Epitaphs

On the tombstone of a Mr. Box appears this inscription:
    Here lies one Box within another.
The one of wood was very good,
    We cannot say so much for t'other.

Unknown

The identity of this poet is not known. Their works, which are often of significant historical or cultural value, have been attributed to 'Unknown'. This designation is commonly used when the creator of works, ranging from ancient texts to more modern writings, remains anonymous or uncredited. Despite the lack of personal details, the impact and importance of these works endure, offering insight into the eras and cultures from which they originated.

Unknown

Dining

Unknown , Simple Poetry

Nursery Rhyme. CCCCLV. Love And Matrimony.

Unknown , Simple Poetry

Nursery Rhyme. DLXXX. Natural History.

Unknown , Simple Poetry

Kings And Rulers

Unknown , Simple Poetry

English

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Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

Epitaphs

I thought it mushroom when I found
    It in the woods, forsaken;
But since I sleep beneath this mound,
    I must have been mistaken.

Unknown

The Workbox

"See, here's the workbox, little wife,
    That I made of polished oak."
He was a joiner, of village life;
    She came of borough folk.

He holds the present up to her
As with a smile she nears
And answers to the profferer,
"'Twill last all my sewing years!"

"I warrant it will. And longer too.
'Tis a scantling that I got
Off poor John Wayward's coffin, who
Died of they knew not what.

"The shingled pattern that seems to cease
Against your box's rim
Continues right on in the piece
That's underground with him.

"And while I worked it made me think
Of timber's varied doom;
One inch where people eat and drink,
The next inch in a tomb.

"But why do you look so white, my dear,
And turn aside your face?
You kne...

Thomas Hardy

Only A Box.

[From Arthur Selwyn's Note-book.]

[Only A Box.]


        Only a box, secure and strong,
        Rough, and wooden, and six feet long,
        Lying here in the drizzling rain,
        Waiting to take the up-bound train.



        Only its owner, just inside,
        Cold, and livid, and glassy-eyed;
        Little to him if the train be late!
        Nothing has he to do but wait.

        Only an open grave, somewhere,
        Heady to close when he gets there;
        Turfs and grasses and flowerets sweet,
        Ready to press him 'neath their feet.

     ...

William McKendree Carleton

Epitaphs

An epitaph in an old Moravian cemetery reads thus:

Remember, friend, as you pass by,
As you are now, so once was I;
As I am now thus you must be,
So be prepared to follow me.

There had been written underneath in pencil, presumably by some wag:

To follow you I'm not content
Till I find out which way you went.

Unknown

The Epitaph

Here, five feet deep, lies on his back
A cobbler, starmonger, and quack;
Who to the stars, in pure good will,
Does to his best look upward still.
Weep, all you customers that use
His pills, his almanacks, or shoes;
And you that did your fortunes seek,
Step to his grave but once a-week;
This earth, which bears his body's print,
You'll find has so much virtue in't,
That I durst pawn my ears, 'twill tell
Whate'er concerns you full as well,
In physic, stolen goods, or love,
As he himself could, when above.

Jonathan Swift

To An Unknown Bust In The British Museum.

"Sermons in stones."


Who were you once? Could we but guess,
We might perchance more boldly
Define the patient weariness
That sets your lips so coldly;
You "lived," we know, for blame and fame;
But sure, to friend or foeman,
You bore some more distinctive name
Than mere "B. C.,"--and "Roman"?

Your pedestal should help us much.
Thereon your acts, your title,
(Secure from cold Oblivion's touch!)
Had doubtless due recital;
Vain hope!--not even deeds can last!
That stone, of which you're minus,
Maybe with all your virtues past
Endows ... a TIGELLINUS!

We seek it not; we should not find.
But still, it needs no magic
To tell you wore, like most mankind,
Your comic mask and tragic;
And held that things were false and tr...

Henry Austin Dobson