Hier pr\u00e4sentieren wir eine Auswahl von Gedichten, die das Herz der Trauer und den Prozess des Trauerns ansprechen.<\/p>\n Christina Rossetti<\/strong><\/p>\n Remember me when I am gone away, Gone far away into the silent land; When you can no more hold me by the hand, Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay. Remember me when no more day by day You tell me of our future that you plann’d: Only remember me; you understand It will be late to counsel then or pray. Yet if you should forget me for a while And afterwards remember, do not grieve: For if the darkness and corruption leave A vestige of the thoughts that once I had, Better by far you should forget and smile Than that you should remember and be sad.<\/p>\n W. H. Auden<\/strong><\/p>\n 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 crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves, Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.<\/p>\n 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 forever: I was wrong.<\/p>\n 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.<\/p>\n Mary Elizabeth Frye<\/strong><\/p>\n 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.<\/p>\n Robert Hayden<\/strong><\/p>\n Sundays too my father got up early and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold, then with cracked hands that ached from labor in the weekday weather made banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him. I\u2019d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking. When the rooms were warm, he\u2019d call, and slowly I would rise and dress, fearing the chronic angers of that house, Speaking indifferently to him, who had driven out the cold and polished my good shoes as well. What did I know, what did I know of love\u2019s austere and lonely offices?<\/p>\n Percy Bysshe Shelley<\/strong><\/p>\n Music, when soft voices die, Vibrates in the memory\u2014 Odours, when sweet violets sicken, Live within the sense they quicken. Rose leaves, when the rose is dead, Are heaped for the belov\u00e8d\u2019s bed; And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone, Love itself shall slumber on.<\/p>\n Robert Burns<\/strong><\/p>\n An honest man here lies at rest, The friend of man, the friend of truth, The friend of age, and guide of youth: Few hearts like his, with virtue warm’d, Few heads with knowledge so inform’d; If there’s another world, he lives in bliss; If there is none, he made the best of this.<\/p>\n Tess Gallagher<\/strong><\/p>\n Now we are like that flat cone of sand in the garden of the Silver Pavilion in Kyoto designed to appear only in moonlight.<\/p>\n Do you want me to mourn? Do you want me to wear black? Or like moonlight on whitest sand to use your dark, to gleam, to shimmer? I gleam. I mourn.<\/p>\n Billy Collins<\/strong><\/p>\n In a rush this weekday morning, I tap the horn as I speed past the cemetery where my parents are buried side by side beneath a slab of smooth granite. Then, all day, I think of him rising up to give me that look of knowing disapproval while my mother calmly tells him to lie back down.<\/p>\n Gedichte wie diese nutzen oft verschiedene poetische Mittel und Strukturen. Das Verst\u00e4ndnis von poetic meter examples<\/a> oder sogar des spezifischen the raven meter<\/a> kann manchmal Einblicke geben, wie Dichter Rhythmus und Musikalit\u00e4t gestalten, um die emotionale Wirkung zu verst\u00e4rken, aber die prim\u00e4re Kraft liegt hier im rohen Ausdruck von Gef\u00fchl und Erinnerung.<\/p>\n Alfred, Lord Tennyson<\/strong><\/p>\n Sunset and evening star, And one clear call for me! And may there be no moaning of the bar, When I put out to sea,<\/p>\n But such a tide as moving seems asleep, Too full for sound and foam, When that which drew from out the boundless deep Turns again home.<\/p>\n Twilight and evening bell, And after that the dark! And may there be no sadness of farewell, When I embark;<\/p>\n For tho‘ from out our bourne of Time and Place The flood may bear me far, I hope to see my Pilot face to face When I have crost the bar.<\/p>\n John Donne<\/strong><\/p>\n Death, be not proud, though some have called thee Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so; For those whom thou think’st thou dost overthrow Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me. From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be, Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow, And soonest our best men with thee do go, Rest of their bones, and soul’s delivery. Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men, And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell, And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well And better than thy stroke; why swell’st thou then? One short sleep past, we wake eternally And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.<\/p>\n Audre Lorde<\/strong><\/p>\n Is the total black, being spoken From the earth’s inside. There are many kinds of open. How a diamond comes into a knot of flame How a sound comes into a word, coloured By who pays what for speaking.<\/p>\n Some words are open Like a diamond on glass windows Singing out within the crash of passing sun Then there are words like stapled wagers In a perforated book\u2014buy and sign and tear apart\u2014 And come whatever wills all chances The stub remains An ill-pulled tooth with a ragged edge.<\/p>\n Some words live in my throat Breeding like adders. Others know sun Seeking like gypsies over my tongue To explode through my lips Like young sparrows bursting from shell.<\/p>\n Some words Bedevil me.<\/p>\n Love is a word another kind of open\u2014 As a diamond comes into a knot of flame I am black because I come from the earth’s inside Take my word for jewel in your open light.<\/p>\n![\"Entz\u00fcndete](\"https:\/\/latrespace.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/05\/funeral-candles-poems-grief-bereavement.webp\")
Entz\u00fcndete Kerzen werfen warmes Licht, symbolisieren Erinnerung und Hoffnung<\/em><\/p>\nRemember<\/h4>\n
Funeral Blues<\/h4>\n
‚Do not stand at my grave and weep‘<\/h4>\n
Those Winter Sundays<\/h4>\n
Music<\/h4>\n
Epitaph On A Friend<\/h4>\n
Yes<\/h4>\n
No Time<\/h4>\n
Crossing the Bar<\/h4>\n
Holy Sonnets: Death, be not proud<\/h4>\n
Holy Sonnets: I<\/h4>\n