To My Dear Brother Eldridge Stanton (Junior)

WHO DIED BRAVELY AT NIAGARA, ON THE AFTERNOON OF SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 4TH, 1912.

No tears for thee, no tears, or sighs,
Or breaking heart -
But smiles, that thou so well that bitter hour
Didst play thy part!

Virna Sheard

Virna Sheard was a Canadian poet and novelist associated with the late 19th and early 20th centuries. She gained recognition for her poetry collections such as 'The Miracle, and Other Poems' and 'A Sea of Sunset'. Her work often explored themes of love, spirituality, and the natural world. Apart from poetry, she also wrote several novels that contributed significantly to Canadian literature of her time.

Virna Sheard

The Knight-Errant

Virna Sheard, Simple Poetry

When April Comes!

Virna Sheard, Simple Poetry

A Song Of Summer Days

Virna Sheard, Simple Poetry

A Song

Virna Sheard, 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.

In Memoriam. - Mrs. Georgiana Ives Comstock,

Died at Hartford, April 30th, 1861, aged 22.


I saw a brilliant bridal.
                    All that cheers
And charms the leaping heart of youth was there;
And she, the central object of the group,
The cherished song-bird of her father's house,
Array'd in beauty, was the loved of all.
Would I could tell you what a world of flowers
Were concentrated there--how they o'erflow'd
In wreaths and clusters--how they climb'd and swept
From vase to ceiling, with their gay festoons
Whispering each other in their mystic lore
Of fragrance, and consulting how to swell,
As best they might, the tide of happiness.

A few brief moons departed and I sought
The same abode. There was a gather'd throng
Beyond the threshold stone. A few white flowers
Crept o'er...

Lydia Howard Sigourney

To My Friend OnThe Death Of His Sister

Thine is a grief, the depth of which another
May never know;
Yet, o'er the waters, O my stricken brother!
To thee I go.

I lean my heart unto thee, sadly folding
Thy hand in mine;
With even the weakness of my soul upholding
The strength of thine.

I never knew, like thee, the dear departed;
I stood not by
When, in calm trust, the pure and tranquil-hearted
Lay down to die.

And on thy ears my words of weak condoling
Must vainly fall
The funeral bell which in thy heart is tolling,
Sounds over all!

I will not mock thee with the poor world's common
And heartless phrase,
Nor wrong the memory of a sainted woman
With idle praise.

With silence only as their benediction,
God's angels come
Where, in the shadow of ...

John Greenleaf Whittier

In Memoriam. - The Brothers,

Mr. FISHER AMES BUELL, died at Hartford, May 19th, 1861, aged 25, and Mr. HENRY R. BUELL, on his voyage to Europe, June 20th, 1862, aged 30, the only children of Mr. ROBERT and Mrs. LAURA BUELL.


Both gone. Both smitten in their manly prime,
    Yet the fair transcript of their virtues here,
And treasured memories of their boyhood's time
    Allay the anguish of affection's tear.

One hath his rest amid the sacred shade
    Whose turf reveals the mourner's frequent tread,
And one beneath the unfathomed deep is laid
    To slumber till the sea restores her dead.

The childless parents weep their broken trust,
    Hope's fountain failing at its cherish'd springs,
And widow'd sorrow shrouds herself in dust,
    While one lone flowret to her bosom clings.<...

Lydia Howard Sigourney

Not Dead, but Sleeping.

[To the memory of Edwin B. Foster, a member of the Howards, who nobly sacrificed his own life for others, and in remembrance of those unknown to fame or friends who have silently followed in the steps of our Saviour.]



The shadow of death is around us all,
    And life is a sorrowful thing;
For the winds sweep by with a mournful sigh,
    And sad are the tidings they bring.

He is dead--and the strong, brave life that he gave
    Seemed offered to God in vain;
Yet he died, Christ-like, in a labor of love,
    'Mid sorrow and death and pain.

And why should we sorrow--the crown is his
    And the glory of life is won;
Though he died when his labor was just begun,
    Yet the work of his life is done.

The beautiful South is a land of death,

Fannie Isabelle Sherrick

In Memoriam. - Mr. John A. Taintor,

Died at Hartford, on Saturday Evening, November 15th, 1862, aged 62 years.


A sense of loss is on us. One hath gone
    Whose all-pervading energy doth leave
A void and silence 'mid the haunts of men
    And desolation for the hearts that grieve
In his fair mansion, so bereft and lone,
Whence the inspiring smile, and cheering voice have flown.

Those too there are who eloquently speak
    Of his firm friendship, not without a tear,
Of its strong power to undergird the weak
    And hold the faltering feet in duty's sphere,
While in the cells of want, a broken trust
In bitterness laments, that he is of the dust.

In foreign climes, with patriotic eye
    He sought what might his Country's welfare aid,
And the rich flocks of Spain, at his behest

Lydia Howard Sigourney

The Soldier's Grave.

[To the memory of Lieut. Wm. W. Wardell, of the First Massachusetts Cavalry, killed May 28, 1864.]


Above his head the cypress waves
    Its dark green drooping leaves;
The sunlight through its branches wide
Where bright birds linger side by side
    A golden net-work weaves.

Within the church-yard's silent gloom
    He lies in quiet rest;
And never more to cold, pale brow,
Or proud lips mute with silence now
    Will loving lips be pressed.

Perhaps even now in death's dark dream
    He sees the deadly strife;
Where brothers fought with blinded eyes,
Forgetting all the tender ties
    That bound them life to life.

Ah! nobly there he proudly rode
    With honest, warm, true heart;
And shrank not from the carnage red,
...

Fannie Isabelle Sherrick