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I just found this really nice poem in my English book and although it was written by a Christian, I think it has a lot of religious significance for Pagans and Wiccans as well.

Thanatopsis

By William Cullen Bryant

To him who in the love of Nature holds
Communion with her visible forms she speaks
A various language; fo his gayer hours
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile
And eloquence of beauty, and she glides
Into his darker musings, with a mild
And healing sympathy, that steals away
Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts
Of the last bitter hour come like a blight
Over thy spirit, and sad images
Of the stern agony, and shroud and pall,
And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,
Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart;
Go forth, under the open sky, and list
To Nature's teachings, while from all around-
Earth and her waters, and the depths of air-
Comes a still voice.-
Yet a few days, and thee
The all-beholding sun shall see no more
In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground,
Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears,
Nor in the embrace of ocean whall exist
Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim
Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again,
And, lost each human trace, surrendering up
Thine individual being, shalt thou go
To mix forever with the elements,
To be a brother to the insensible rock
And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain
Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak
Shall send his roots abroad and pierce thy mold.

Yet not to thine eternal resting place
Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down
With patriarch of the infant world-with kinds,
The powerful of the earth-the wise, the good,
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,
All in one mighty sepulcher. The hills
Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun,-the vales
Stretching in the pensive quietness between;
The venerable woods-rivers that move
In majesty, and the complaining brooks
That make the meadows green; and, poured round all,
Old Ocean's gray and melancholy waste,-
Are but the solemn decorations all
Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun,
The planets, all the infinite hosts of heaven,
Are shining on the sad abodes of death,
Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread
The globe are but a handful to the tribes
That slumber in its bosom.-Take the wings
Of morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness,
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods
Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound,
Save his own dashings-yet the dead are there:
And millions in those solitudes, since first
The flight of years began, have laid them down
In their fast sleep-the dead reign there alone.
So shalt thou rest, and what if thou withdraw
In silence from the living, and no friend
Take note of thy departure? All that breathe
Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh
When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care
Plod on, and each one as before will chase
His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave
Their mirth and their employments, and shall come
And make their bed with thee. As the long train
Of ages glides away, the sons of men,
The youth in life's fresh spring, and he who goes
In the full strength of years, matron and maid,
The speechless babe, and the gray-headed man-
Shall one by one be gathered to thy side,
By those, who in their turn shall follow them.

So live, that when thy summons comes to join
The innumerable caravan, which moves
To that mysterious realm, where each shall take
His chamber in the silent halls of death,
Thou go not, like the quarry slave at night,
Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave,
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.

	Poetry
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Poetry I hope to eventually have a section dedicated to poetry that is written by the viewers of my web site. Until then I encourage you to send me in your poetry and I'll choose some of the best ones and post it! My e-mail address is moondancer13@pagan.zzn.com, so please send in your poetry! Thank you.



This is a poem I found at Drakkan.com by Ilahriana the Mystic Dragon. I thought it was very pretty. Dragon Eyes In the end, after humanties race for destruction is through, and all of mankind is gone, the world in all it's glory lost,..... then hundreds of years come around the bend, and organic life starts anew, of all the animals the ruler is but one, of the earth they are made beyond any cost,..... earth,wind,water,fire, they all burn bright with the embers of enternity, so few to begin, but how their numbers grow,....... they are the creations of my greatest desire, in their eyes hold the secrets of life in it's entireity, their graceful bodies hold fire within, and in their souls the embers show,... I would just like to see them, just imagine how they would be, our wisdom far surpassed by their own, we are the cause of their creation,..... eyes that shine brighter than priceless gems, on the land and in the sea, their scales like the most preciuos metals ever known, and they are here because of our own devastaion,...... ivory horns that reach to the sky, talons sharp with deadly precision, they hold the secrets of all life in their hearts, and in my indescision, all I really want to do is see their eyes,....... Copyrighted by Ilahriana the Mystic Dragon, ©2001

I just found this really nice poem in my English book and although it was written by a Christian, I think it has a lot of religious significance for Pagans and Wiccans as well. Thanatopsis By William Cullen Bryant To him who in the love of Nature holds Communion with her visible forms she speaks A various language; fo his gayer hours She has a voice of gladness, and a smile And eloquence of beauty, and she glides Into his darker musings, with a mild And healing sympathy, that steals away Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts Of the last bitter hour come like a blight Over thy spirit, and sad images Of the stern agony, and shroud and pall, And breathless darkness, and the narrow house, Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart; Go forth, under the open sky, and list To Nature's teachings, while from all around- Earth and her waters, and the depths of air- Comes a still voice.- Yet a few days, and thee The all-beholding sun shall see no more In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground, Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears, Nor in the embrace of ocean whall exist Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again, And, lost each human trace, surrendering up Thine individual being, shalt thou go To mix forever with the elements, To be a brother to the insensible rock And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak Shall send his roots abroad and pierce thy mold. Yet not to thine eternal resting place Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down With patriarch of the infant world-with kinds, The powerful of the earth-the wise, the good, Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, All in one mighty sepulcher. The hills Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun,-the vales Stretching in the pensive quietness between; The venerable woods-rivers that move In majesty, and the complaining brooks That make the meadows green; and, poured round all, Old Ocean's gray and melancholy waste,- Are but the solemn decorations all Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun, The planets, all the infinite hosts of heaven, Are shining on the sad abodes of death, Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread The globe are but a handful to the tribes That slumber in its bosom.-Take the wings Of morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness, Or lose thyself in the continuous woods Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound, Save his own dashings-yet the dead are there: And millions in those solitudes, since first The flight of years began, have laid them down In their fast sleep-the dead reign there alone. So shalt thou rest, and what if thou withdraw In silence from the living, and no friend Take note of thy departure? All that breathe Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care Plod on, and each one as before will chase His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave Their mirth and their employments, and shall come And make their bed with thee. As the long train Of ages glides away, the sons of men, The youth in life's fresh spring, and he who goes In the full strength of years, matron and maid, The speechless babe, and the gray-headed man- Shall one by one be gathered to thy side, By those, who in their turn shall follow them. So live, that when thy summons comes to join The innumerable caravan, which moves To that mysterious realm, where each shall take His chamber in the silent halls of death, Thou go not, like the quarry slave at night, Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave, Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.