Home

Resources for funerals

Browse Hymns, Songs, Poems, Readings, Imagery and Literature

    To S.R. Crockett

    Robert Louis Stevenson (1850-1894)

    Blows the wind to-day, and the sun and the rain are flying,
    Blows the wind on the moors to-day and now,
    Where about the graves of the martyrs the whaups are crying,
    My heart remembers how!

    Grey recumbent tombs of the dead in desert places,
    Standing-stones on the vacant wine-red moor,
    Hills of sheep, and the howes of the silent vanished races,
    And winds, austere and pure:

    Be it granted me to behold you again in dying,
    Hills of home! and to hear again the call;
    Hear about the graves of the martyrs the peewees crying;
    And hear no more at all.

    Vitae Summa Brevis

    Ernest Dowson (1867-1900)

    They are not long, the weeping and the laughter,
    Love and desire and hate:
    I think they have no portion in us after
    We pass the gate.

    They are not long, the days of wine and roses:
    Out of a misty dream
    Our path emerges for awhile, then closes
    Within a dream.

    A quoi bon dire

    Charlotte Mew (1869-1928)

    Seventeen years ago you said
    Something that sounded like Good-bye:
    And everybody thinks you are dead
    But I.

    So I, as I grow stiff and cold
    To this and that say Good-bye too;
    And everybody sees that I am old
    But you.

    And one fine morning in a sunny lane
    Some boy and girl will meet and kiss and swear
    That nobody can love their way again
    While over there
    You will have smiled, I shall have tossed your

    During Wind and Rain

    Thomas Hardy (1840-1928)

    They sing their dearest songs –
    He, she, all of them – yea,
    Treble and tenor and bass,
    And one to play;
    With the candles mooning each face. . . .
    Ah, no; the years O!
    How the sick leaves reel down in throngs!

    They clear the creeping moss –
    Elders and juniors – aye,
    Making the pathways neat
    And the garden gay;
    And they build a shady seat. . .
    Ah, no; the years, the years;
    See, the white storm-birds wing across.

    They are blithely breakfasting all –
    Men and maidens – yea,
    Under the summer tree,
    With a glimpse of the bay,
    While pet fowl come to the knee. . . .
    Ah, no; the years O!
    And the rotten rose is ripped from the wall.

    They change to a high new house,
    He, she, all of them – aye,
    Clocks and carpets and chairs
    On the lawn all day,
    And brightest things that are theirs. . . .
    Ah, no; the years, the years;
    Down their carved names the rain-drop ploughs.

    Blenheim Oranges

    Edward Thomas (1878-1917)

    Gone, gone again,
    May, June, July,
    And August gone,
    Again gone by,

    Not memorable
    Save that I saw them go,
    As past the empty quays
    The rivers flow.

    And now again,
    In the harvest rain,
    The Blenheim oranges
    Fall grubby from the trees,

    As when I was young—
    And when the lost one was here—
    And when the war began
    To turn young men to dung.

    Look at the old house,
    Outmoded, dignified,
    Dark and untenanted,
    With grass growing instead

    Of the footsteps of life,
    The friendliness, the strife;
    In its beds have lain
    Youth, love, age, and pain:

    I am something like that;
    Only I am not dead,
    Still breathing and interested
    In the house that is not dark:—

    I am something like that:
    Not one pane to reflect the sun,
    For the schoolboys to throw at—
    They have broken every one.

    The Reassurance

    Thom Gunn (1929-2004)

    About ten days or so
    After we saw you dead
    You came back in a dream.
    I'm alright now you said.

    And it was you, although
    You were fleshed out again:
    You hugged us all round then,
    And gave your welcoming beam.

    How like you to be so kind,
    Seeking to reassure.
    And, yes, how like my mind
    To make itself secure.

    Fare Well

    Walter de la Mare (1873-1956)

    When I lie where shades of darkness
    Shall no more assail mine eyes,
    Nor the rain make lamentation
    When the wind sighs;
    How will fare the world whose wonder
    Was the very proof of me?
    Memory fades, must the remembered
    Perishing be?

    Oh, when this my dust surrenders
    Hand, foot, lip, to dust again,
    May these loved and loving faces
    Please other men!
    May the rusting harvest hedgerow
    Still the Traveller's Joy entwine,
    And as happy children gather
    Posies once mine.

