The Blessed Dead

    They loved life, even as we, who went away
        From their dear dwelling-place to one unknown
    To us who linger here. They could not stay,
        Nor we go with them, so they went alone.

    Although their beating hearts with ours kept time,
        Although their clinging hands we fondly held,
    We could not walk the path they had to climb,
        Hardly we heard the death-call when it knelled.

    Trustful, or fearful of the way ahead,
        They had to journey from this throbbing life,
    And we - we know they are the blessed dead,
        For they have gone away from pain and strife.

    We cannot see the land where they have gone.
        Our eyes are dim, and they are hid in light,
    But we are following them toward the dawn,
        Who knows when it will break upon our sight!

Helen Leah Reed

Helen Leah Reed (1860-1926) was an American author and poet, renowned for her contributions to children's literature and her historical novels. She was an influential literary figure of her time, often remembered for her stories that blended education with entertainment. Reed's works reflected her deep knowledge and interest in history, making her a notable figure in early 20th-century American literature.

Helen Leah Reed

The Fading Vision

Helen Leah Reed, Simple Poetry

His Monument

Helen Leah Reed, Simple Poetry

To Leuconoë. I-11 (From The Odes Of Horace)

Helen Leah Reed, Simple Poetry

A Victim

Helen Leah Reed, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

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

Footsteps Of Angels.

When the hours of Day are numbered,
    And the voices of the Night
Wake the better soul, that slumbered,
    To a holy, calm delight;

Ere the evening lamps are lighted,
    And, like phantoms grim and tall,
Shadows from the fitful firelight
    Dance upon the parlour wall;

Then the forms of the departed
    Enter at the open door;
The beloved, the true-hearted,
    Come to visit me once more;

He, the young and strong, who cherished
    Noble longings for the strife,
By the road-side fell and perished,
    Weary with the march of life!

They, the holy ones and weakly,
    Who the cross of suffering bore,
Folded their pale hands so meekly,
    Spake with us on earth no more!

And with them the Being Beauteous,

William Henry Giles Kingston

The Newly Dead.

I.

With the light just quenched in their eyes
They lie in their graves 'neath the skies,
And the fresh clod rests
Heavy upon their breasts.
The white rose dies
Upon the new-made mound, and underneath
The lily shrivels in the shriveling hand.
Pale guests of sovereign Death,
They sought their silent beds at his command,
And it seems
Strange that their life-long dreams
Shall find them no more,--never bid them arise
And go forth with a glory in their eyes.


II.

Still, voiceless, cold,
They lie in their shrouds and hold
The crumbling links that make
A chain for Memory's sake,
Broken, alas! too soon.
Blithe morn and brazen noon
And eve with garb of gray and gold,
Know them no more in the dark ways they take.
...

Charles Hamilton Musgrove

In Memoriam.

    They are gone away,
No prayers could avail us to longer keep
The ships called out on the unknown deep,
We saw them sail off, some lingeringly,
Some suddenly summoned put out to sea;
They stepped aboard, and the planks were drawn in,
But their sweet, pale faces were free from sin;
As they turned to whisper one last good bye,
We sent after each one a bitter cry;
    We knew on that track,
    They would never come back,
    By night or day.

    Ah, we've closed dear eyes,
But God be thanked that they, one and all,
Had the heaven light touch them before the pall;
They saw the fair land that we could not see,
And one said, "Jesus is standing by me,"
And one, "The water of life I hear,"
And one, "There's no suffering nor sorrow here,"
One, ...

Harriet Annie Wilkins

Footsteps Of Angels.

When the hours of Day are numbered,
    And the voices of the Night
Wake the better soul, that slumbered,
    To a holy, calm delight;

Ere the evening lamps are lighted,
    And, like phantoms grim and tall,
Shadows from the fitful firelight
    Dance upon the parlor wall;

Then the forms of the departed
    Enter at the open door;
The beloved, the true-hearted,
    Come to visit me once more;

He, the young and strong, who cherished
    Noble longings for the strife,
By the roadside fell and perished,
    Weary with the march of life!

They, the holy ones and weakly,
    Who the cross of suffering bore,
Folded their pale hands so meekly,
    Spake with us on earth no more!

And with them the Being Beauteous,
...

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

By The Fireside

RESIGNATION

There is no flock, however watched and tended,
    But one dead lamb is there!
There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended,
    But has one vacant chair!

The air is full of farewells to the dying,
    And mournings for the dead;
The heart of Rachel, for her children crying,
    Will not be comforted!

Let us be patient!    These severe afflictions
    Not from the ground arise,
But oftentimes celestial benedictions
    Assume this dark disguise.

We see but dimly through the mists and vapors;
    Amid these earthly damps
What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers
    May be heaven's distant lamps.

There is no Death!    What seems so is transition;
    This life of mortal breath
Is but a suburb of the life elysi...

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

"Restland."

Written In The Danville (KY.) Cemetery.


I.

Within thy hallowed precincts on this sweet autumnal day,
    We're wandering 'neath the cedar and the pine,
Where rests the sacred dust of loved ones passed away,
    And bleeding hearts a melancholy pleasure find.


II.

In memory's faithful mirror here once more we trace
    Familiar forms of those in life we knew,
And see again the shadowy outlines of some face
    That, living, beamed with kindness--ever true.


III.

Old age, and manhood's prime, and helpless infancy
    Have dotted o'er with many an emerald mound,
And marked each stone with mournful tracery
    Which stands within this consecrated ground.


IV.

And there the marble shaft its s...

George W. Doneghy