Funeral Poems: Consolation - Poem by Robert Louis Stevenson

Funeral poems from famous poets and best funeral poems to feel good. Most beautiful funeral poems ever written. Read all poems for funeral.


Consolation - Poem by Robert Louis Stevenson

Though he, that ever kind and true,
Kept stoutly step by step with you,
Your whole long, gusty lifetime through,
Be gone a while before,
Be now a moment gone before,
Yet, doubt not, soon the seasons shall restore
Your friend to you.

He has but turned the corner — still
He pushes on with right good will,
Through mire and marsh, by heugh and hill,
That self-same arduous way —
That self-same upland, hopeful way,
That you and he through many a doubtful day
Attempted still.

He is not dead, this friend — not dead,
But in the path we mortals tread
Got some few, trifling steps ahead
And nearer to the end;
So that you too, once past the bend,
Shall meet again, as face to face, this friend
You fancy dead.

Push gaily on, strong heart! The while
You travel forward mile by mile,
He loiters with a backward smile
Till you can overtake,
And strains his eyes to search his wake,
Or whistling, as he sees you through the brake,
Waits on a stile.

Comments about Consolation by Robert Louis Stevenson

  • Ratnakar Mandlik 4/24/2020 10:19:00 PM

    An outstanding classical poem with eternal values. Well deserved classic poem of the day. Reply

    0 person liked.
    0 person did not like.
  • This is Rock 4/24/2020 6:49:00 PM

    Step by step... Meet a friend Reply

    0 person liked.
    0 person did not like.
  • Ruta Mohapatra 4/24/2020 8:35:00 AM

    Deep and thoughtful! A different perception of death. A great poem of the day! Reply

    0 person liked.
    1 person did not like.
  • Dr Tony Brahmin 4/24/2020 3:43:00 AM

    He is not dead, this friend — not dead,
    But in the path we mortals tread
    Got some few, trifling steps ahead
    And nearer to the end; very nice poem. tony
    Reply

    0 person liked.
    2 person did not like.
  • Mahtab Bangalee 4/24/2020 1:38:00 AM

    He is not dead, this friend — not dead,
    But in the path we mortals tread
    Got some few, trifling steps ahead
    And nearer to the end; ............../// superb consolation writings on the funeral; beautiful poem shared
    Reply

    0 person liked.
    4 person did not like.
  • Kumarmani Mahakul 4/24/2020 1:17:00 AM

    This poem is so touchingly delineated on Funeral by Robert Louis Stevenson. Nice work. Reply

    0 person liked.
    4 person did not like.
  • Edward Kofi Louis 4/24/2019 1:48:00 PM

    Step by step! ! ! ! Strong heart!

    Thanks for sharing this poem with us.
    Reply

    3 person liked.
    1 person did not like.
  • Ruta Mohapatra 4/24/2019 12:45:00 PM

    I agree with Alouwou Mandjah. Reply

    0 person liked.
    4 person did not like.
  • Dr Tony Brahmin 4/24/2019 9:59:00 AM

    He loiters with a backward smile
    Till you can overtake,
    And strains his eyes to search his wake,
    Or whistling, as he sees you through the brake,
    Waits on a stile. very original way of presentation. tony
    Reply

    2 person liked.
    2 person did not like.
  • Alouwou Mandjah 4/24/2019 8:29:00 AM