    Look thy last on all things lovely,
    Every hour. Let no night
    Seal thy sense in deathly slumber
    Till to delight
    Thou have paid thy utmost blessing;
    Since that all things thou wouldst praise
    Beauty took from those who loved them
    In other days.

    From Cymbeline

    William Shakespeare (1564-1616)

    Fear no more the heat o’ the sun,
    Nor the furious winter’s rages;
    Thou thy worldly task hast done,
    Home art gone, and ta’en thy wages:
    Golden lads and girls all must,
    As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.

    Fear no more the frown o’ the great;
    Thou art past the tyrant’s stroke;
    Care no more to clothe and eat;
    To thee the reed is as the oak:
    The scepter, learning, physic, must
    All follow this, and come to dust.

    Fear no more the lightning flash,
    Nor the all-dreaded thunder stone;
    Fear not slander, censure rash;
    Thou hast finished joy and moan:
    All lovers young, all lovers must
    Consign to thee, and come to dust.

    No exorciser harm thee!
    Nor no witchcraft charm thee!
    Ghost unlaid forbear thee!
    Nothing ill come near thee!
    Quiet consummation have;
    And renownèd be thy grave!

    From Julius Ceasar

    William Shakespeare (1564-1616)

    Cowards die many times before their deaths;
    The valiant never taste of death but once.
    Of all the wonders that I yet have heard,
    It seems to me most strange that men should fear,
    Seeing that death, a necessary end,
    Will come when it will come.

    From Measure for Measure

    William Shakespeare (1564-1616)

    Be absolute for death; either death or life
    Shall thereby be the sweeter. Reason thus with life:
    If I do lose thee, I do lose a thing
    That none but fools would keep: a breath thou art,
    Servile to all the skyey influences,
    That dost this habitation, where thou keep'st,
    Hourly afflict: merely, thou art death's fool;
    For him thou labour'st by thy flight to shun
    And yet runn'st toward him still. Thou art not noble;
    For all the accommodations that thou bear'st
    Are nursed by baseness. Thou'rt by no means valiant;
    For thou dost fear the soft and tender fork
    Of a poor worm. Thy best of rest is sleep,
    And that thou oft provokest; yet grossly fear'st
    Thy death, which is no more. Thou art not thyself;
    For thou exist'st on many a thousand grains
    That issue out of dust. Happy thou art not;
    For what thou hast not, still thou strivest to get,
    And what thou hast, forget'st. Thou art not certain;
    For thy complexion shifts to strange effects,
    After the moon. If thou art rich, thou'rt poor;
    For, like an ass whose back with ingots bows,
    Thou bear's thy heavy riches but a journey,
    And death unloads thee. Friend hast thou none;
    For thine own bowels, which do call thee sire,
    The mere effusion of thy proper loins,
    Do curse the gout, serpigo, and the rheum,
    For ending thee no sooner. Thou hast nor youth nor age,
    But, as it were, an after-dinner's sleep,
    Dreaming on both; for all thy blessed youth
    Becomes as aged, and doth beg the alms
    Of palsied eld; and when thou art old and rich,
    Thou hast neither heat, affection, limb, nor beauty,
    To make thy riches pleasant. What's yet in this
    That bears the name of life? Yet in this life
    Lie hid more thousand deaths: yet death we fear,
    That makes these odds all even.

    From Measure for Meaure

    William Shakespeare (1564-1616)

    Ay, but to die, and go we know not where;
    To lie in cold obstruction and to rot;
    This sensible warm motion to become
    A kneaded clod; and the delighted spirit
    To bathe in fiery floods, or to reside
    In thrilling region of thick-ribbed ice;
    To be imprison'd in the viewless winds,
    And blown with restless violence round about
    The pendent world; or to be worse than worst
    Of those that lawless and incertain thought
    Imagine howling: 'tis too horrible!
    The weariest and most loathed worldly life
    That age, ache, penury and imprisonment
    Can lay on nature is a paradise
    To what we fear of death.

    Weep You No More

    Anon (1603)

    Weep you no more, sad fountains;
    What need you flow so fast?
    Look how the snowy mountains
    Heaven’s sun doth gently waste.
    But my sun’s heavenly eyes
    View not your weeping,
    That now lies sleeping
    Softly, now softly lies
    Sleeping.

    Sleep is a reconciling,
    A rest that peace begets.
    Doth not the sun rise smiling
    When fair at even he sets?
    Rest you then, rest, sad eyes,
    Melt not in weeping
    While she lies sleeping
    Softly, now softly lies
    Sleeping.

