With two white roses on her breasts, White candles at head and feet, Dark Madonna of the grave she rests; Lord Death has found her sweet. Her mother pawned her wedding ring To lay her out in white; She'd be so proud she'd dance and sing to see herself tonight. Countee Cullen...Read More
'We are sending you, dear flowers, Forth alone to die, Where your gentle sisters may not weep O'er the cold graves where you lie; But you go to bring them fadeless life In the bright homes where they dwell, And you softly smile that 't is so, As we sadly sing farewell. O...Read More
In Flanders fields the poppies blow Between the crosses, row on row, That mark our place; and in the sky The larks, still bravely singing, fly Scarce heard amid the guns below. We are the Dead. Short days ago We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, Loved and were loved, and now...
To-night the little girl-nun died. Her hands were laid Across her breast; the last sun tried To kiss her quiet braid; And where the little river cried, Her grave was made. The little girl-nun’s soul, in awe, Went silently To where her brother Christ she saw, Under the Living Tree; He sighed, and his face...Read More
The handful here, that once was Mary's earth, Held, while it breathed, so beautiful a soul, That, when she died, all recognized her birth, And had their sorrow in serene control. "Not here! not here!" to every mourner's heart The wintry wind seemed whispering round her bier; And when the tomb-door...Read More
If I should die, think only this of me: That there’s some corner of a foreign field That is for ever England. There shall be In that rich earth a richer dust concealed; A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware, Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to...Read More