Quotes about relics, page 13
The Sylvan Grave
Lay me not, when I die, in the place of the dead,
With the dwellings of men round my resting place spread,
But amidst the still forest, unseen and alone,
Where the waters go by with a murmuring tone;
Where the wild bird above me may wave its dark wing,
And the flowers I have loved from my ashes may spring;
Where affection's own blossom may lift its blue eye,
With an eloquent glance from the place where I lie.
Let the rose and the woodbine be there, to enwreath
A bright chaplet of bloom for the pale brow of death;
And the clover's red blossom be seen, that the hum
Of the honey-bee's wing, may for requiem come:
And when those I have loved, ‘midst the changes of earth,
The clouds of its sorrow, its sunshine of mirth,
Shall visit the spot where my cold relics lie,
And gaze on its flowers with a tear-moisten'd eye—
Let them think that my spirit still sometimes is there,
My breath the light zephyr that twines in their hair,
And these flowers, in their fragrance, a memory be,
To tell them thus sweet was their friendship to me.
poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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We Should Be Stingier
We should be stingier
breathing out and breathing in-
then, perhaps, the epic
will lie down in neat quatrains.
We have to be more generous,
louder, like the outcry 'Follow me! '
stronger, coarser-
with the earth's coarse globe.
I envy the relics of space,
compressed by the word in layers,
but brevity is the sister of ineptitude
when it springs from emptiness.
Not all conciseness is priceless.
Rhymed oil cakes are stiff and brittle,
and someone's square hay,
I wouldn't eat if I were a horse.
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poem by Yevgeny Yevtushenko
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Epitaph on Sir Palmes Fairborne's Tomb in Westminster Abbey
Ye sacred relics, which your marble keep,
Here, undisturbed by wars, in quiet sleep;
Discharge the trust, which, when it was below,
Fairborne's undaunted soul did undergo,
And be the town's palladium from the foe.
Alive and dead these walls he will defend:
Great actions great examples must attend.
The Candian siege his early valour knew,
Where Turkish blood did his young hands imbrue.
From thence returning with deserved applause,
Against the Moors his well-fleshed sword he draws;
The same the courage, and the same the cause.
His youth and age, his life and death, combine,
As in some great and regular design,
All of a piece throughout, and all divine.
Still nearer heaven his virtues shone more bright,
Like rising flames expanding in their height;
The martyr's glory crowned the soldier's fight.
More bravely British general never fell,
Nor general's death was e'er revenged so well;
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poem by John Dryden
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Straight
In a society where everyone has been left bent...
Or crooked by events,
That have shakened them from thoughts...
They were sold and bought,
As authentic ones taught they ought to follow.
Borrow or steal...
To initiate their acceptance in reality?
Or...
What is perceived as 'thee' reality?
Well...
Who can honestly say they have escaped today,
Being totally and completely straight?
As defined by those redefining definitions.
Maybe there are a few exceptions,
Among those left narrowminded...
And blinded in darkness by cave dwelling.
But hardly anyone can say,
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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Roman Gravemounds
By Rome's dim relics there walks a man,
Eyes bent; and he carries a basket and spade;
I guess what impels him to scrape and scan;
Yea, his dreams of that Empire long decayed.
'Vast was Rome,' he must muse, 'in the worlds regard,
Vast it looms there still, Vast it ever will be;'
And he stoops as to dig and unmine some shard
Left by those who are held in such memory.
But no; in his basket, see, he has brought
A little white furred thing, stiff of limb,
Whose life never won from the world a thought;
It is this, and not Rome, that is moving him.
And to make it a grave he has come to the spot,
And he delves in the ancient dead's long home;
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poem by Thomas Hardy
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A Cottage Of Love Smashed
An old-man after the burial of two sons,
A daughter and his aged faithful wife,
Began to search contents of the cottage,
With anxious perturbed eyes
Bearing the expression of helplessness.
A few worried men, women and children
Of the locality gathered around to sympathise
With the cumbersome grave hearts.
He rummaged around ashes of the rubbled cottage,
Two goats and their young babes
Lay all shredded amid the wreckage;
A parrot in the cage was ragged, torn to pieces,
But lay liberated from the encagement of life.
The old man searched and searched,
At last found he a bag made of aged patched cloth,
It contained neither money, nor gold nor silver
But a handkerchief, a ring and a few letters,
The relics of his wife: an expired companion
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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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The Sea Diver
My way is on the bright blue sea,
My sleep upon its rocking tide;
And many an eye has followed me
Where billows clasp the worn seaside.
My plumage bears the crimson blush,
When ocean by the sun is kissed!
When fades the evening's purple flush,
My dark wing cleaves the silver mist.
Full many a fathom down beneath
The bright arch of the splendid deep
My ear has heard the sea-shell breathe
O'er living myriads in their sleep.
They rested by the coral throne,
And by the pearly diadem;
Where the pale sea-grape had o'ergrown
The glorious dwellings made for them.
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poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Our Sixty Years
Well, they said that we would never last, yet, here
We are, two relics from the past.
We out-survived the skeptics who had said
Our marriage would be doomed, if not misled.
But, sixty years have passed and we have proved,
That we together, heart to heart, improved our lives
With each successive year.
We have endured the substances of living.
The salve of love has healed the wounds of life.
You, by your sweet constancy, lifted up and drew
From me my best, and I, the more, did grow.
How happy those fond days, how fast they go.
Often I would travel back along that old
And traveled track, as when we were so young,
Those early days when I, so serious, attempted
To apply myself to jobs of meager worth,
So proud of my supply to family gain.
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poem by Lynn W. Petty
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Suitcase
Its silver clasp looks like a man grasping
his hands above his head in victory;
the latches, like twin hatchbacks headed away.
There are no wheels, just four steel nipples for sliding.
A hexagonal seal announces the defunct
"U.S. Trunk Company." The frame is wood—
big, heavy, cheap—covered with imitation leather,
its blue just slightly darker than Mom's eyes.
"It's beautiful. Much too expensive," she told Dad,
and kissed him. The lining is pink, quilted
acetate. Three sides have pouches with elastic tops—
stretched out now, like old underwear.
I watched Mom pack them with panties and brassieres
when I was so little she didn't blush.
The right front corner has been punctured and crushed.
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poem by Charles Harper Webb
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To the Holy Spirit
Immeasurable haze:
The desert valley spreads
Up golden river-beds
As if in other days.
Trees rise and thin away,
And past the trees, the hills,
Pure line and shade of dust,
Bear witness to our wills:
We see them, for we must;
Calm in deceit, they stay.
High noon returns the mind
Upon its local fact:
Dry grass and sand; we find
No vision to distract.
Low in the summer heat,
Naming old graves, are stones
Pushed here and there, the seat
Of nothing, and the bones
Beneath are similar:
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poem by Yvor Winters
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