Voici une s\u00e9lection de po\u00e8mes qui touchent au c\u0153ur du deuil et du processus de deuil.<\/p>\n Christina Rossetti<\/strong><\/p>\n Remember me when I am gone away, W. H. Auden<\/strong><\/p>\n Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, He was my North, my South, my East and West, The stars are not wanted now; put out every one, Mary Elizabeth Frye<\/strong><\/p>\n Do not stand at my grave and weep Robert Hayden<\/strong><\/p>\n Sundays too my father got up early Percy Bysshe Shelley<\/strong><\/p>\n Music, when soft voices die, Robert Burns<\/strong><\/p>\n An honest man here lies at rest, Tess Gallagher<\/strong><\/p>\n Now we are like that flat cone of sand Do you want me to mourn? Billy Collins<\/strong><\/p>\n In a rush this weekday morning, Les po\u00e8mes comme ceux-ci utilisent souvent divers proc\u00e9d\u00e9s et structures po\u00e9tiques. Comprendre des exemples de m\u00e8tre po\u00e9tique<\/a> ou m\u00eame le sp\u00e9cifique m\u00e8tre du corbeau<\/a> peut parfois offrir un aper\u00e7u de la fa\u00e7on dont les po\u00e8tes construisent le rythme et la musicalit\u00e9 pour renforcer l’impact \u00e9motionnel, mais la puissance principale ici r\u00e9side dans l’expression brute du sentiment et du souvenir.<\/p>\n Alfred, Lord Tennyson<\/strong><\/p>\n Sunset and evening star, But such a tide as moving seems asleep, Twilight and evening bell, For tho’ from out our bourne of Time and Place John Donne<\/strong><\/p>\n Death, be not proud, though some have called thee Audre Lorde<\/strong><\/p>\n Is the total black, being spoken Some words are open Some words live in my throat Some words Love is a word another kind of open\u2014![\"Chandelles](\"https:\/\/latrespace.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/05\/funeral-candles-grief-bereavement.webp\")
Chandelles allum\u00e9es projetant une lumi\u00e8re chaude, symbolisant le souvenir et l'espoir<\/em><\/p>\nRemember<\/h4>\n
\nGone far away into the silent land;
\nWhen you can no more hold me by the hand,
\nNor I half turn to go yet turning stay.
\nRemember me when no more day by day
\nYou tell me of our future that you plann’d:
\nOnly remember me; you understand
\nIt will be late to counsel then or pray.
\nYet if you should forget me for a while
\nAnd afterwards remember, do not grieve:
\nFor if the darkness and corruption leave
\nA vestige of the thoughts that once I had,
\nBetter by far you should forget and smile
\nThan that you should remember and be sad.<\/p>\nFuneral Blues<\/h4>\n
\nPrevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
\nSilence the pianos and with muffled drum
\nBring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
\nLet aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
\nScribbling on the sky the message ‘He is Dead’.
\nPut crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
\nLet the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.<\/p>\n
\nMy working week and my Sunday rest,
\nMy noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
\nI thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.<\/p>\n
\nPack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
\nPour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
\nFor nothing now can ever come to any good.<\/p>\n‘Do not stand at my grave and weep’<\/h4>\n
\nI am not there. I do not sleep.
\nI am a thousand winds that blow.
\nI am the diamond glints on snow.
\nI am the sunlight on ripened grain.
\nI am the gentle autumn rain.
\nWhen you awaken in the morning’s hush
\nI am the swift uplifting rush
\nOf quiet birds in circled flight.
\nI am the soft stars that shine at night.
\nDo not stand at my grave and cry;
\nI am not there. I did not die.<\/p>\nThose Winter Sundays<\/h4>\n
\nand put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,
\nthen with cracked hands that ached from labor in the weekday weather
\nmade banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.
\nI\u2019d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
\nWhen the rooms were warm, he\u2019d call, and slowly I would rise and dress,
\nfearing the chronic angers of that house,
\nSpeaking indifferently to him,
\nwho had driven out the cold
\nand polished my good shoes as well.
\nWhat did I know, what did I know
\nof love\u2019s austere and lonely offices?<\/p>\nMusic<\/h4>\n
\nVibrates in the memory\u2014
\nOdours, when sweet violets sicken,
\nLive within the sense they quicken.
\nRose leaves, when the rose is dead,
\nAre heaped for the belov\u00e8d\u2019s bed;
\nAnd so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,
\nLove itself shall slumber on.<\/p>\nEpitaph On A Friend<\/h4>\n
\nThe friend of man, the friend of truth,
\nThe friend of age, and guide of youth:
\nFew hearts like his, with virtue warm’d,
\nFew heads with knowledge so inform’d;
\nIf there’s another world, he lives in bliss;
\nIf there is none, he made the best of this.<\/p>\nYes<\/h4>\n
\nin the garden of the Silver Pavilion in Kyoto
\ndesigned to appear only in moonlight.<\/p>\n
\nDo you want me to wear black?
\nOr like moonlight on whitest sand
\nto use your dark, to gleam, to shimmer?
\nI gleam. I mourn.<\/p>\nNo Time<\/h4>\n
\nI tap the horn as I speed past the cemetery
\nwhere my parents are buried side by side
\nbeneath a slab of smooth granite.
\nThen, all day, I think of him rising up
\nto give me that look of knowing disapproval
\nwhile my mother calmly tells him to lie back down.<\/p>\nCrossing the Bar<\/h4>\n
\nAnd one clear call for me!
\nAnd may there be no moaning of the bar,
\nWhen I put out to sea,<\/p>\n
\nToo full for sound and foam,
\nWhen that which drew from out the boundless deep
\nTurns again home.<\/p>\n
\nAnd after that the dark!
\nAnd may there be no sadness of farewell,
\nWhen I embark;<\/p>\n
\nThe flood may bear me far,
\nI hope to see my Pilot face to face
\nWhen I have crost the bar.<\/p>\nHoly Sonnets: Death, be not proud<\/h4>\n
\nMighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
\nFor those whom thou think’st thou dost overthrow
\nDie not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
\nFrom rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
\nMuch pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,
\nAnd soonest our best men with thee do go,
\nRest of their bones, and soul’s delivery.
\nThou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
\nAnd dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
\nAnd poppy or charms can make us sleep as well
\nAnd better than thy stroke; why swell’st thou then?
\nOne short sleep past, we wake eternally
\nAnd death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.<\/p>\nHoly Sonnets: I<\/h4>\n
\nFrom the earth’s inside. There are many kinds of open.
\nHow a diamond comes into a knot of flame
\nHow a sound comes into a word, coloured
\nBy who pays what for speaking.<\/p>\n
\nLike a diamond on glass windows
\nSinging out within the crash of passing sun
\nThen there are words like stapled wagers
\nIn a perforated book\u2014buy and sign and tear apart\u2014
\nAnd come whatever wills all chances
\nThe stub remains
\nAn ill-pulled tooth with a ragged edge.<\/p>\n
\nBreeding like adders. Others know sun
\nSeeking like gypsies over my tongue
\nTo explode through my lips
\nLike young sparrows bursting from shell.<\/p>\n
\nBedevil me.<\/p>\n
\nAs a diamond comes into a knot of flame
\nI am black because I come from the earth’s inside
\nTake my word for jewel in your open light.<\/p>\n