Funeral Poems for Dad

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 sun 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.

— Mary Elizabeth Frye

Death is nothing at all. I have only slipped away into the next room. I am I, and you are you. Whatever we were to each other, that we still are. Call me by my old familiar name, Speak to me in the easy way which you always used. Put no difference in your tone, Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow. Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes we shared together. Let my name be ever the household word that it always was, Let it be spoken without effect, without the trace of a shadow on it. Life means all that it ever meant. It is the same as it ever was. There is unbroken continuity. Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight? I am waiting for you, for an interval, Somewhere very near, Just round the corner. All is well.

— Henry Scott-Holland

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.

— Christina Rossetti

Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

— Dylan Thomas

Copyright Dylan Thomas Estate. Published by New Directions.

You can shed tears that she is gone, Or you can smile because she has lived.

— David Harkins

Copyright David Harkins. Used with permission in many funeral settings.

I am standing upon the seashore. A ship, at my side, spreads her white sails to the moving breeze and starts for the blue ocean. She is an object of beauty and strength. I stand and watch her until, at length, she hangs like a speck of white cloud just where the sea and sky come to mingle with each other. Then, someone at my side says, "There, she is gone." Gone where? Gone from my sight. That is all. She is just as large in mast, hull and spar as she was when she left my side. And, she is just as able to bear her load of living freight to her destined port. Her diminished size is in me -- not in her. And, just at the moment when someone says, "There, she is gone," there are other eyes watching her coming, and other voices ready to take up the glad shout, "Here she comes!" And that is dying...

— Henry Van Dyke

Only a dad with a tired face, Coming home from the daily race, Bringing little of gold or fame To show how well he has played the game; But glad in his heart that his own rejoice To see him come and to hear his voice. Only a dad with a brood of four, One of ten million men or more Plodding along in the daily strife, Bearing the whips and the scorns of life, With never a whimper of pain or hate, For the sake of those who at home await. Only a dad, neither rich nor proud, Merely one of the surging crowd, Toiling, striving from day to day, Facing whatever may come his way, Silent whenever the harsh condemn, And bearing it all for the love of them. Only a dad but he gives his all, To smooth the way for his children small, Doing with courage stern and grim The deeds that his father did for him. This is the line that for him I pen: Only a dad, but the best of men.

— Edgar A. Guest

If you can keep your head when all about you Are losing theirs and blaming it on you, If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, But make allowance for their doubting too; If you can wait and not be tired by waiting, Or being lied about, don't deal in lies, Or being hated, don't give way to hating, And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise: If you can dream — and not make dreams your master; If you can think — and not make thoughts your aim; If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster And treat those two impostors just the same; If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools, Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken, And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools: If you can make one heap of all your winnings And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss, And lose, and start again at your beginnings And never breathe a word about your loss; If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew To serve your turn long after they are gone, And so hold on when there is nothing in you Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!' If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue, Or walk with Kings — nor lose the common touch, If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you, If all men count with you, but none too much; If you can fill the unforgiving minute With sixty seconds' worth of distance run, Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it, And — which is more — you'll be a Man, my son!

— Rudyard Kipling

I cannot say, and I will not say That he is dead. He is just away! With a cheery smile, and a wave of the hand, He has wandered into an unknown land, And left us dreaming how very fair It needs must be, since he lingers there. And you — oh you, who the wildest yearn For an old-time step, and the glad return, Think of him faring on, as dear In the love of There as the love of Here. Think of him still as the same. I say, He is not dead — he is just away!

— James Whitcomb Riley

God saw you getting tired And a cure was not to be, So He put His arms around you And whispered, 'Come to me.' With tearful eyes we watched you, And saw you pass away. Although we loved you dearly, We could not make you stay. A golden heart stopped beating, Hard-working hands at rest. God broke our hearts to prove to us He only takes the best.

— Unknown

I'd like the memory of me to be a happy one. I'd like to leave an afterglow of smiles when life is done. I'd like to leave an echo whispering softly down the ways, Of happy times and laughing times and bright and sunny days. I'd like the tears of those who grieve, to dry before the sun; Of happy memories that I leave when life is done.

— Unknown

When I come to the end of the day And the sun has set for me, I want no rites in a gloom-filled room. Why cry for a soul set free? Miss me a little, but not too long, And not with your head bowed low. Remember the love that we once shared, Miss me, but let me go. For this is a journey that we all must take, And each must go alone. It's all a part of the Maker's plan, A step on the road to home. When you are lonely and sick of heart, Go to the friends we know, And bury your sorrows in doing good deeds. Miss me, but let me go.

— Unknown

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.

— Robert Hayden

Copyright Robert Hayden Estate. Published by Liveright Publishing.

If roses grow in heaven, Lord please pick a bunch for me, Place them in my father's arms And tell him they're from me.

— Dolores M. Garcia

Copyright Dolores M. Garcia.

When great trees fall, in forests small things are lost, beneath the heavy breathing, light is lost.

— Maya Angelou

Copyright Maya Angelou Estate. Published by Random House.

