Funeral Poems for Grandpa

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.

I read of a man who stood to speak At the funeral of a friend. He referred to the dates on the tombstone From the beginning... to the end.

— Linda Ellis

Copyright Linda Ellis. All rights actively enforced. Permission required for use.

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth; Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim, Because it was grassy and wanted wear; Though as for that the passing there Had worn them really about the same, And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step had trodden black. Oh, I kept the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back. I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I — I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.

— Robert Frost

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, 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. Twilight and evening bell, And after that the dark! And may there be no sadness of farewell, When I embark; 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.

— Alfred, Lord Tennyson, Tennyson's final poem, written 1889

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

Though my soul may set in darkness, It will rise in perfect light; I have loved the stars too truly To be fearful of the night.

— Sarah Williams

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

Abide with me; fast falls the eventide; The darkness deepens; Lord, with me abide! When other helpers fail and comforts flee, Help of the helpless, O abide with me. Swift to its close ebbs out life's little day; Earth's joys grow dim, its glories pass away; Change and decay in all around I see; O Thou who changest not, abide with me. I need Thy presence every passing hour; What but Thy grace can foil the tempter's power? Who, like Thyself, my guide and stay can be? Through cloud and sunshine, Lord, abide with me. I fear no foe, with Thee at hand to bless; Ills have no weight, and tears no bitterness. Where is death's sting? Where, grave, thy victory? I triumph still, if Thou abide with me. Hold Thou Thy cross before my closing eyes; Shine through the gloom and point me to the skies. Heaven's morning breaks, and earth's vain shadows flee; In life, in death, O Lord, abide with me.

— Henry Francis Lyte

God looked around his garden And found an empty place. He then looked down upon the earth And saw your tired face.

— Melissa Shreve

Copyright attributed to Melissa Shreve. Copyright status unclear.

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

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.

I am home in Heaven, dear ones; Oh, so happy and so bright! There is perfect joy and beauty In this everlasting light. All the pain and grief is over, Every restless tossing passed; I am now at peace forever, Safely home in Heaven at last. Did you wonder I so calmly Trod the valley of the shade? Oh! but Jesus' love illumined Every dark and fearful glade. And He came Himself to meet me In that way so hard to tread; And with Jesus' arm to lean on, Could I have one doubt or dread? Then you must not grieve so sorely, For I love you dearly still; Try to look beyond earth's shadows, Pray to trust our Father's Will. There is work still waiting for you, So you must not idly stand; Do it now, while life remaineth — You shall rest in God's own land. When that work is all completed, He will gently call you Home; Oh, the rapture of that meeting! Oh, the joy to see you come!

— Unknown

Time is too slow for those who wait, Too swift for those who fear, Too long for those who grieve, Too short for those who rejoice, But for those who love, time is eternity.

— Henry Van Dyke

Fear no more the heat o' the sun, Nor the furious winter's rages; Thou thy worldly task hast done, Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages: Golden lads and girls all must, As chimney-sweepers, come to dust. Fear no more the frown o' the great; Thou art past the tyrant's stroke; Care no more to clothe and eat; To thee the reed is as the oak: The sceptre, learning, physic, must All follow this, and come to dust. Fear no more the lightning flash, Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone; Fear not slander, censure rash; Thou hast finish'd joy and moan: All lovers young, all lovers must Consign to thee, and come to dust. No exorciser harm thee! Nor no witchcraft charm thee! Ghost unlaid forbear thee! Nothing ill come near thee! Quiet consummation have; And renowned be thy grave!

— William Shakespeare, Cymbeline, Act IV, Scene ii

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

An honest man here lies at rest, The friend of man, the friend of beast, If there is another world, he lives in bliss; If there is none, he made the best of this.

— Robert Burns

In the rising of the sun and in its going down, We remember them. In the blowing of the wind and in the chill of winter, We remember them. In the opening of buds and in the rebirth of spring, We remember them. In the blueness of the sky and in the warmth of summer, We remember them. In the rustling of leaves and in the beauty of autumn, We remember them. In the beginning of the year and when it ends, We remember them. When we are weary and in need of strength, We remember them. When we are lost and sick at heart, We remember them. So long as we live, they too shall live, For they are now a part of us, as we remember them.

— Sylvan Kamens & Jack Riemer

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 will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree, And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made; Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee, And live alone in the bee-loud glade. And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow, Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings; There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow, And evening full of the linnet's wings. I will arise and go now, for always night and day I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore; While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey, I hear it in the deep heart's core.

— W.B. Yeats

When you are old and grey and full of sleep, And nodding by the fire, take down this book, And slowly read, and dream of the soft look Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep; How many loved your moments of glad grace, And loved your beauty with love false or true, But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face; And bending down beside the glowing bars, Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled And paced upon the mountains overhead And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

— W.B. Yeats

Feel no guilt in laughter, he'd know how much you care. Feel no sorrow in a smile that he is not here to share. You cannot grieve forever; he would not want you to. He'd hope that you could carry on the way you always do. So, talk about the good times and the way you showed you cared, The days you spent together, all the happiness you shared. Let memories surround you, a word someone may say Will suddenly recapture a time, an hour, a day, That brings him back as clearly as though he were still here, And fills you with the feelings that he is always near. For if you keep those moments, you will never be apart And he will live forever locked safely within your heart.

