Death and Mourning

Farewell, thou child of my right hand, and joy! My sin was too much hope of thee, loved boy.

The trumpet shall be heard on high The dead shall live, the living die, And Music shall untune the sky!

I weep for Adonais [John Keats] 4 —he is dead! Oh, weep for Adonais! though our tears Thaw not the frost which binds so dear a head!

When I have fears that I may cease to be Before my pen has glean’d my teeming brain.

A useless life is an early death.

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.

But me they’ll lash in hammock, drop me deep. Fathoms down, fathoms down, how I’ll dream fast asleep. I feel it stealing now. Sentry, are you there? Just ease these darbies [manacles] at the wrist, And roll me over fair! I am sleepy, and the oozy weeds about me twist.

The Magus Zoroaster, my dead child, Met his own image walking in the garden, That apparition, sole of men, he saw.

And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls, Shall long keep his memory green in our souls.

When lilacs last in the dooryard bloom’d, And the great star early droop’d in the western sky in the night, I mourn’d, and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring.

Sleeping at last, the trouble and turmoil over, Sleeping at last, the struggle and horror past, Cold and white, out of sight of friend and of lover, Sleeping at last.

I shall die in Paris, in a rainstorm, On a day I already remember. I shall die in Paris—it does not bother me— Doubtless on a Thursday, like today, in autumn. 1

Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Here richly, with ridiculous display,

Buffalo Bill’s defunct and break onetwothreefourfive pigeons- he was a handsome man how do you like your blueeyed boy Mister Death

I had not thought death had undone so many. 1 Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled. 2

We perished, each alone:

No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist

And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep,

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree’s shade,

The woman is perfected

This hath not offended the king.

Facilis descensus Averno:

I weep for Adonais—he is dead!