A Wooden Bow & Rush Grass for an Arrow – Lalleshwari 

A wooden bow and rush grass for an arrow: 

A carpenter unskilled and a palace to build: 

A shop unlocked in a busy bazaar: 

A body uncleansed by waters holy- 

Oh dear! who knows what hath befallen me? 

After Thought – Alfred Lord Tennyson 

I thought of Thee, my partner and my guide,

As being past away. -Vain sympathies!

For backward, Duddon! as I cast my eyes,

I see what was, and is, and will abide;

Still glides the Stream, and shall not cease to glide;

The Form remains, the Function never dies;

While we, the brave, the mighty, and the wise,

We Men, who in our morn of youth defied

The elements, must vanish; -be it so!

Enough, if something from our hands have power

To live, and act, and serve the future hour;

And if, as toward the silent tomb we go,

Through love, through hope, and faith’s transcendent dower,

We feel that we are greater than we know. 

All Things Will Die – Alfred Lord Tennyson

All Things will Die
Clearly the blue river chimes in its flowing
Under my eye;

Warmly and broadly the south winds are blowing
Over the sky.

One after another the white clouds are fleeting;

Every heart this May morning in joyance is beating
Full merrily;

Yet all things must die.

The stream will cease to flow;

The wind will cease to blow;

The clouds will cease to fleet;

The heart will cease to beat;

For all things must die.

All things must die.

Spring will come never more.

O, vanity!

Death waits at the door.

See! our friends are all forsaking

The wine and the merrymaking.

We are call’d–we must go.

Laid low, very low,

In the dark we must lie.

The merry glees are still;

The voice of the bird

Shall no more be heard,

Nor the wind on the hill.

O, misery!

Hark! death is calling

While I speak to ye,

The jaw is falling,

The red cheek paling,

The strong limbs failing;

Ice with the warm blood mixing;

The eyeballs fixing.

Nine times goes the passing bell:

Ye merry souls, farewell.

The old earth

Had a birth,

As all men know,

Long ago.

And the old earth must die.

So let the warm winds range,

And the blue wave beat the shore;

For even and morn

Ye will never see

Thro’ eternity.

All things were born.

Ye will come never more,

For all things must die.