— Unknown

A life well lived is a precious gift Of hope and strength and grace, From someone who has made our world A brighter, better place. It's filled with moments, sweet and sad, With smiles and sometimes tears, With friendships formed, and good times shared, And laughter through the years. A life well lived is a legacy Of joy and pride and pleasure, A living, breathing memory Of our never-ending treasure.

— Unknown

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

— Karen Boyer

Copyright Karen Boyer.

Grandma's hands clapped in church on Sunday morning, Grandma's hands played a tambourine so well. Grandma's hands used to issue out a warning, She'd say, "Billy, don't you run so fast, Might fall on a piece of glass, Might be snakes there in that grass." Grandma's hands. Grandma's hands soothed a local unwed mother, Grandma's hands used to ache sometimes and swell. Grandma's hands used to lift her face and tell her, She'd say, "Baby, Grandma understands That you really love that man, Put yourself in Jesus' hands." Grandma's hands. Grandma's hands used to hand me piece of candy, Grandma's hands picked me up each time I fell. Grandma's hands, boy, they really came in handy. She'd say, "Matty, don't you whip that boy, What you want to spank him for? He didn't drop no apple core." But I don't have Grandma anymore. If I get to heaven I'll look for Grandma's hands.

— Unknown

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.

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

Grandpa's hands were rough and worn, From years of honest toil. They built the fences, fixed the gates, And worked the stubborn soil. Grandpa's hands could hold a child With tenderness and care, Could wipe away the falling tears, Could stroke dishevelled hair. Grandpa's hands could tell a story Just by how they moved— The wave, the pat, the gentle squeeze, A language that was grooved. And now those hands are laid to rest, Their long day's labour through. But the things those hands built for us Will last our whole lives through.

— Unknown

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

Just close your eyes and you will see All the memories that you have of me. Just sit and relax and you will find I'm really still there inside your mind.

— Gaynor Llewellyn

Copyright Gaynor Llewellyn.

What though the radiance which was once so bright Be now for ever taken from my sight, Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower; We will grieve not, rather find Strength in what remains behind; In the primal sympathy Which having been must ever be; In the soothing thoughts that spring Out of human suffering; In the faith that looks through death, In years that bring the philosophic mind.

— William Wordsworth, Ode: Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood

"Isn't it a bit unpleasant to be made of something that can simply get up and walk away from you at any moment?" said Mole. "No," said the Rat, gazing lovingly at the old boat. "For what gives life its value is that some day it will end. Some day, one day, we shall all leave this riverside, one by one. But the memory of the river, and the friends we made here, and the sunshine and the willows — those memories will last forever." "Then I shan't mind leaving," said Mole quietly. "No," agreed the Rat. "You won't mind at all."

— Kenneth Grahame, The Wind in the Willows by Kenneth Grahame (1908)

Because I have loved life, I shall have no sorrow to die. I have sent up my gladness on wings, to be lost in the blue of the sky. I have run and leaped with the rain, I have taken the wind to my breast. My cheek like a drowsy child to the face of the earth I have pressed. Because I have loved life, I shall have no sorrow to die. I have kissed young Love on the lips, I have heard his song to the end. I have struck my hand like a seal in the loyal hand of a friend. I have known the peace of heaven, the comfort of work done well. I have longed for death in the darkness and risen alive out of hell. Because I have loved life, I shall have no sorrow to die.

— Amelia Josephine Burr

Happy the man, and happy he alone, He who can call today his own: He who, secure within, can say, Tomorrow do thy worst, for I have lived today. Be fair or foul or rain or shine The joys I have possessed, in spite of fate, are mine. Not Heaven itself upon the past has power, But what has been, has been, and I have had my hour.

— John Dryden

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

The old man sat in his favourite chair, With his paper and his pipe. He'd seen the world change fifty times And weathered every gripe. He'd tell you stories from the war, From factories and farms, And every grandchild knew the safety Of his weathered arms. He wasn't much for fancy words, He showed his love through deeds— A shed repaired, a fence rebuilt, A garden free of weeds. The chair sits empty now, the pipe is cold, The paper's left unread. But everything he built endures, And everything he said.

— Unknown

A grandfather's love is a steady thing, Like an oak tree, old and tall. It shelters you through every storm And catches you each time you fall. He tells the tales you've heard before, But still you listen through, Because his voice is home itself, The safest place you knew. His pockets always held a sweet, His eyes a knowing gleam. He made you feel that you could be The hero of your dream. And now the tree stands bare of leaf, Its branches touch the sky. But deep within its roots remain— A grandfather's love won't die.

— Unknown

When I was small and full of wonder, Grandpa walked with me. He showed me how to skip a stone And climb the tallest tree. He taught me how to bait a hook, To tell a north-blown sky, To find the constellations, And to never be too shy. When I grew tall and thought I knew it all, Grandpa walked with me. He let me lead, but kept me safe, As wise as he could be. Now I walk with his memory, And hear him in the breeze. My grandfather still walks with me Through forests, fields and trees.

— Unknown