    From 'The White Devil'

    John Webster (1575-1638)

    Call for the robin-redbreast and the wren,
    Since o'er shady groves they hover
    And with leaves and flowers do cover
    The friendless bodies of unburied men.
    Call unto his funeral dole
    The ant, the field-mouse, and the mole,
    To rear him hillocks that shall keep him warm
    And, when gay tombs are robb'd, sustain no harm;
    But keep the wolf far thence, that's foe to men,
    For with his nails he'll dig them up again.

    From 'The Dutchess of Malfi'

    John Webster (1575-1638)

    Hark, now everything is still,
    The screech-owl and the whistler shrill,
    Call upon our dame aloud,
    And bid her quickly don her shroud!
    Much you had of land and rent;
    Your length in clay's now competent:
    A long war disturbed your mind;
    Here your perfect peace is signed.
    Of what is't fools make such vain keeping?
    Sin their conception, their birth weeping,
    Their life a general mist of error,
    Their death a hideous storm of terror.
    Strew your hair with powders sweet,
    Don clean linen, bathe your feet,
    And (the foul fiend more to check)
    A crucifix let bless your neck:
    'Tis now full tide 'tween night and day;
    End your groan, and come away.

    Autumn

    Walter de la Mare (1873-1956)

    There is wind where the rose was;
    Cold rain where sweet grass was;
    And clouds like sheep
    Stream o'er the steep
    Grey skies where the lark was.

    Nought gold where your hair was;
    Nought warm where your hand was;
    But phantom, forlorn,
    Beneath the thorn,
    Your ghost where your face was.

    Sad winds where your voice was;
    Tears, tears where my heart was;
    And ever with me,
    Child, ever with me,
    Silence where hope was.

    From 'Villon'

    Basil Bunting (1900-1985)

    Remember, imbeciles and wits,
    sots and ascetics, fair and foul,
    young girls with little tender tits,
    that DEATH is written over all.

    Worn hides that scarcely clothe the soul
    they are so rotten, old and thin,
    or firm and soft and warm and full—
    fellmonger Death gets every skin.

    All that is piteous, all that’s fair,
    all that is fat and scant of breath,
    Elisha’s baldness, Helen’s hair,
    is Death’s collateral:

    Three score and ten years after sight
    of this pay me your pulse and breath
    value received. And who dare cite,
    as we forgive our debtors, Death?

    Abelard and Eloise,
    Henry the Fowler, Charlemagne,
    Genée, Lopokova, all these
    die, die in pain.

    And General Grant and General Lee,
    Patti and Florence Nightingale,
    like Tyro and Antiope
    drift among ghosts in Hell,

    know nothing, are nothing, save a fume
    driving across a mind
    preoccupied with this: our doom
    is, to be sifted by the wind,

    heaped up, smoothed down like silly sands.
    We are less permanent than thought.
    The Emperor with the Golden Hands

    is still a word, a tint, a tone,
    insubstantial-glorious,
    when we ourselves are dead and gone
    and the green grass growing over us.

    Aubade

    Philip Larkin (1922-1985)

    I work all day, and get half-drunk at night.
    Waking at four to soundless dark, I stare.
    In time the curtain-edges will grow light.
    Till then I see what’s really always there:
    Unresting death, a whole day nearer now,
    Making all thought impossible but how
    And where and when I shall myself die.
    Arid interrogation: yet the dread
    Of dying, and being dead,
    Flashes afresh to hold and horrify.

    The mind blanks at the glare. Not in remorse
    —The good not done, the love not given, time
    Torn off unused—nor wretchedly because
    An only life can take so long to climb
    Clear of its wrong beginnings, and may never;
    But at the total emptiness for ever,
    The sure extinction that we travel to
    And shall be lost in always. Not to be here,
    Not to be anywhere,
    And soon; nothing more terrible, nothing more true.

    This is a special way of being afraid
    No trick dispels. Religion used to try,
    That vast moth-eaten musical brocade
    Created to pretend we never die,
    And specious stuff that says No rational being
    Can fear a thing it will not feel, not seeing
    That this is what we fear—no sight, no sound,
    No touch or taste or smell, nothing to think with,
    Nothing to love or link with,
    The anaesthetic from which none come round.

