Thursday, August 23, 2018

The Goth Poetry Collection

The glories of our blood and state
Are shadows, not substantial things;
There is no armor against fate;
Death lays his icy hand on kings:
Scepter and Crown
Must tumble down,
And in the dust be equal made
With the poor crooked scythe and spade.
Some men with swords may reap the field,
And plant fresh laurels where they kill:
But their strong nerves at last must yield;
They tame but one another still:
Early or late
They stoop to fate,
And must give up their murmuring breath
When they, pale captives, creep to death.
The garlands wither on your brow;
Then boast no more your mighty deeds;
Upon Death's purple altar now
See where the victor-victim bleeds:
Your heads must come
To the cold tomb;
Only the actions of the just
Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust.

-- James Shirley

Dark looms the ivy-mantled tower
Among the spreading trees,
While round its ever-crumbling base
Are tombstones, thick as bees.
Within a tiny sheltered nook,
Close to its towering walls,
Where early snowdrops rear their heads,
And soft the footstep falls.
Two graves are laid—one old, one new,
Removed from toil and care,
Upon the grassy, verdant sward,
Alloting each their share.
Above those graves, already green,
Lov'd hands have strewn the flowers,
That grow in beauty o'er their heads
Sweet freshened by the showers.
In silence laid from years gone by
Contented there they sleep;
No busy din disturbs their rest
Save they that lowly weep
In silence, o'er those loved forms,
From which they cannot part,
Whose bitter, scalding tears denote
The grieving, aching heart.
They're gone before —why should we weep,
Why shed those bitter tears?
'Tis only for a brief, brief space,
A few short speeding years
E'er we, ourselves, shall lowly lie
Beneath that self-same sod;
Our dust shall find its resting-place,
Our souls shall find their God.
So, gentle mother, do not weep,
But rather joyous be,
That loved face beams down from Heaven
And showers her smiles on thee.
Unseen, thou can'st not see her
Upon that radiant shore;
No longer aged, there she stands,
As seen in days of yore.
She's young again—age hath no power
To dim her beauties bright;
No toil, no care, no death to fear,
No darkness deep as night.
Enshrouding round her feeble form,
Or tottering footsteps, there,
Before her Lord, she's face to face,
His Heavenly glories share.
So, gentle mother, do not weep,
But rather joyous be
To think that when the summons came
She answered cheerfully.
She could not wait—she could not stay,
It was her lord's command;
That longed-for welcome sent from Heaven
Sent from the Better Land.
O! death, thy sting—thy cruel sting
May touch this earthly mold,
But never can thy palzying hand
The soul within enfold.
Thou dar'st not touch—thou can'st not touch,
Immortal is its flight,
Towards the shores of purest sand
And sparkling waters bright.
Escorted by the angels fair
Towards that home of rest;
Within the pearly gates of gold,
Within the Saviour's breast.

-- William Handling

All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players:
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slipper'd Pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side,
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans every thing.
-- William Shakespeare

What is our life? The play of passion;
Our mirth? The music of division:
Our mothers' wombs the tiring-houses be
Where we are dressed for life's short comedy.
The earth the stage: Heaven the spectator is,
Who sits and views whoe'er doth act amiss.
The graves which hide us from the scorching sun
Are like drawn curtains when the play is done.
Thus playing, post we to our latest rest,
And then we die in earnest, not in jest.
-- Sir Walter Raleigh

Kyndeli is now mi coming
Into this werld wiht teres and cry.
Litel and pouere is myn having,
Britel and sone ifalle from hi;
Scharp and strong is mi deying,
I ne wot whider schal I.
Fowl and stinkande is mi roting --
On me, Jesu, yow have mercy!

-- Anonymous
(If these lyrics seem familiar, we've heard them before courtesy of the Mediaeval Baebes, from their CD Worldes Blisse.)

