Define until we meet again poem

'So Long': A Common But Mysterious Goodbye | Merriam-Webster

define until we meet again poem

Memorial Poems - Browse through our collection of memorial poems and verses that can be read And until we meet again Life means all that it ever meant. Until We Meet Again Meet Again Quotes, Death Quotes For Loved Ones, First Shawn, I love you and miss you so much that no words could ever explain!. So long, an expression of farewell, is a colloquialism that we take for granted as being a logical construction. It'll only be so long before you meet again, right? it until he read the poem, and when he asked Whitman to define it, he called it "[a].

Yet this is vain — O Mathew lend thy aid To find a place where I may greet the maid — Where we may soft humanity put on, And sit, and rhyme and think on Chatterton; And that warm-hearted Shakespeare sent to meet him Four laurell'd spirits, heaven-ward to intreat him. With reverence would we speak of all the sages Who have left streaks of light athwart their ages And thou shouldst moralize on Milton's blindness, And mourn the fearful dearth of human kindness To those who strove with the bright golden wing Of genius, to flap away each sting Thrown by the pitiless world.

We next could tell Of those who in the cause of freedom fell; Of our own Alfred, of Helvetian Tell; Of him whose name to ev'ry heart's a solace, High-minded and unbending William Wallace. While to the rugged north our musing turns We well might drop a tear for him, and Burns. I marvel much that thou hast never told How, from a flower, into a fish of gold Apollo chang'd thee; how thou next didst seem A black-eyed swan upon the widening stream; And when thou first didst in that mirror trace The placid features of a human face That thou hast never told thy travels strange, And all the wonders of the mazy range O'er pebbly crystal, and o'er golden sands; Kissing thy daily food from Naiad's pearly hands.

Had I a man's fair form, then might my sighs Had I a man's fair form, then might my sighs Be echoed swiftly through that ivory shell Thine ear, and find thy gentle heart; so well Would passion arm me for the enterprize But ah!

I am no knight whose foeman dies; No cuirass glistens on my bosom's swell; I am no happy shepherd of the dell Whose lips have trembled with a maiden's eyes. Yet must I dote upon thee, — call thee sweet, Sweeter by far than Hybla's honied roses When steep'd in dew rich to intoxication. I will taste that dew, for me 'tis meet, And when the moon her pallid face discloses, I'll gather some by spells, and incantation.

Hadst thou liv'd in days of old Hadst thou liv'd in days of old, O what wonders had been told Of thy lively countenance, And thy humid eyes that dance In the midst of their own brightness; In the very fane of lightness. Over which thine eyebrows, leaning, Picture out each lovely meaning In a dainty bend they lie, Like to streaks across the sky, Or the feathers from a crow, Fallen on a bed of snow.

Of thy dark hair that extends Into many graceful bends As the leaves of hellebore Turn to whence they sprung before. And behind each ample curl Peeps the richness of a pearl. With a glossy waviness; Full, and round like globes that rise From the censer to the skies Through sunny air.

Add too, the sweetness Of thy honied voice; the neatness Of thine ankle lightly turn'd With those beauties, scarce discern'd, Kept with such sweet privacy, That they seldom meet the eye Of the little loves that fly Round about with eager pry. Saving when, with freshening lave, Thou dipp'st them in the taintless wave; Like twin water lillies, born In the coolness of the morn.

O, if thou hadst breathed then, Now the Muses had been ten. Couldst thou wish for lineage higher Than twin sister of Thalia? At least for ever, evermore, Will I call the Graces four. Hadst thou liv'd when chivalry Lifted up her lance on high, Tell me what thou wouldst have been. I see the silver sheen Of thy broidered, floating vest Cov'ring half thine ivory breast; Which, O heavens! I should see; But that cruel destiny Has placed a golden cuirass there; Keeping secret what is fair.

Like sunbeams in a cloudlet nested Thy locks in knightly casque are rested O'er which bend four milky plumes Like the gentle lilly's blooms Springing from a costly vase. See with what a stately pace Comes thine alabaster steed; O'er his loins, his trappings glow Like the northern lights on snow. Sign of the enchanter's death; Bane of every wicked spell; Silencer of dragon's yell.

I am as brisk I am as brisk As a bottle of wisk-k Ey and as nimble Give me women, wine, and snuff Give me women, wine and snuff You may do so sans objection Till the day of resurrection; For bless my beard they aye shall be My beloved trinity. Specimen of an Induction to a Poem Lo!

I must tell a tale of chivalry; For large white plumes are dancing in mine eye. Not like the formal crest of latter days But bending in a thousand graceful ways; So graceful, that it seems no mortal hand, Or e'en the touch of Archimago's wand, Could charm them into such an attitude.

We must think rather, that in playful mood, Some mountain breeze had turned its chief delight, To show this wonder of its gentle might. I must tell a tale of chivalry; For while I muse, the lance points slantingly Athwart the morning air: And from her own pure self no joy dissembling, Wraps round her ample robe with happy trembling.

Sometimes, when the good knight his rest would take, It is reflected, clearly, in a lake, With the young ashen boughs, 'gainst which it rests, And th' half seen mossiness of linnets' nests.

Or when his spirit, with more calm intent, Leaps to the honors of a tournament, And makes the gazers round about the ring Stare at the grandeur of the ballancing?

How sing the splendour of the revelries, When buts of wine are drunk off to the lees? And that bright lance, against the fretted wall, Is slung with shining cuirass, sword, and shield, Where ye may see a spur in bloody field?

Light-footed damsels move with gentle paces Round the wide hall, and show their happy faces; Or stand in courtly talk by fives and sevens: Like those fair stars that twinkle in the heavens. Yet must I tell a tale of chivalry: Or wherefore comes that steed so proudly by?

Wherefore more proudly does the gentle knight Rein in the swelling of his ample might? Therefore, great bard, I not so fearfully Call on thy gentle spirit to hover nigh My daring steps: Him thou wilt hear; so I will rest in hope To see wide plains, fair trees and lawny slope The morn, the eve, the light, the shade, the flowers; Clear streams, smooth lakes, and overlooking towers.

A Fragment Young Calidore is paddling o'er the lake; His healthful spirit eager and awake To feel the beauty of a silent eve, Which seem'd full loath this happy world to leave; The light dwelt o'er the scene so lingeringly. He bares his forehead to the cool blue sky, And smiles at the far clearness all around, Until his heart is well nigh over wound, And turns for calmness to the pleasant green Of easy slopes, and shadowy trees that lean And show their blossoms trim.

Scarce can his clear and nimble eye-sight follow The freaks, and dartings of the black-wing'd swallow, Delighting much, to see it half at rest, Dip so refreshingly its wings, and breast 'Gainst the smooth surface, and to mark anon, The widening circles into nothing gone. And now the sharp keel of his little boat Comes up with ripple, and with easy float, And glides into a bed of water lillies: Broad leav'd are they and their white canopies Are upward turn'd to catch the heavens' dew.

Near to a little island's point they grew; Whence Calidore might have the goodliest view Of this sweet spot of earth. The bowery shore Went off in gentle windings to the hoar And light blue mountains: These, gentle Calidore Greeted, as he had known them long before.

Death Is Nothing At All By Henry Scott-Holland, Famous Death Poem

The sidelong view of swelling leafiness, Which the glad setting sun in gold doth dress; Whence ever and anon the jay outsprings, And scales upon the beauty of its wings.

The lonely turret, shatter'd, and outworn, Stands venerably proud; too proud to mourn Its long lost grandeur: The little chapel with the cross above Upholding wreaths of ivy; the white dove, That on the window spreads his feathers light, And seems from purple clouds to wing its flight.

Green tufted islands casting their soft shades Across the lake; sequester'd leafy glades, That through the dimness of their twilight show Large dock leaves, spiral foxgloves, or the glow Of the wild cat's eyes, or the silvery stems Of delicate birch trees, or long grass which hems These pleasant things, and heaven was bedewing The mountain flowers, when his glad senses caught A trumpet's silver voice.

Friends very dear to him he soon will see; So pushes off his boat most eagerly, And soon upon the lake he skims along, Deaf to the nightingale's first under-song; Nor minds he the white swans that dream so sweetly: His spirit flies before him so completely. And now he turns a jutting point of land, Whence may be seen the castle gloomy, and grand Nor will a bee buzz round two swelling peaches, Before the point of his light shallop reaches Those marble steps that through the water dip Now over them he goes with hasty trip, And scarcely stays to ope the folding doors Anon he leaps along the oaken floors Of halls and corridors.

What a kiss, What gentle squeeze he gave each lady's hand! How tremblingly their delicate ancles spann'd! Into how sweet a trance his soul was gone, While whisperings of affection Made him delay to let their tender feet Come to the earth; with an incline so sweet From their low palfreys o'er his neck they bent And whether there were tears of languishment, Or that the evening dew had pearl'd their tresses, He feels a moisture on his cheek, and blesses With lips that tremble, and with glistening eye All the soft luxury That nestled in his arms.

A dimpled hand, Hung from his shoulder like the drooping flowers Of whitest cassia, fresh from summer showers And this he fondled with his happy cheek As if for joy he would no further seek; When the kind voice of good Sir Clerimond Came to his ear, like something from beyond His present being: Amid the pages, and the torches' glare There stood a knight, patting the flowing hair Of his proud horse's mane: So that the waving of his plumes would be High as the berries of a wild ash tree, Or as the winged cap of Mercury.

His armour was so dexterously wrought In shape, that sure no living man had thought It hard, and heavy steel: Soon in a pleasant chamber they are seated; The sweet-lipp'd ladies have already greeted All the green leaves that round the window clamber, To show their purple stars, and bells of amber.

Sir Gondibert has doff'd his shining steel, Gladdening in the free and airy feel Of a light mantle; and while Clerimond Is looking round about him with a fond And placid eye, young Calidore is burning To hear of knightly deeds, and gallant spurning Of all unworthiness; and how the strong of arm Kept off dismay, and terror, and alarm From lovely woman while brimful of this, He gave each damsel's hand so warm a kiss, And had such manly ardour in his eye, That each at other look'd half staringly; And then their features started into smiles Sweet as blue heavens o'er enchanted isles.

Softly the breezes from the forest came, Softly they blew aside the taper's flame; Clear was the song from Philomel's far bower; Grateful the incense from the lime-tree flower; Mysterious, wild, the far heard trumpet's tone; Lovely the moon in ether, all alone Sweet too the converse of these happy mortals, As that of busy spirits when the portals Are closing in the west; or that soft humming We hear around when Hesperus is coming.

Sweet be their sleep. To one who has been long in city pent To one who has been long in city pent, 'Tis very sweet to look into the fair And open face of heaven, — to breathe a prayer Full in the smile of the blue firmament. Who is more happy, when, with heart's content, Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lair Of wavy grass, and reads a debonair And gentle tale of love and languishment? Returning home at evening, with an ear Catching the notes of Philomel, — an eye Watching the sailing cloudlet's bright career, He mourns that day so soon has glided by E'en like the passage of an angel's tear That falls through the clear ether silently.

There warm my breast with patriotic lore, Musing on Milton's fate — on Sydney's bier — Till their stern forms before my mind arise Perhaps on the wing of poesy upsoar, Full often dropping a delicious tear, When some melodious sorrow spells mine eyes. To a Friend Who Sent Me Some Roses As late I rambled in the happy fields, What time the sky-lark shakes the tremulous dew From his lush clover covert; — when anew Adventurous knights take up their dinted shields I saw the sweetest flower wild nature yields, A fresh-blown musk-rose; 'twas the first that threw Its sweets upon the summer graceful it grew As is the wand that queen Titania wields.

I could be content Happy is England! I could be content To see no other verdure than its own; To feel no other breezes than are blown Through its tall woods with high romances blent Yet do I sometimes feel a languishment For skies Italian, and an inward groan To sit upon an Alp as on a throne, And half forget what world or worldling meant. Happy is England, sweet her artless daughters; Enough their simple loveliness for me, Enough their whitest arms in silence clinging Yet do I often warmly burn to see And float with them about the summer waters.

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  • 'So Long': A Common But Mysterious Goodbye
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To My Brother George Many the wonders I this day have seen The sun, when first he kist away the tears That fill'd the eyes of morn; — the laurel'd peers Who from the feathery gold of evening lean; — The ocean with its vastness, its blue green, Its ships, its rocks, its caves, its hopes, its fears, — Its voice mysterious, which whoso hears Must think on what will be, and what has been.

E'en now, dear George, while this for you I write, Cynthia is from her silken curtains peeping So scantly, that it seems her bridal night, And she her half-discover'd revels keeping.

But what, without the social thought of thee, Would be the wonders of the sky and sea? To My Brother George Full many a dreary hour have I past, My brain bewilder'd, and my mind o'ercast With heaviness; in seasons when I've thought No spherey strains by me could e'er be caught From the blue dome, though I to dimness gaze On the far depth where sheeted lightning plays; Or, on the wavy grass outstretch'd supinely, Pry 'mong the stars, to strive to think divinely That I should never hear Apollo's song, Though feathery clouds were floating all along The purple west, and, two bright streaks between, The golden lyre itself were dimly seen That the still murmur of the honey bee Would never teach a rural song to me That the bright glance from beauty's eyelids slanting Would never make a lay of mine enchanting, Or warm my breast with ardour to unfold Some tale of love and arms in time of old.

But there are times, when those that love the bay, Fly from all sorrowing far, far away; A sudden glow comes on them, naught they see In water, earth, or air, but poesy. It has been said, dear george, and true I hold it, That when a Poet is in such a trance, In air he sees white coursers paw, and prance, Bestridden of gay knights, in gay apparel, Who at each other tilt in playful quarrel, And what we, ignorantly, sheet-lightning call, Is the swift opening of their wide portal, When the bright warder blows his trumpet clear, Whose tones reach naught on earth but Poet's ear.

When these enchanted portals open wide, And through the light the horsemen swiftly glide, The Poet's eye can reach those golden halls, And view the glory of their festivals Their ladies fair, that in the distance seem Fit for the silv'ring of a seraph's dream; Their rich brimm'd goblets, that incessant run Like the bright spots that move about the sun; And, when upheld, the wine from each bright jar Pours with the lustre of a falling star.

Yet further off, are dimly seen their bowers, Of which, no mortal eye can reach the flowers; And 'tis right just, for well Apollo knows 'Twould make the Poet quarrel with the rose.

All that's reveal'd from that far seat of blisses, Is, the clear fountains' interchanging kisses, As gracefully descending, light and thin, Like silver streaks across a dolphin's fin, When he upswimmeth from the coral caves, And sports with half his tail above the waves. These wonders strange he sees, and many more, Whose head is pregnant with poetic lore. Should he upon an evening ramble fare With forehead to the soothing breezes bare, Would he naught see but the dark, silent blue With all its diamonds trembling through and through?

Or the coy moon, when in the waviness Of whitest clouds she does her beauty dress, And staidly paces higher up, and higher, Like a sweet nun in holy-day attire?

These are the living pleasures of the bard But richer far posterity's award. What does he murmur with his latest breath, While his proud eye looks through the film of death? The sage will mingle with each moral theme My happy thoughts sententious; he will teem With lofty periods when my verses fire him, And then I'll stoop from heaven to inspire him.

Lays have I left of such a dear delight That maids will sing them on their bridal night. Gay villagers, upon a morn of May, When they have tired their gentle limbs with play, And form'd a snowy circle on the grass, And plac'd in midst of all that lovely lass Who chosen is their queen, — with her fine head Crowned with flowers purple, white, and red For there the lily, and the musk-rose, sighing, Are emblems true of hapless lovers dying Between her breasts, that never yet felt trouble, A bunch of violets full blown, and double, Serenely sleep — she from a casket takes A little book, — and then a joy awakes About each youthful heart, — with stifled cries, And rubbing of white hands, and sparkling eyes For she's to read a tale of hopes, and fears; One that I foster'd in my youthful years The pearls, that on each glist'ning circlet sleep, Gush ever and anon with silent creep, Lured by the innocent dimples.

To sweet rest Shall the dear babe, upon its mother's breast, Be lull'd with songs of mine. Thy dales, and hills, are fading from my view Swiftly I mount, upon wide spreading pinions, Full joy I feel, while thus I cleave the air, That my soft verse will charm thy daughters fair, And warm thy sons!

At times, 'tis true, I've felt relief from pain When some bright thought has darted through my brain Through all that day I've felt a greater pleasure Than if I'd brought to light a hidden treasure. As to my sonnets, though none else should heed them, I feel delighted, still, that you should read them. Of late, too, I have had much calm enjoyment, Stretch'd on the grass at my best lov'd employment Of scribbling lines for you. These things I thought While, in my face, the freshest breeze I caught.

E'en now I'm pillow'd on a bed of flowers That crowns a lofty clift, which proudly towers Above the ocean-waves. The stalks, and blades, Chequer my tablet with their quivering shades. On one side is a field of drooping oats, Through which the poppies show their scarlet coats; So pert and useless, that they bring to mind The scarlet coats that pester human-kind.

And on the other side, outspread, is seen Ocean's blue mantle streak'd with purple, and green. Now 'tis I see a canvass'd ship, and now Mark the bright silver curling round her prow. I see the lark down-dropping to his nest, And the broad winged sea-gull never at rest; For when no more he spreads his feathers free, His breast is dancing on the restless sea.

Now I direct my eyes into the west, Which at this moment is in sunbeams drest Why westward turn? To Charles Cowden Clarke Oft have you seen a swan superbly frowning, He slants his neck beneath the waters bright So silently, it seems a beam of light Come from the Galaxy anon he sports, — With outspread wings the Naiad Zephyr courts, Or ruffles all the surface of the lake In striving from its crystal face to take Some diamond water drops, and them to treasure In milky nest, and sip them off at leisure.

But not a moment can he there insure them, Nor to such downy rest can he allure them; For down they rush as though they would be free, And drop like hours into eternity. Just like that bird am I in loss of time, Whene'er I venture on the stream of rhyme; With shatter'd boat, oar snapt, and canvass rent, I slowly sail, scarce knowing my intent; Still scooping up the water with my fingers, In which a trembling diamond never lingers.

Thus have I thought; and days on days have flown Slowly, or rapidly — unwilling still For you to try my dull, unlearned quill. Nor should I now, but that I've known you long; That you first taught me all the sweets of song The grand, the sweet, the terse, the free, the fine; What swell'd with pathos, and what right divine Spenserian vowels that elope with ease, And float along like birds o'er summer seas; Miltonian storms, and more, Miltonian tenderness; Michael in arms, and more, meek Eve's fair slenderness.

Who read for me the sonnet swelling loudly Up to its climax and then dying proudly? Who found for me the grandeur of the ode, Growing, like Atlas, stronger from its load?

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Who let me taste that more than cordial dram, The sharp, the rapier-pointed epigram? Shew'd me that epic was of all the king, Round, vast, and spanning all like Saturn's ring? You too upheld the veil from Clio's beauty, And pointed out the patriot's stern duty; The might of Alfred, and the shaft of Tell; The hand of Brutus, that so grandly fell Upon a tyrant's head.

What my enjoyments in my youthful years, Bereft of all that now my life endears?

The 100 - May We Meet Again -- Full Poem 1x09 Kane

And can I e'er these benefits forget? And can I e'er repay the friendly debt? All 4 girls in the vehicle were killed. Grieving is different for everyone, but to be in grief for so many loved ones lost so close together is just wickedly hard. If I didn't have faith, I couldn't do it. I still grieve for all of these loved ones, the reminders that come, a song on the radio, etc.

But no one can take my memories. I know I will rejoice with all my loved ones again when it is my time. Thanks for letting me vent. Not that we are given a choice, but the fact that you are still functioning and living day to day blows me away. I honestly think I would be catatonic. You have an amazing spirit.

He is absolutely right; death is an eternal truth. Nobody can run away from it. But one thing is in our hand. That is how we live our life. It will decide how people will take our name after our death. We were very close friends, like sisters. I am having a very bad day today with it, and this poem came up when I looked up articles on grief. I wrote it down, just beautiful.

I know it takes time. I'm sorry for all the other comments on their losses as well. He was hospitalized, but he passed on during the midnight hours.

Then this week on WednesdayI lost my Granny; she was sick. I was losing hope, but this poem empowered me, and now I believe that death is not in charge of our lives, even though death is the only honest truth. We are created in God's Image.

define until we meet again poem

He is fully alive within and around us. Our breath is His breath, our hearts, His Heart. It is the will of the Holy Spirit to live as we were originally created. So be it done according to The Holy Will. Many blessings and lessening all thoughts of despair. Much love, light, and peace. My thoughtful neighbor just sent this while thinking of me.

As hard and heartbreaking as this ordeal has been, I know for sure my husband is still with me. He has made himself known to me from the other side. I feel so blessed to know without a shadow of a doubt that he IS waiting for me. This life and the next do feel one and the same to me now. Even before reading this. I miss him every day, but I do rejoice in my memories. How can I not? My daughter's wedding was 4 days before his death. I feel he was privileged enough to remain long enough to dance with his little girl.

He and I also got to spend his last day together. I am so very thankful we are never alone, even though some days it feels as though we are. Crum 1 year ago I feel like this year has been an experiment in grief for our family. We've lost two of my mom's brothers, my husband's grandmother, his aunt, and most recently my dad. We would bury someone, recover for a few weeks, bury someone, recover for a few weeks and so on and so on.

define until we meet again poem

It's been a hard 5 months. Here's to hoping the new year is better. It was hard enough losing my husband and dog. I can't imagine what you must be going through. I will miss him, but I know death happens. I live in the U.

And I felt so far away, but he was very lucky as the community there was absolutely amazing--so kind, helpful, considerate, competent and they organized everything.

It was so sudden and unexpected that I was in shock, and I am lucky to have a wonderful family, partner, and best friends in the world who are helping me to deal with it. My counselor suggested I read the poem which is just lovely, and so tomorrow I am going to sit in the Monaco Cathedral and read the poem to myself and light a candle for him.

I miss him deeply, but the poem brings me hope and peace at the same time. I have survived two attempts, and every day is a struggle, but testimonies like yours remind me why I am so lucky to still be around. I don't intend to continue taking it for granted. I felt the same way. It took me 5 years to get over it.

define until we meet again poem

It brought so much comfort, reiterating what I believed to be true. I do grieve deeply when loss comes, still, but I read this poem again and feel better. I send it out to friends when they experience deep loss. It always comforts them. My heart goes out to all here who write of deep loss, many losses too close together.

I've been there too much. I, too, lost my year-old cat years ago, and my cousin sent me this poem, which helped so much. I also send it to folks after their losses. I just lost another fur baby cat at age 15, ten days ago. We will always be deeply soul-bonded. Nothing can change that. Deep loss is always so hard.

But I always read this poem, which helps lift me up and ease the pain. It confirms what I believe and know with heart and soul. I don't use words like "was" after loss much.

Because what he was, he still is and will always be - just in some other form.

define until we meet again poem

Those of us still earthbound so miss the form we've grown accustomed to, and it's hard for us to grasp the cosmic truths. But our difficulty grasping makes them no less true. I no longer fear death, but I'm actually waiting for that day to see the loved ones I lost. I felt this is what he would have told me to comfort me had it been someone else I had lost They are just waiting for you sis, somewhere close by I'll miss you for the rest of my life, Will.

Until we are together again I know that this is how he would feel. I look forward to the time when we meet again. The poem brought me enormous comfort and it still brings tears to my eyes when I read it. I believe the poet was dying of cancer as he wrote it and was so brave as he comforted his loved ones. There is a strong religious message, although he does not refer directly to God.

I love the warmth, humor, and intimacy, yet it is as though he is speaking from the grave. The poem is optimistic, yet it captures the sense of surrealism one feels when one is bereaved. The poet faced his own mortality and people have continued to identify strongly with what he was able to express so bravely about love, which does not end with death.

He died before getting to the hospital. We didn't get to say our goodbyes. Not saying our goodbyes was the hardest for me