    ***********Deep************* Reply

    5 person liked.
    1 person did not like.
Read all 15 comments »
Funeral Poems
  1. 1. Night Funeral In Harlem
    Langston Hughes
  2. 2. After The Funeral (In Memory Of Ann Jones)
    Dylan Thomas
  3. 3. A Funeral Poem On The Death Of C. E. An ..
    Phillis Wheatley
  4. 4. A Grammarian's Funeral Shortly After The..
    Robert Browning
  5. 5. I Felt A Funeral, In My Brain (280)
    Emily Dickinson
  6. 6. God's Funeral
    Thomas Hardy
  7. 7. Away With Funeral Music
    Robert Louis Stevenson
  8. 8. Funeral End For My Friend
    Howard Johnson
  9. 9. A Biker's Funeral
    Pete Crowther
  10. 10. A Funeral Fantasie
    Friedrich Schiller
  11. 11. Parnell's Funeral
    William Butler Yeats
  12. 12. She At His Funeral
    Thomas Hardy
  13. 13. A King's Soliloquy [on The Night Of His ..
    Thomas Hardy
  14. 14. Funeral Of Youth, The: Threnody
    Rupert Brooke
  15. 15. At The Funeral Of A Minor Poet
    Thomas Bailey Aldrich
  16. 16. Little Nell's Funeral
    Charles Dickens
  17. 17. She, At His Funeral
    Thomas Hardy
  18. 18. Elegy:The End Of Funeral Elegies
    John Donne
  19. 19. The Pauper's Funeral
    Robert Southey
  20. 20. The Funeral Of Youth: Threnody
    Rupert Brooke
  21. 21. *funeral Song*
    Alien Girl
  22. 22. A Funeral In Isolation*
    indira babbellapati
  23. 23. The Funeral Rites Of The Rose
    Robert Herrick
  24. 24. English Eclogues Iii - The Funeral
    Robert Southey
  25. 25. Funeral Hymn
    Sir Walter Scott
  26. 26. The Drunkard's Funeral
    Vachel Lindsay
  27. 27. Greek Funeral Chant Or Myriologue
    Felicia Dorothea Hemans
  28. 28. Cupid's Funeral
    Victor James Daley
  29. 29. The Old Man's Funeral
    William Cullen Bryant
  30. 30. At The Funeral
    George Meredith
  31. 31. ! My Wake, My Funeral, My Celebration
    Michael Shepherd
  32. 32. A Funeral
    David DeSantis
  33. 33. A German Student’s Funeral Hymn
    Dinah Maria Mulock Craik
  34. 34. Funeral Tree Of The Sokokis
    John Greenleaf Whittier
  35. 35. Hymn At The Funeral Services Of Charles ..
    Oliver Wendell Holmes
  36. 36. Threnodia Augustalis: A Funeral Pindaric..
    John Dryden
  37. 37. At A Funeral
    Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
  38. 38. The Child's Funeral
    William Cullen Bryant
  39. 39. Wellington's Funeral
    Dante Gabriel Rossetti
  40. 40. The Funeral Of The German Emperor
    William Topaz McGonagall
  41. 41. The Funeral Of The Late Prince Henry Of ..
    William Topaz McGonagall
  42. 42. The Funeral Of The Late Ex-Provost Rough..
    William Topaz McGonagall
  43. 43. Written On The Day Of My Aunt's Funeral
    Charles Lamb
  44. 44. Anton Martin Schweigaard (In The Church ..
    Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson
  45. 45. The Funeral
    Letitia Elizabeth Landon
  46. 46. The Day Dad Planned His Funeral
    Mary Nagy
  47. 47. A Lovely Bride On Way To Funeral!
    Geetha Jayakumar
  48. 48. My Funeral Procession
    Valsa George
  49. 49. The Grieving Funeral Director
    Lyn Paul
  50. 50. Funeral Music
    Geoffrey Hill

Funeral Poems

  1. A Funeral Poem On The Death Of C. E. An Infant Of Twelve Months

    Through airy roads he wings his instant flight To purer regions of celestial light; Enlarg'd he sees unnumber'd systems roll, Beneath him sees the universal whole, Planets on planets run their destin'd round, And circling wonders fill the vast profound. Th' ethereal now, and now th' empyreal skies With growing splendors strike his wond'ring eyes: The angels view him with delight unknown, Press his soft hand, and seat him on his throne; Then smilling thus: 'To this divine abode, 'The seat of saints, of seraphs, and of God, 'Thrice welcome thou.' The raptur'd babe replies, 'Thanks to my God, who snatch'd me to the skies, 'E'er vice triumphant had possess'd my heart, 'E'er yet the tempter had beguil d my heart, 'E'er yet on sin's base actions I was bent, 'E'er yet I knew temptation's dire intent; 'E'er yet the lash for horrid crimes I felt, 'E'er vanity had led my way to guilt, 'But, soon arriv'd at my celestial goal, 'Full glories rush on my expanding soul.' Joyful he spoke: exulting cherubs round Clapt their glad wings, the heav'nly vaults resound. Say, parents, why this unavailing moan? Why heave your pensive bosoms with the groan? To Charles, the happy subject of my song, A brighter world, and nobler strains belong. Say would you tear him from the realms above By thoughtless wishes, and prepost'rous love? Doth his felicity increase your pain? Or could you welcome to this world again The heir of bliss? with a superior air Methinks he answers with a smile severe, 'Thrones and dominions cannot tempt me there.' But still you cry, 'Can we the sigh borbear, 'And still and still must we not pour the tear? 'Our only hope, more dear than vital breath, 'Twelve moons revolv'd, becomes the prey of death; 'Delightful infant, nightly visions give 'Thee to our arms, and we with joy receive, 'We fain would clasp the Phantom to our breast, 'The Phantom flies, and leaves the soul unblest.' To yon bright regions let your faith ascend, Prepare to join your dearest infant friend In pleasures without measure, without end.

