Departure And Arrival Poem Quotes

The day arrived,when myriad teary rivers flow and the muted wind faintly died in his tears—an altar for the beloved one's departure,for sister-hood is no more,for her to adore!while pangs the beating world in a lamenting voice;their remembering loss of the 'one' they embrace most and when the crepuscule came like a phantom,the mournful,gathered birds swiftly flew in gloom.

Death is a friend we have not met, a voice we have not heard, a face we have not seen. Death is a slipping away, a going beyond a stepping through. It is a fading, as light slips from the sky at dusk, tenderly, and with a silent beauty. It is a leaf caught in the current, too far for us to reach from shore. It is a ship setting sail at dawn, to lands we do not know, and with friends we cannot follow. It is a bird set free from a cage, flying one last flight across our horizon before we lose it to the clouds. Death is the fall of a rose, the drop of a sparrow, the sigh of a barren bough. It is a letting go, a quieting of fear, and a haven from pain. Death is a coming home after a long journey. It is a safe harbor after many storms, and a sweet quiet rest after great labor. Death is a road we have not walked. a place we have not seen, a friend we have not met. It is a going and a coming, a departure, and an arrival. an end and a beginning.

nothing lay so clear before those who stood on these banks than the great canopy of sky that spread above them and poured forth its endless light and everything it seemed stood eternal here all that was laid bare or the golden light of grain heading out in summer calls them all and gazing into it they see summers spread everywhere before them flowing through the air generations of the sun standing in sheaves while over all of them the silent river and the grass against their feet a star unmoving stands beyond anyone’s grasp this is the light that draws them all into the dream of what will be when they no longer walk here possibility rises in the light as if every dawn turned departure toward endless arrivals where only the rising sun holds time in its light asleep upon our hands but of the past of all who stand here it is somewhere other than now intermittent in the sky as if it were the moon floating away and all that is recalled growing dimmer through the evenings of the mind

The Snowman by Stewart Stafford My snowball heart is a sorbet, With delusions of grandeur, Use alcohol instead of snow, And I'd make a fine iced liqueur. My arrival and departure, Are never certain things, Wherever the North wind blows, I descend on the iciest wings. Here one day, gone the next, My appearances are fleeting, Then I'm disembodied by thaws, Until our next frosty meeting. © Stewart Stafford, 2021. All rights reserved.