And feel I, Death! no joy from thought of thee?
Death, the great counsellor, who man inspires
With every nobler thought and fairer deed!
Death, the deliverer, who rescues man,
Death, the rewarder, who the rescued crowns!
Death, that absolves my birth, a curse without it!
Rich Death, that realises all my cares,
Toils, virtues, hopes; without it a chimera!
Death, of all pain the period, not of joy;
Joy's source and subject still subsist unhurt,
One in my soul and one in her great Sire,
Though the four winds were warring for my dust.
Yes, and from winds and waves and central night,
Though prisoned there, my dust I too reclaim,
To dust when drop proud Nature's proudest spheres,
And live entire. Death is the crown of life;
Were Death denied, poor man would live in vain:
Were Death denied, to live would not be life;
Were Death denied, e'en fools would wish to die.
Death wounds to cure: we fall: we rise: we reign!
Spring from our fetters; fasten in the skies:
When blooming Eden withers in our sight:
Death gives us more than was in Eden lost.
This king of terrors is the prince of peace.
When shall I die to vanity, pain, death?
When shall I die? When shall I live for ever?
-- Edward Young

Stay, Cupid, whither art thou flying?
Pity the pale lovers dying:
They that honour'd thee before,
Will no more
At thy altar pay their vows.
Oh let the weeping virgins strow,
Instead of rose and myrtle boughs,
Sad yew, and funeral cypress now!
Unkind Cupid, leave thy killing;
These are all thy mother's doves;
Oh do not wound such noble loves,
And make them bleed, that should be billing!

-- James Shirley

Life's loving brother, indefatigable Death,
Keeps Life alert and young.
Without him, Life's sweet breath,
Hank and unbreathable through healthy lung,
Would sicken Life himself, that, pale
As frighted sky in an eclipse,
His eyes grow blear, his spirits fail,
Smiles vanish from his leaden lips,
And, shuddering in a dull despair,
To see matter's unchecked increase,
Would shriek towards Heaven a piteous prayer
That he might quick decease,
Ere he be suffocated by
His offspring.
They, up piled in monstrous mounds,
Now that they cannot die, —
No longer know or beauty, grace, or bounds;
In unproportioned crowds of lurid life
Pressing each other for more room,
Wrangle in unavailing strife,
Faith and Hope waning in the gloom
Exuded from usurping matter;
The watchful angel no more there to shatter
Its tightening fetters, hopeless age
Wailing in swarms of slow decrepitude,
Impotent to die, and thus elude
The shocks of helpless rage
At its imprisonment on earth, —
Earth in soiled ragged gray enwrapt,
Of its dear greenery unsapt,
Grown to a gross material Hell,
Where never more is heard the knell
Of a new liberating birth;
Boyhood outnumbering childhood, manhood both,
While age, more numerous than all the three,
Gasps in imbecile sloth,
Cursing its heavenly privilege to be.
Banish good Death, and all things soon
In agony would pray
For his recall, to lift them out of swoon,
To free them from deathless decay.
Aye, Heaven's brave minister is he,
The world's unwearied cleanser,
Divine in his ubiquity,
Of freshness and of sweetness the dispenser,
Unresting key that is forever
Opening the bridal bloom of spring!
Triumphant spirit, that dost seem to sever
The body thou renew'st and dost re-wing.
Gross earthy thoughts have made the scythe
Thy symbol, with grim skeleton, and skull
Grinning in mockery of life. A blithe
Ethereal figure, beautiful
As a May-dawn, or peeping pink
Of the first rose, or maiden's blush,
Or boreal joy's ecstatic flush, —
These were fit symbols for earth's beautifier,
Man's lifter to th' angelic choir;
For thou, thou art the link
Twixt life and life. Dear Death! loud hail to thee!
Thou holy handmaid of eternity!
All nature keeps itself alive by dying, —
Seeming to die; bodies even die not,
They do but change; for spirit is ever plying
Creative power; and so from rankest rot
Of matter life upsprings,
Exulting in fresh wings,
Breathing with a new breath
Inbreathed from high beneficence: There Is No Death.
-- George H. Calvert

The loneliness is deep in my soul
only the knife offers solace
singing in the dark church
they will miss me so when i am gone
i cry even as i write
the clock is made of blood
my soul is dead and nothing is left
blood is my life
endless hopelessness

(from the Goth Poem Generator)

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