or why
if that had been an uncovered
candle instead of an electric
light bulb you would
now be a small unsightly cinder
have you no sense

plenty of it he answered
but at times we get tired
of using it
we get bored with the routine
and crave beauty
and excitement
fire is beautiful
and we know that if we get
too close it will kill us
but what does that matter
it is better to be happy
for a moment
and be burned up with beauty
than to live a long time
and be bored all the while
so we wad all our life up
into one little roll
and then we shoot the roll
that is what life is for
it is better to be a part of beauty
for one instant and then cease to
exist than to exist forever
and never be a part of beauty
our attitude toward life
is come easy go easy
we are like human beings
used to be before they became
too civilized to enjoy themselves

and before i could argue him
out of his philosophy
he went and immolated himself
on a patent cigar lighter
i do not agree with him
myself i would rather have
half the happiness and twice
the longevity

but at the same time i wish
there was something i wanted
as badly as he wanted to fry himself

archy

Jalal al-Din Rumi

Life & Death


look at love
how it tangles
with the one fallen in love

look at spirit
how it fuses with earth
giving it new life

why are you so busy
with this or that or good or bad
pay attention to how things blend

why talk about all
the known and the unknown
see how the unknown merges into the known

why think seperately
of this life and the next
when one is born from the last

look at your heart and tongue
one feels but deaf and dumb
the other speaks in words and signs

look at water and fire
earth and wind
enemies and friends all at once

the wolf and the lamb
the lion and the deer
far away yet together

look at the unity of this
spring and winter
manifested in the equinox

you too must mingle my friends
since the earth and the sky
are mingled just for you and me

be like sugarcane
sweet yet silent
don't get mixed up with bitter words

my beloved grows
right out of my own heart
how much more union can there be

come on sweetheart
let's adore one another
before there is no more
of you and me

a mirror tells the truth
look at your grim face
brighten up and cast away
your bitter smile

a generous friend
gives life for a friend
let's rise above this
animalistic behavior
and be kind to one another

spite darkens friendships
why not cast away
malice from our heart

once you think of me
dead and gone
you will make up with me
you will miss me
you may even adore me

why be a worshiper of the dead
think of me as a goner
come and make up now

since you will come
and throw kisses
at my tombstone later
why not give them to me now
this is me
that same person

i may talk too much
but my heart is silence
what else can i do
i am condemned to live this life

i've come again
like a new year
to crash the gate
of this old prison

i've come again
to break the teeth and claws
of this man-eating
monster we call life

i've come again
to puncture the
glory of the cosmos
who mercilessly
destroys humans

i am the falcon
hunting down the birds
of black omen
before their flights

i gave my word
at the outset to
give my life
with no qualms
i pray to the Lord
to break my back
before i break my word

how do you dare to
let someone like me
intoxicated with love
enter your house

you must know better
if i enter
i'll break all this and
destroy all that

if the sheriff arrives
i'll throw the wine
in his face
if your gatekeeper
pulls my hand
i'll break his arm

if the heavens don't go round
to my heart's desire
i'll crush its wheels and
pull out its roots

you have set up
a colorful table
calling it life and
asked me to your feast
but punish me if
i enjoy myself

what tyranny is this

you mustn't be afraid of death
you're a deathless soul
you can't be kept in a dark grave
you're filled with God's glow

be happy with your beloved
you can't find any better
the world will shimmer
because of the diamond you hold

when your heart is immersed
in this blissful love
you can easily endure
any bitter face around

in the absence of malice
there is nothing but
happiness and good times
don't dwell in sorrow my friend

Crossing the Bar

Sunset and evening star,
And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
When I put out to sea,

But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
Too full for sound or foam,
When that which drew from out the boundless deep
Turns again home.

Twilight and evening bell,
And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell;
When I embark;

For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place
The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my pilot face to face
When I have crossed the bar.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson