Yeats dreamed of his final bed
Under bare Ben Bulben’s head
Viewing this life’s transience
Coldly, with insouciance.
Rupert Brooke was forced to yield,
Cornered in a foreign field,
And under heaven’s starry dome,
The hunter Stevenson is home.
Those who follow glory’s path
Or favour the domestic hearth
Are bound at last like Thomas Gray
To hear the knell at parting day.
Tennyson sailed out to sea,
Born forth to eternity,
Following the evening star
Noiselessly across the bar.
In Paris at Wilde’s sphinx-like tomb
The peace of death dispels life’s gloom
And still the visitors return
To weep into the broken urn.
When the stone is carved for me
Find some words of piety
Likely found within a psalm
Not of sorrow but of calm
And next to David I will lie
Just like in life, in time gone by.
GGLazarus poetry 
Hi Auntie Gill, Thanks for sharing this, what a lovely poem!
Hope all is well with you. I met Livy for lunch yesterday in Muswell Hill- great catching up.
Hope to see you soon.
Michaela xx 💕
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Thanks Michaela. I wrote it years ago and thought of it when someone reminded me of WB Yeats’s epitaph, taken from his poem Under Ben Bulben:
Cast a cold eye on life, on death
Horseman, pass by!
shitty poetry from a corbyn delusive
Thank you for sharing.
I love this one. That poem of Stevenson’s is one of my favourites.
Well done for recognizing it!
It’s universal, that longing to be home, one way or another.The only poem I had to look up was “Under Ben Bulben.” He’s got another one dedicated to Robert Gregory which would have also fit the theme.
It’s universal, that longing to be home, one way or another.The only poem I had to look up was “Under Ben Bulben.” He’s got another one dedicated to Robert Gregory which would have also fit the theme.
I’m sorry about the x2 comment. It was not intentional and there seems to be no way to remove it from my end.