  2. After The Funeral (In Memory Of Ann Jones)

    After the funeral, mule praises, brays, Windshake of sailshaped ears, muffle-toed tap Tap happily of one peg in the thick Grave's foot, blinds down the lids, the teeth in black, The spittled eyes, the salt ponds in the sleeves, Morning smack of the spade that wakes up sleep, Shakes a desolate boy who slits his throat In the dark of the coffin and sheds dry leaves, That breaks one bone to light with a judgment clout' After the feast of tear-stuffed time and thistles In a room with a stuffed fox and a stale fern, I stand, for this memorial's sake, alone In the snivelling hours with dead, humped Ann Whose hodded, fountain heart once fell in puddles Round the parched worlds of Wales and drowned each sun (Though this for her is a monstrous image blindly Magnified out of praise; her death was a still drop; She would not have me sinking in the holy Flood of her heart's fame; she would lie dumb and deep And need no druid of her broken body). But I, Ann's bard on a raised hearth, call all The seas to service that her wood-tongud virtue Babble like a bellbuoy over the hymning heads, Bow down the walls of the ferned and foxy woods That her love sing and swing through a brown chapel, Blees her bent spirit with four, crossing birds. Her flesh was meek as milk, but this skyward statue With the wild breast and blessed and giant skull Is carved from her in a room with a wet window In a fiercely mourning house in a crooked year. I know her scrubbed and sour humble hands Lie with religion in their cramp, her threadbare Whisper in a damp word, her wits drilled hollow, Her fist of a face died clenched on a round pain; And sculptured Ann is seventy years of stone. These cloud-sopped, marble hands, this monumental Argument of the hewn voice, gesture and psalm Storm me forever over her grave until The stuffed lung of the fox twitch and cry Love And the strutting fern lay seeds on the black sill.

  3. Night Funeral In Harlem

    Night funeral In Harlem: Where did they get Them two fine cars? Insurance man, he did not pay-- His insurance lapsed the other day-- Yet they got a satin box for his head to lay. Night funeral In Harlem: Who was it sent That wreath of flowers? Them flowers came from that poor boy's friends-- They'll want flowers, too, When they meet their ends. Night funeral in Harlem: Who preached that Black boy to his grave? Old preacher man Preached that boy away-- Charged Five Dollars His girl friend had to pay. Night funeral In Harlem: When it was all over And the lid shut on his head and the organ had done played and the last prayers been said and six pallbearers Carried him out for dead And off down Lenox Avenue That long black hearse done sped, The street light At his corner Shined just like a tear-- That boy that they was mournin' Was so dear, so dear To them folks that brought the flowers, To that girl who paid the preacher man-- It was all their tears that made That poor boy's Funeral grand. Night funeral In Harlem.

  4. I Felt A Funeral, In My Brain (280)

    I felt a Funeral, in my Brain, And Mourners to and fro Kept treading--treading--till it seemed That Sense was breaking through-- And when they all were seated, A Service, like a Drum-- Kept beating--beating--till I thought My Mind was going numb-- And then I heard them lift a Box And creak across my Soul With those same Boots of Lead, again, Then Space--began to toll, As all the Heavens were a Bell, And Being, but an Ear, And I, and Silence, some strange Race Wrecked, solitary, here-- And then a Plank in Reason, broke, And I dropped down, and down-- And hit a World, at every plunge, And Finished knowing--then--

