A Rainy Evening / Casey Stewart

In a room lined with marble
I find a moment of peace
Standing there with a calm breath
I realize, life goes on...
An eveing of temptations
Has come to an end and
once again, I sit with friends
The world can wait...
I have found my escape
Friends keep me afloat
When the storm is too dark
For land to be seen
They are my light in the shadows
All I needed to relax was a rainy evening... 

P.S. thanks to Sulagna for suggesting Casey Stewart.

I Love You / Sara Teasdale

When April bends above me
And finds me fast asleep
Dust need not keep the secret
A live heart died to keep.


When April tells the thrushes,
The meadow-larks will know,
And pipe the three words lightly
To all the winds that blow.


Above his roof the swallows,
In notes like far-blown rain,
Will tell the little sparrow
Beside his window-pane.


O sparrow, little sparrow,
When I am fast asleep,
Then tell my love the secret
That I have died to keep.

Do not stand at my grave and weep by Mary Elizabeth Frye

Do not stand at my grave and weep,
I am not there, I do not sleep.
I am in a thousand winds that blow,
I am the softly falling snow.
I am the gentle showers of rain,
I am the fields of ripening grain.
I am in the morning hush,
I am in the graceful rush
Of beautiful birds in circling flight,
I am the starshine of the night.
I am in the flowers that bloom,
I am in a quiet room.
I am in the birds that sing,
I am in each lovely thing.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there. I do not die.




*** Do not stand at my grave and weep is a poem written in 1932 by Mary Elizabeth Frye. Although the origin of the poem was disputed until later in her life, Mary Frye's authorship was confirmed in 1998 after research by Abigail Van Buren, a newspaper columnist.

Funeral Blues / W.H.Auden

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone.
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling in the sky the message He is Dead,
Put crêpe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever, I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun.
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.