I am sorry for your loss. I hope you are coping with it good. In my time of personal loss, a few poems had come to help. They might not always be about death but they were comforting to me.
It is not growing like a tree In bulk, doth make Man better be; Or standing long an oak, three hundred year, To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere: A lily of a day Is fairer far in May, Although it fall and die that night - It was the plant and flower of Light In small proportions we just beauties see; And in short measures life may perfect be.
Ben Jonson
It's a Queer Time
It's hard to know if you're alive or dead When steel and fire go roaring through your head.
One moment you'll be crouching at your gun Traversing, mowing heaps down half in fun : The next, you choke and clutch at your right breast No time to think leave all and off you go . . . To Treasure Island where the Spice winds blow, To lovely groves of mango, quince and lime Breathe no good-bye, but ho, for the Rest West! It's a queer time.
You're charging madly at them yeling 'Fag!' When somehow something gives and your feet drag. You fall and strike your head; yet feel no pain And find . . . You're digging tunnels through the hay In the Big Barn, 'cause it's a rainy day. O springy hay, and lovely beams to climb! You're back in the old sailor suit again. It's a queer time.
Or you'll be dozing safe in your dug-out A great roar the trench shakes and falls about You're struggling, gasping, struggling, then . . . hullo! Elsie comes tripping gaily down the trench, Hanky to nose -- theat lyddite makes a stench Getting her pinafore all over grime. Funny! because she died ten years ago! It's a queer time.
The trouble is, things happen much too quick; Up jump the Boshes, rifles thump and click, You stagger, and the whole scene fades away: Even good Christians don't like passing straight From Tipperary or their Hymn of Hate To Alleluiah-chanting, and the chime Of golden harps . . . and . . . I'm not well today . . . It's a queer time.
no subject
It is not growing like a tree
In bulk, doth make Man better be;
Or standing long an oak, three hundred year,
To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere:
A lily of a day
Is fairer far in May,
Although it fall and die that night -
It was the plant and flower of Light
In small proportions we just beauties see;
And in short measures life may perfect be.
Ben Jonson
It's a Queer Time
It's hard to know if you're alive or dead
When steel and fire go roaring through your head.
One moment you'll be crouching at your gun
Traversing, mowing heaps down half in fun :
The next, you choke and clutch at your right breast
No time to think leave all and off you go . . .
To Treasure Island where the Spice winds blow,
To lovely groves of mango, quince and lime
Breathe no good-bye, but ho, for the Rest West!
It's a queer time.
You're charging madly at them yeling 'Fag!'
When somehow something gives and your feet drag.
You fall and strike your head; yet feel no pain
And find . . . You're digging tunnels through the hay
In the Big Barn, 'cause it's a rainy day.
O springy hay, and lovely beams to climb!
You're back in the old sailor suit again.
It's a queer time.
Or you'll be dozing safe in your dug-out
A great roar the trench shakes and falls about
You're struggling, gasping, struggling, then . . . hullo!
Elsie comes tripping gaily down the trench,
Hanky to nose -- theat lyddite makes a stench
Getting her pinafore all over grime.
Funny! because she died ten years ago!
It's a queer time.
The trouble is, things happen much too quick;
Up jump the Boshes, rifles thump and click,
You stagger, and the whole scene fades away:
Even good Christians don't like passing straight
From Tipperary or their Hymn of Hate
To Alleluiah-chanting, and the chime
Of golden harps . . . and . . . I'm not well today . . .
It's a queer time.
from OVER THE BRAZIER
Robert Graves