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Poem by George Herbert


Death


Death, thou wast once an uncouth hideous thing,
                           Nothing but bones,
      The sad effect of sadder groans:
Thy mouth was open, but thou couldst not sing.

For we considered thee as at some six
                           Or ten years hence,
      After the loss of life and sense,
Flesh being turned to dust, and bones to sticks.

We looked on this side of thee, shooting short;
                         Where we did find
      The shells of fledge souls left behind,
Dry dust, which sheds no tears, but may extort.

But since our SaviorТs death did put some blood
                           Into thy face,
      Thou art grown fair and full of grace,
Much in request, much sought for as a good.

For we do now behold thee gay and glad,
                           As at Doomsday;
      When souls shall wear their new array,
And all thy bones with beauty shall be clad.

Therefore we can go die as sleep, and trust
                           Half that we have
      Unto an honest faithful grave;
Making our pillows either down, or dust.



George Herbert


George Herbert's other poems:
  1. Joseph's Coat
  2. Mortification
  3. The Holdfast
  4. Charms and Knots
  5. The Dawning


Poems of the other poets with the same name:

  • Thomas Hood Death ("It is not death, that sometime in a sigh")
  • William Yeats Death ("Nor dread nor hope attend")
  • John Clare Death ("Why should man's high aspiring mind")
  • Henry Vaughan Death ("'TIS a sad Land, that in one day")
  • James Hunt Death ("Death is a road our dearest friends have gone")
  • Thomas MacDonagh Death ("Life is a boon - and death, as spirit and flesh are twain")
  • Madison Cawein Death ("THROUGH some strange sense of sight or touch")

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