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I ask thee not stand at my grave and weep

For I am not spent, for I am at rest and sleep

I ask thee not to shed a tear

For I am with you and forever always near

I ask thee not to sing sorrowful song

For we shall meet thee again before long

I ask thee not to live life in slumber

But rejoice and recall a life worth remember



-Rod P. Stapleton (Maharja)

Distressing heart delay leaving, tears for not be told

Forgiving amends act as if, lies acquitted to be bold

Despair be forgot, piteous moans no more

Despairing light blinks to dark, hopeless sight ye wore

Bleak thee apparitions intent, depressing disguise thee wear

For all that is life’s content he placed before ye all to bear

Sullenly thee depart, leave-taking love behind

That akin to a despondent curse, forsaken all mankind



Rod P. Stapleton (Maharja)

Out of the night that covers me,

Black as the pit from pole to pole,

I thank whatever gods may be

For my unconquerable soul.



In the fell clutch of circumstance

I have not winced nor cried aloud.

Under the bludgeoning of chance

My head is bloody, but unbowed.



Beyond this place of wrath and tears

Looms but the Horror of the shade,

And yet the menace of the years

Finds and shall find me unafraid.



It matters not how strait the gate,

How charged with punishments the scroll,

I am the master of my fate:

I am the captain of my soul.



William Ernest Henley (1849–1903)

My soul is dark - Oh! quickly string

The harp I yet can brook to hear;

And let thy gentle fingers fling

Its melting murmurs o'er mine ear.

If in this heart a hope be dear,

That sound shall charm it forth again:

If in these eyes there lurk a tear,

'Twill flow, and cease to burn my brain.



But bid the strain be wild and deep,

Nor let thy notes of joy be first:

I tell thee, minstrel, I must weep,

Or else this heavy heart will burst;

For it hath been by sorrow nursed,

And ached in sleepless silence, long;

And now 'tis doomed to know the worst,

And break at once - or yield to song.



-Lord Byron (1788-1824)

But first, on earth as vampire sent,

Thy corse shall from its tomb be rent:

Then ghastly haunt thy native place,

And suck the blood of all thy race;



There from thy daughter, sister, wife,

At midnight drain the stream of life;

Yet loathe the banquet which perforce

Must feed thy livid living corse:

Thy victims ere they yet expire

Shall know the demon for their sire,

As cursing thee, thou cursing them,

Thy flowers are withered on the stem.



(passage from Lord Byrons epic poem The Giaour)



Lord Byron (1788-1824)

COMMENTS

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PAGAN
08:15 Jul 14 2010

great poem Maharja

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