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15 Apr 25 - 05:53 AM (#4220915) Subject: Lyr Add: Do Not Stand at my Grave and Weep From: Monologue John Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep by Mary Elizabeth Frye Do not stand at my grave and weep I am not there. I do not sleep. I am a thousand winds that blow. I am the diamond glints on snow. I am the sunlight on ripened grain. I am the gentle autumn rain. When you awaken in the morning's hush I am the swift uplifting rush Of quiet birds in circled flight. I am the soft stars that shine at night. Do not stand at my grave and cry; I am not there. I did not die. |
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15 Apr 25 - 04:47 PM (#4220947) Subject: RE: Lyr Add: Do Not Stand at my Grave and Weep From: GUEST,henryp Joe Hill wrote in a telegram he sent to Bill Haywood, "Goodbye, Bill, I die like a true blue rebel. Don't waste any time mourning. Organize!" |
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15 Apr 25 - 04:58 PM (#4220950) Subject: RE: Lyr Add: Do Not Stand at my Grave and Weep From: GUEST,henryp My will is easy to decide For there is nothing to divide My kin don't need to fuss and moan "Moss does not cling to rolling stone" My body? Oh, if I could choose I would to ashes it reduce And let the merry breezes blow My dust to where some flowers grow Perhaps some fading flower then Would come to life and bloom again. This is my last and final will. Good luck to all of you Joe Hill |
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15 Apr 25 - 05:01 PM (#4220951) Subject: RE: Lyr Add: Do Not Stand at my Grave and Weep From: GUEST,henryp Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone, Silence the pianos and with muffled drum Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come. Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead, Put crêpe bows round the white necks of the public doves, Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves. He was my North, my South, my East and West, My working week and my Sunday rest, My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song; I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong. The stars are not wanted now: put out every one; Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun; Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood. For nothing now can ever come to any good. W H Auden |