John Bowring

(1792-1872 / England)

The Blessed Dead - Poem by John Bowring

Is it not death to summon all
The records of the past-to call,
From every niche in Memory's hall,
The fancies of departed hours,
And find a desolate blank around
A stormy sea-a barren ground
Pitch darkness-and a sullen sound
That fades, while gathering silence lowers?


Is it not death? The dead are free,
The past is past, for them and me
To all that was-and ceased to be;
And far as they-and lost as they
To childhood's joys-to youth's gay dream-
To manhood's early gladdening gleam-
Time's stream-time's ever-rolling stream-
Hath borne us, e'en like them, away.


Time! they are slumbering and are blest,
We slumber, but with aching breast,
We die-but do not know the rest.
Yet know-they have no earthly care,
No earthly discords shock their ears,
No earthly sorrows force their tears,
No earthly dangers rouse their fears,
At rest! O could we join them there!


Comments about The Blessed Dead by John Bowring

There is no comment submitted by members..



Read this poem in other languages

This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.

I would like to translate this poem »

word flags

What do you think this poem is about?



Poem Submitted: Tuesday, September 21, 2010



Famous Poems

  1. Still I Rise
    Maya Angelou
  2. The Road Not Taken
    Robert Frost
  3. If You Forget Me
    Pablo Neruda
  4. Dreams
    Langston Hughes
  5. Annabel Lee
    Edgar Allan Poe
  6. Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
    Robert Frost
  7. If
    Rudyard Kipling
  8. I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You
    Pablo Neruda
  9. Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep
    Mary Elizabeth Frye
  10. Television
    Roald Dahl
[Report Error]