    And so it stays just on the edge of vision,
    A small unfocused blur, a standing chill
    That slows each impulse down to indecision.
    Most things may never happen: this one will,
    And realisation of it rages out
    In furnace-fear when we are caught without
    People or drink. Courage is no good:
    It means not scaring others. Being brave
    Lets no one off the grave.
    Death is no different whined at than withstood.

    Slowly light strengthens, and the room takes shape.
    It stands plain as a wardrobe, what we know,
    Have always known, know that we can’t escape,
    Yet can’t accept. One side will have to go.
    Meanwhile telephones crouch, getting ready to ring
    In locked-up offices, and all the uncaring
    Intricate rented world begins to rouse.
    The sky is white as clay, with no sun.
    Work has to be done.
    Postmen like doctors go from house to house.

    Not Waving but Drowning

    Stevie Smith (1902-1971)

    Nobody heard him, the dead man,
    But still he lay moaning:
    I was much further out than you thought
    And not waving but drowning.

    Poor chap, he always loved larking
    And now he’s dead
    It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,
    They said.

    Oh, no no no, it was too cold always
    (Still the dead one lay moaning)
    I was much too far out all my life
    And not waving but drowning.

    Against the fear of death

    by Lucretius, translated by John Dryden (1631-1700)

    What has this bugbear Death to frighten man,
    If souls can die, as well as bodies can?
    For, as before our birth we feel no pain,
    When Punic arms infested land and main,
    When heaven and earth were in confusion hurl'd
    For the debated empire of the world,
    Which awed with dreadful expectation lay,
    Soon to be slaves, uncertain who should sway:
    So, when our mortal frame shall be disjoin'd,
    The lifeless lump uncoupled from the mind,
    From sense of grief and pain we shall be free;
    We shall not feel, because we shall not be.
    Though earth in seas, and seas in heaven were lost,
    We should not move, we only should be toss'd.

    Nay, e'en suppose when we have suffered fate
    The soul should feel in her divided state,
    What's that to us? for we are only we,
    While souls and bodies in our frame agree.
    Nay, though our atoms should revolve by chance,
    And matter leap into the former dance;
    Though time our life and motion could restore,
    And make our bodies what they were before,
    What gain to us would all this bustle bring?
    The new-made man would be another thing.
    When once an interrupting pause is made,
    That individual being is decay'd.

    We, who are dead and gone, shall bear no part
    In all the pleasures, nor shall feel the smart,
    Which to that other mortal shall accrue,
    Whom to our matter time shall mold anew.
    For backward if you look on that long space
    Of ages past, and view the changing face
    Of matter, toss'd and variously combin'd
    In sundry shapes, 'tis easy for the mind
    From thence to infer, that seeds of things have been
    In the same order as they now are seen:
    Which yet our dark remembrance cannot trace,
    Because a pause of life, a gaping space,
    Has come betwixt, where memory lies dead,
    And all the wandering motions from the sense are fled.

    For whosoe'er shall in misfortune live,
    Must be, when those misfortunes shall arrive;
    And since the man who is not, feels not woe,
    (For death exempts him, and wards off the blow,
    Which we, the living, only feel and bear,)
    What is there left for us in death to fear?
    When once that pause of life has come between
    'Tis just the same as we had never been.

    Nonsense

    by Richard Corbett (1582-1635)

    Like to the thundering tone of unspoke speeches,
    Or like a lobster clad in logic breeches,
    Or like the gray fur of a crimson cat,
    Or like the moon-calf in a slipshoo hat,
    Or like a shadow when the sun is gone,
    Or like a thought that ne’er was thought upon,
    Even such is man who never was begotten
    Until his children were both dead and rotten.

    Like to the fiery touchstone of a cabbage,
    Or like a crab-louse with his bag and baggage,
    Or like the’abortive issue of a fizzle,
    Or like the bag-pudding of a plowman’s whistle,
    Or like the four square circle of a ring,
    Or like to the singing of hey down a ding,
    Even such is man, who, breathless without doubt,
    Spake to small purpose when his tongue was out.

    Like to the green, fresh, fading, withered rose,
    Or like to rhyme or verse that runs in prose,
    Or like the humbles of a tinder-box,
    Or like a man that's sound, yet hath the pox,
    Or like a hobnail coined in single pence,
    Or like the present preterperfect tense,
    Even such is man, who died and then did laugh
    To see these lines writ on his Epitaph.

1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
..
Graphic Source