Dying Hymn.

    The hour-glass speeds its final sands,
        In splendor sinks the golden sun,
    So men must yield to death's demands
        When human life its course has run.

    We view the ruins of the past,
        We stand surrounded by decay,
    Our transient hours are speeding fast
        And, e'er we think, have passed away.

    Weep not, nor mourn with idle tear
That hour, inevitable and sure;
    We move, our sojourn finished here,
        To nobler realms which shall endure.

Alfred Castner King

Alfred Castner King was an American poet. He is recognized for his significant contributions to American poetry. Despite battling with blindness, his disability did not deter him from crafting poetry that captivated many readers. King often wrote about nature and personal experiences, reflecting a deep appreciation for the world around him and the nuances of human emotion.

Alfred Castner King

O, a Beautiful Thing Is the Flower That Fadeth!

Alfred Castner King, Simple Poetry

Go, And Sin No More.

Alfred Castner King, Simple Poetry

The Unknowable.

Alfred Castner King, Simple Poetry

The Spirit of freedom is Born of the Mountains.

Alfred Castner King, Simple Poetry

English

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In Mortem Meditare.

DYING THOUGHTS.


As Life's receding sunset fades
    And night descends,
I calmly watch the gathering shades,
As darkness stealthily invades
    And daylight ends.

Earth's span is drawing to its close,
    With every breath;
My pain-racked brain no respite knows,
Yet shrinks it, from the grim repose
    It feels in death.

The curtain falls on Life's last scene,
    The end is neared;
At last I face death's somber screen,
The fleeting joys which intervene
    Have disappeared.

And as a panoramic scroll
    The past unreels;
The mocking past, beyond control,
Though buried, as a parchment roll,
    Its tale reveals.

I stand before the dread, unknown,
    Yet solemn fact;
I see the seeds of foll...

Alfred Castner King

I Think When I Stand in the Presence of Death.

I think when I stand in the presence of Death,
    How futile is earthy endeavor,
If it be, with the flight of the last labored breath,
    The tongue has been silenced forever.

For no message is flashed from the lustreless eyes,
    When clos-ed so languid and weary,
And no voice from the darkness re-echoes our cries,
    In response to the agonized query!

We gaze at the solemn mysterious shroud
    With a vague and insatiate yearning,
And perceive but the sombre exterior cloud,
    With our vision of no discerning.

Not a whispering sound, not a glimmer of light,
    From that shadowy strand uncertain;
But He who ordained the day and night,
    Framed also Death's silent curtain.

Alfred Castner King

Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Dust.

Is there a Death? The light of day
At eventide shall fade away;
From out the sod's eternal gloom
The flowers, in their season, bloom;
Bud, bloom and fade, and soon the spot
Whereon they flourished knows them not;
Blighted by chill, autumnal frost;
"Ashes to ashes, dust to dust!"

Is there a Death? Pale forms of men
To formless clay resolve again;
Sarcophagus of graven stone,
Nor solitary grave, unknown,
Mausoleum, or funeral urn,
No answer to our cries return;
Nor silent lips disclose their trust;
"Ashes to ashes, dust to dust!"

Is there a Death? All forms of clay
Successively shall pass away;
But, as the joyous days of spring
Witness the glad awakening
Of nature's forces, may not men,
In some due season, rise again?
Th...

Alfred Castner King

The Unknowable.

O! Sun, resplendent in the smiling morn,
    As thou dost view the wastes of earth and sky,
Canst thou behold the realms of the Unborn,
    Canst thou behold the realms of those who die?
Where dwells the spirit e'er its mortal birth,
        E'er yet it suffereth
The pain and sorrow incident to earth?
        Where after death?
The Sun gave answer, with refulgent glow:
Child of a fleeting hour, thou too must die to know.

Canst tell, thou jeweled canopy of space,
    Bewildering, and boundless to the eyes,
Knowest thou the unborn spirits' dwelling place?
    Knowest thou the distant regions of the skies
Where rest the spirits freed from mundane strife,
        From mortal grief and care?
Knowest thou the secret of the future life?
        Canst thou ...

Alfred Castner King

H. C. M. H. S. J. K. W.

The dirge is played, the throbbing death-peal rung,
The sad-voiced requiem sung;
On each white urn where memory dwells
The wreath of rustling immortelles
Our loving hands have hung,
And balmiest leaves have strown and tenderest blossoms flung.

The birds that filled the air with songs have flown,
The wintry blasts have blown,
And these for whom the voice of spring
Bade the sweet choirs their carols sing
Sleep in those chambers lone
Where snows untrodden lie, unheard the night-winds moan.

We clasp them all in memory, as the vine
Whose running stems intwine
The marble shaft, and steal around
The lowly stone, the nameless mound;
With sorrowing hearts resign
Our brothers true and tried, and close our broken line.

How fast the lamps of li...

Oliver Wendell Holmes

I. M. R. G. C. B. 1878

The ways of Death are soothing and serene,
And all the words of Death are grave and sweet.
From camp and church, the fireside and the street,
She beckons forth - and strife and song have been.

A summer night descending cool and green
And dark on daytime's dust and stress and heat,
The ways of Death are soothing and serene,
And all the words of Death are grave and sweet.

O glad and sorrowful, with triumphant mien
And radiant faces look upon, and greet
This last of all your lovers, and to meet
Her kiss, the Comforter's, your spirit lean . . .
The ways of Death are soothing and serene.



***



We shall surely die:
Must we needs grow old?
Grow old and cold,
And we know not why?

O, the By-and-By,
And ...

William Ernest Henley