Ashes poems from famous poets and best beautiful poems to feel good. Best Ashes poems ever written. Read all poems about Ashes.
Before I loved you, love, nothing was my own:
I wavered through the streets, among
Nothing mattered or had a name:
Had we but World enough, and Time,
This coyness Lady were no crime.
We would sit down, and think which way
To walk, and pass our long Loves Day.
Sweet, I blame you not, for mine the fault was, had I not been made of common
I had climbed the higher heights unclimbed yet, seen the fuller air, the
HOLD it up sternly! See this it sends back! (Who is it? Is it you?)
Outside fair costume--within ashes and filth,
No more a flashing eye--no more a sonorous voice or springy step;
Anna who was mad,
I have a knife in my armpit.
When I stand on tiptoe I tap out messages.
Am I some sort of infection?
The day is ending,
The night is descending;
The marsh is frozen,
The river dead.
HERE, O my heart, let us burn the dear dreams that are dead,
Here in this wood let us fashion a funeral pyre
Of fallen white petals and leaves that are mellow and red,
Here let us burn them in noon's flaming torches of fire.
Here in a quiet and dusty room they lie,
Faded as crumbled stone or shifting sand,
Forlorn as ashes, shrivelled, scentless, dry -
Meadows and gardens running through my hand.
We walked beside the sea,
After a day which perished silently
Of its own glory---like the Princess weird
Who, combating the Genius, scorched and seared,
When I die
I don't care what happens to my body
throw ashes in the air, scatter 'em in East River
bury an urn in Elizabeth New Jersey, B'nai Israel Cemetery
I had my dinner and
Slept around 10 of night
After a couple hour or so
I found myself dead
If down here I chance to die,
Solemnly I beg you take
All that is left of "I"
To the Hills for old sake's sake,
For standing by me all the way..........
For helping me through the awful day..............
For being always there for me...........
I can hear screams from the back of the barns
"somebody help, someone help, call 911,
my daughter is bleeding".
Here is a wound that never will heal, I know,
Being wrought not of a dearness and a death,
But of a love turned ashes and the breath
Gone out of beauty; never again will grow
Through many countries and over many seas
I have come, Brother, to these melancholy rites,
to show this final honour to the dead,
and speak (to what purpose?) to your silent ashes,
since now fate takes you, even you, from me.
This, no song of an ingénue,
This, no ballad of innocence;
This, the rhyme of a lady who
Followed ever her natural bents.
I walked on the banks of the tincan banana dock and sat down under the huge shade of a Southern Pacific locomotive to look for the sunset over the box house hills and cry.
Jack Kerouac sat beside me on a busted rusty iron pole, companion, we thought the same thoughts of the soul, bleak and blue and sad-eyed, surrounded by the gnarled steel roots of trees of machinery.
'Tis said that when
The hands of men
Tamed this primeval wood,
And hoary trees with groans of woe,
Burning and melting,
Lightning but no thunder,
Tears dropping drown like icicles,
Freezing but not cool,
Sign me with ashes
Like the ash from the ovens of Treblinka or Dachau
Ash from the burning shelters of Dresden or Tokyo
Ash from a napalmed hamlet
We all go through fire.
burning in our lives.
We all have ashes,
Handful of ashes
To be immersed in,
Handful of ashes
To be immersed in,
Whose asthi-kalasha is this,
Though in ashes lies peril
Yet in ashes we are beloved
Unto ashes we belong
And to ashes shall we return
Ashes awaits too long outside our bedroom door
Hearing owners' voices, she scratches the door with her paws.
At first, she scratches her paws gently
But, the door is still closed after a long wait
On the pyre of life.
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