Our father kept a garden, A garden of the heart; He planted all the good things That gave our lives their start. He turned us to the sunshine And encouraged us to dream, Fostering and nourishing The seeds of self-esteem. And when the winds and rain came, He protected us enough; But not too much because he knew We'd need to stand up tough. His constant good example Always taught us right from wrong; Markers for our pathway That will last a lifetime long. We are our father's garden, We are his legacy; Thank you, Dad, for everything You've done for our family.

— J. Allen Shaw

My father was no hero In a military way, He never wore a uniform Or earned a soldier's pay. He never fought in battles Or led a charge up hills, But he was there beside me Through all of life's small ills. He was a quiet hero In his unassuming way, He worked and saved and sacrificed To give us a better day. He taught us to be honest, To stand up straight and tall, And though he never sought the praise, He was the best of all.

— Edgar A. Guest

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done, The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won, The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring; But O heart! heart! heart! O the bleeding drops of red, Where on the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead. O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells; Rise up — for you the flag is flung — for you the bugle trills, For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths — for you the shores a-crowding, For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning; Here Captain! dear father! This arm beneath your head! It is some dream that on the deck, You've fallen cold and dead. My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still, My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will, The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done, From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won; Exult O shores, and ring O bells! But I with mournful tread, Walk the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead.

— Walt Whitman

A golden heart stopped beating, Hard-working hands at rest. God broke our hearts to prove to us He only takes the best.

— Unknown

His love was unending, his patience sublime, Those powerful hands that held us through time.

— Karen Boyer

Copyright Karen Boyer.

You never quite get over the loss of a father. You simply learn to navigate the world without him in it.

— Donna Ashworth

Copyright Donna Ashworth. From 'Loss' collection.

Cowards die many times before their deaths; The valiant never taste of death but once. Of all the wonders that I yet have heard, It seems to me most strange that men should fear; Seeing that death, a necessary end, Will come when it will come.

— William Shakespeare, Julius Caesar, Act II, Scene ii

Not how did he die, but how did he live? Not what did he gain, but what did he give?

— Summer Sandercox

Copyright Summer Sandercox.

Thanks for all the things you've done, Thanks for all the battles won, Thanks for all the times you cared, Thanks for every tear you shared. Thanks for teaching me to walk, Thanks for listening when I'd talk, Thanks for always being near, Thanks for wiping every tear. Thanks for all the love you gave, Thanks for being strong and brave, Thanks for all the things you'd do, Thanks, Dad, for just being you.

— Unknown

I am my Father's garden, I am his legacy, The seeds he sowed within my heart Are all I'll ever need. He taught me how to weather storms And stand up straight and tall, His love the sun that kept me warm Through winter, spring and fall. I am my Father's garden, His work of art, his pride, And though he's gone from here today His love has not yet died.

— Unknown

Weep not for me though I have gone Into that gentle night. Grieve if you will, but not for long Upon my soul's sweet flight. I am at peace, my soul's at rest, There is no need for tears. For with your love I was so blessed For all those many years. There is no pain, I suffer not, The fear is now all gone. Put now these things out of your thoughts; In your memory I live on. Remember not my fight for breath, Remember not the strife. Please do not dwell upon my death But celebrate my life.

— Unknown

A father sees his son nearing manhood. What shall he tell that son? "Life is hard; be steel; be a rock." And he will be hard, and he will be a rock. And then the boy will not be soft enough to know love, and to feel the earth quicken. A father sees his son nearing manhood. What shall he tell that son? "Life is short; be hard; be tough." And he will be tough and hard. And he will never know the softness of love, the singing in the rain on the roof above. A father sees his son nearing manhood. What shall he tell that son? Tell him too much money has killed men, and left them dead years before burial; Tell him time as a stuff can be wasted. Tell him to be a fool every so often and to have no shame over having been a fool yet learning something out of every folly. Tell him to be alone often and get at himself and above all tell himself no lies about himself.

— Carl Sandburg

I might have been rich if I'd wanted the gold Instead of the friendships I've made. I might have had fame if I'd sought for renown In the hours when I purposely played. Now I'm standing today on the far edge of life, And I'm just looking backward to see What I've done with the years and the days that were mine, And all that has happened to me. I haven't built much of a fortune to leave To those who shall carry my name, And nothing I've done shall entitle me now To a place on the tablets of fame. But I've loved the great mountains, the fields and the streams, And I've loved every flower that grows. I've savoured the fragrance of newly mown hay And watched every sunset that glows.

— Edgar A. Guest

A father's love is forever imprinted On his children's hearts, A guiding light that never dims Even when the world grows dark. He taught us strength through gentle hands, He showed us love through deeds, His legacy lives on in us, In every word and deed. Though we cannot hold him now, His spirit carries on, A father's love is never lost— It lives forever on.

— Unknown

Don't weep at my grave, For I am not there, I've a date with a butterfly To dance in the air. I'll be singing in the sunshine, Wild and free, Playing across the wind, Being part of the sea. So dry your eyes and remember my laugh, The good times we had, And know that I loved you More than words ever said.

— Unknown

Do not stand at my grave and weep, I am not there, I do not sleep. I am the thousand winds that blow... Actually, forget that, I'm watching the football.

— Unknown

The memory of my father is wrapped up in white paper, like sandwiches taken for a day at work.

— Yehuda Amichai

Copyright Yehuda Amichai Estate. Published by HarperCollins.