  5. A Grammarian's Funeral Shortly After The Revival Of Learnin

    Let us begin and carry up this corpse, Singing together. Leave we the common crofts, the vulgar thorpes Each in its tether Sleeping safe on the bosom of the plain, Cared-for till cock-crow: Look out if yonder be not day again Rimming the rock-row! That's the appropriate country; there, man's thought, Rarer, intenser, Self-gathered for an outbreak, as it ought, Chafes in the censer. Leave we the unlettered plain its herd and crop; Seek we sepulture On a tall mountain, citied to the top, Crowded with culture! All the peaks soar, but one the rest excels; Clouds overcome it; No! yonder sparkle is the citadel's Circling its summit. Thither our path lies; wind we up the heights: Wait ye the warning? Our low life was the level's and the night's; He's for the morning. Step to a tune, square chests, erect each head, 'Ware the beholders! This is our master, famous, calm and dead, Borne on our shoulders. Sleep, crop and herd! sleep, darkling thorpe and croft, Safe from the weather! He, whom we convoy to his grave aloft, Singing together, He was a man born with thy face and throat, Lyric Apollo! Long he lived nameless: how should spring take note Winter would follow? Till lo, the little touch, and youth was gone! Cramped and diminished, Moaned he, "New measures, other feet anon! My dance is finished"? No, that's the world's way: (keep the mountain-side, Make for the city!) He knew the signal, and stepped on with pride Over men's pity; Left play for work, and grappled with the world Bent on escaping: "What's in the scroll," quoth he, "thou keepest furled Show me their shaping, Theirs who most studied man, the bard and sage,-- Give!"--So, he gowned him, Straight got by heart that book to its last page: Learned, we found him. Yea, but we found him bald too, eyes like lead, Accents uncertain: "Time to taste life," another would have said, "Up with the curtain!" This man said rather, "Actual life comes next? Patience a moment! Grant I have mastered learning's crabbed text, Still there's the comment. Let me know all! Prate not of most or least, Painful or easy! Even to the crumbs I'd fain eat up the feast, Ay, nor feel queasy." Oh, such a life as he resolved to live, When he had learned it, When he had gathered all books had to give! Sooner, he spurned it. Image the whole, then execute the parts-- Fancy the fabric Quite, ere you build, ere steel strike fire from quartz, Ere mortar dab brick! (Here's the town-gate reached: there's the market-place Gaping before us.) Yea, this in him was the peculiar grace (Hearten our chorus!) That before living he'd learn how to live-- No end to learning: Earn the means first--God surely will contrive Use for our earning. Others mistrust and say, "But time escapes: Live now or never!" He said, "What's time? Leave Now for dogs and apes! Man has Forever." Back to his book then: deeper drooped his head: Calculus racked him: Leaden before, his eyes grew dross of lead: Tussis attacked him. "Now, master, take a little rest!"--not he! (Caution redoubled Step two abreast, the way winds narrowly!) Not a whit troubled, Back to his studies, fresher than at first, Fierce as a dragon He (soul-hydroptic with a sacred thirst) Sucked at the flagon. Oh, if we draw a circle premature, Heedless of far gain, Greedy for quick returns of profit, sure Bad is our bargain! Was it not great? did not he throw on God, (He loves the burthen)-- God's task to make the heavenly period Perfect the earthen? Did not he magnify the mind, show clear Just what it all meant? He would not discount life, as fools do here, Paid by instalment. He ventured neck or nothing--heaven's success Found, or earth's failure: "Wilt thou trust death or not?" He answered "Yes: Hence with life's pale lure!" That low man seeks a little thing to do, Sees it and does it: This high man, with a great thing to pursue, Dies ere he knows it. That low man goes on adding one to one, His hundred's soon hit: This high man, aiming at a million, Misses an unit. That, has the world here--should he need the next, Let the world mind him! This, throws himself on God, and unperplexed Seeking shall find him. So, with the throttling hands of death at strife, Ground he at grammar; Still, thro' the rattle, parts of speech were rife: While he could stammer He settled Hoti's business--let it be!-- Properly based Oun-- Gave us the doctrine of the enclitic De, Dead from the waist down. Well, here's the platform, here's the proper place: Hail to your purlieus, All ye highfliers of the feathered race, Swallows and curlews! Here's the top-peak; the multitude below Live, for they can, there: This man decided not to Live but Know-- Bury this man there? Here--here's his place, where meteors shoot, clouds form, Lightnings are loosened, Stars come and go! Let joy break with the storm, Peace let the dew send! Lofty designs must close in like effects: Loftily lying, Leave him--still loftier than the world suspects, Living and dying.