Prose and poetry in the 19th and 20th centuries have been particularly adept at expressing sentiments of grief, loss, acceptance, and the concept of an afterlife. I share some of my favorites here.
“The love which survives the tomb is one of the noblest attributes of the soul. If it has its woes, it has likewise its delights; and when the overwhelming burst of grief is calmed into the gentle tear of recollection, when the sudden anguish and the convulsive agony over the present ruins of all that we most loved is softened away into pensive meditation on all that it was in the days of its loveliness, who would root out such a sorrow from the heart?...
There is a voice from the tomb sweeter than song. There is a remembrance of the dead to which we turn, even from the charms of the living…. But the grave of those we loved—what a place for meditation. There it is that we call up in long review the whole history of virtue and gentleness, and the thousand endearments lavished upon us, almost unheeded in the daily intercourse of intimacy; there it is that we dwell upon the tenderness, the solemn, awful tenderness of the parting scene…. Ay, go to the grave of buried love and meditate. There settle the account with thy conscience for every past benefit unrequited, every past endearment unregarded, …. Weave thy chaplet of flowers, and strew the beauties of nature about the grave; console thy broken spirit…”
Rural Funerals, Washington Irving
I’m sittin’ on the stile, Mary, where we sat side by side, on a bright May mornin’ long ago, when first you were my bride; The corn was springin’ fresh and green, and the lark sang loud and high…
The church where we were wed, Mary, I see the spire from here. But the graveyard lies between, Mary, and my step might break your rest—for I’ve laid you, darling, down to sleep, with your baby on your breast.
Lament of the Irish Emigrant, Lady Dufferin
Strew all their graves with flowers, they for their country died; and freely gave their lives for ours, their country’s hope and pride. James Very
The grave itself is but a covered bridge leading from light to light, through a brief darkness. Longfellow
One by one earth’s ties are broken as we see our love decay, and the hopes so fondly cherished brighten but to pass away.
One by one our hopes grow brighter as we near the shining shore, for we know across the river wait the loved ones gone before. Epitaph
Farewell, haunts of my childhood. Death is gathering o’er me. A mist is spreading o’er my vision now. Earth and its loveliness from view is fading…I come, I bow [to] the King of Death—I yield to thee. The Dying Girl, Charlotte Cushman
My dear Hopkins, Vic has just written me of your irreparable loss.
I have been going over in my imagination, the adjustments, the numbness,
the sense of unreality and the sharp stabs of overwhelming misery;
the reminders and the remainders,
the keeping up of a good front for friends and children.
And then I realize that all this is just imagining for me,
and for you it is heart-break and weariness and void.
Letter to my father-in-law at the death of my husband’s mother, leaving behind three children under the age of 7
…How lovely and how sweet … the hour of death may be;—To close the eye and close the ear, wrapped in a trance of bliss, and gently drawn in loving arms, to swoon from that to this:—
Scarce knowing if we wake or sleep, scarce asking where we are, to feel all evil sink away, all sorrow and all care! Sweet souls around us! watch us still, press nearer to our side; into our thoughts and into our prayers, with gentle helping glide…
The Other World, Harriet Beecher Stowe
Softly! She is lying with her lips apart.
Softly! She is dying of a broken heart.
Whisper! She is going to her final rest.
Whisper! Life is growing dim within her breast.
Gently! She is sleeping; she has breathed her last.
Dirge, Charles Gamage Eastman
I saw our little Gertrude die; She left off breathing, and no more! I smoothed the pillow beneath her head. She was more beautiful than before. Longfellow
Go to thy rest, my child; go to thy dreamless bed, gentle, and meek, and mild, with blessings on thy head. Fresh roses in thy hand, buds on thy pillow laid, haste from this fearful land, where flowers so quickly fade. Lydia Sigourney
It lies around us like a cloud,
The world we do not see;
Its gentle breezes fan our cheeks
Amid our worldly cares;
Sweet hearts around us throb and beat,
Sweet helping hands are stirred,
And palpitates the veil between,
With breathings almost heard.
The silence, awful, sweet, and calm
They have no power to break.
They lull us gently to our rest,
They melt into our dream.
And, in the hush of rest they bring,
‘Tis easy now to see
How lovely and how sweet a pass
The hour of death may be…
Let death between us be as naught,
A dried and vanished stream;
Your joy be the reality,
Our suffering life the dream.
The Other World, Harriet Beecher Stowe