IN Collins Street standeth a statute tall,

A statue tall, on a pillar of stone,

Telling its story, to great and small,

Of the dust reclaimed from the sand waste lone;

Weary and wasted, and worn and wan,

Feeble and faint, and languid and low,

He lay on the desert a dying man;

Who has gone, my friends, where we all must go.

There are perils by land, and perils by water,

Short, I ween, are the obsequies

Of the landsman lost, but they may be shorter

With the mariner lost in the trackless seas;

And well for him, when the timbers start,

And the stout ship reels and settles below,

Who goes to his doom with as bold a heart,

As that dead man gone where we all must go.

Man is stubborn his rights to yield,

And redder than dews at eventide

Are the dews of battle, shed on the field,

By a nation’s wrath or a despot’s pride;

But few who have heard their death-knell roll,

From the cannon’s lips where they faced the foe,

Have fallen as stout and steady of soul,

As that dead man gone where we all must go.

Traverse yon spacious burial ground,

Many are sleeping soundly there,

Who pass’d with mourners standing around,

Kindred, and friends, and children fair;

Did he envy such ending? ’twere hard to say;

Had he cause to envy such ending? no;

Can the spirit feel for the senseless clay,

When it once has gone where we all must go?

What matters the sand or the whitening chalk,

The blighted herbage, the black’ning log,

The crooked beak of the eagle-hawk,

Or the hot red tongue of the native dog?

That couch was rugged, those sextons rude,

Yet, in spite of a leaden shroud, we know

That the bravest and fairest are earth-worms’ food,

When once they’ve gone where we all must go.

With the pistol clenched in his failing hand,

With the death mist spread o’er his fading eyes,

He saw the sun go down on the sand,

And he slept, and never saw it rise;

’Twas well; he toil’d till his task was done,

Constant and calm in his latest throe,

The storm was weathered, the battle was won,

When he went, my friends, where we all must go.

God grant that whenever, soon or late,

Our course is run and our goal is reach’d,

We may meet our fate as steady and straight

As he whose bones in yon desert bleach’d;

No tears are needed—our cheeks are dry,

We have none to waste upon living woe;

Shall we sigh for one who has ceased to sigh,

Having gone, my friends, where we all must go?

We tarry yet, we are toiling still,

He is gone and he fares the best,

He fought against odds, he struggled up hill,

He has fairly earned his season of rest;

No tears are needed—fill our the wine,

Let the goblets clash, and the grape juice flow,

Ho! pledge me a death-drink, comrade mine,

To a brave man gone where we all must go.

Poetry Monster – Home

A few random poems:

External links

Bat’s Poetry Page – more poetry by Fledermaus

Talking Writing Monster’s Page –

Batty Writing – the bat’s idle chatter, thoughts, ideas and observations, all original, all fresh

Poems in English 

• At the Party by W H Auden by Wystan Hugh Auden (W.H. Auden)
• Old People’s Home by W H Auden by Wystan Hugh Auden (W.H. Auden)
• O What Is That Sound by W H Auden by Wystan Hugh Auden (W.H. Auden)
• O Tell Me The Truth About Love by W H Auden by Wystan Hugh Auden (W.H. Auden)
• Nocturne by W H Auden by Wystan Hugh Auden (W.H. Auden)
• A New Age by W H Auden by Wystan Hugh Auden (W.H. Auden)
• Like A Vocation by W H Auden by Wystan Hugh Auden (W.H. Auden)
• Let A Florid Music Praise by W H Auden by Wystan Hugh Auden (W.H. Auden)
• Law, Like Love by W H Auden by Wystan Hugh Auden (W.H. Auden)
• At Last the Secret is Out by W H Auden by Wystan Hugh Auden (W.H. Auden)
• Lady Weeping at the Crossroads by W H Auden by Wystan Hugh Auden (W.H. Auden)
• It’s No Use Raising A Shout by W H Auden by Wystan Hugh Auden (W.H. Auden)
• In the Time of War, XII by W H Auden by Wystan Hugh Auden (W.H. Auden)
• In Praise Of Limestone by W H Auden by Wystan Hugh Auden (W.H. Auden)
• Here War Is Simple by W H Auden by Wystan Hugh Auden (W.H. Auden)
• Give me a doctor by W H Auden by Wystan Hugh Auden (W.H. Auden)
• from The Cave of Making by W H Auden by Wystan Hugh Auden (W.H. Auden)
• from In Time of War by W H Auden by Wystan Hugh Auden (W.H. Auden)
• Friday’s Child by W H Auden by Wystan Hugh Auden (W.H. Auden)
• Friday’s Child by W H Auden by Wystan Hugh Auden (W.H. Auden)

More external links (open in a new tab):

Russian Commerce Agency

Dealing Monster

Doska or the Board – write anything

Search engines:

Yandex – the best search engine for searches in Russian (and the best overall image search engine, in any language, anywhere)

Qwant – the best search engine for searches in French, German as well as Romance and Germanic languages.

Ecosia – a search engine that supposedly… plants trees

Duckduckgo – the real alternative and a search engine that actually works. Without much censorship or partisan politics.

Yahoo– yes, it’s still around, amazingly, miraculously, incredibly, but now it seems to be powered by Bing.

 

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