It gives me comfort to dwell upon

Remembered friends who are dead and gone

And the jokes we had and the fun.

How happy they are I cannot know

But happy am I who loved them so.

Noël Coward (1899–1973)

A Song of Living

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.

I give a share of my soul to the world where my course is run.

I know that another shall finish the task I must leave undone.

I know that no flower, nor flint was in vain on the path I trod.

As one looks on a face through a window, through life I have looked on God.

Because I have loved life, I shall have no sorrow to die.

Amelia Josephine Burr (1878–?)

‘I should like to be buried in a summer forest’

I should like to be buried in a summer forest

where people go in July,

only a bus ride from the city,

I should like them to walk over me

not noticing anything but sunlight

and patches of wild strawberries –

Here! Look under the leaves!

I should like the child who is slowest

to end up picking the most,

and the big kids will show the little

the only way to grasp a nettle

and pick it so it doesn’t sting.

I should like home-time to come

so late the bus has its lights on

and a cloud of moths hangs in their beam,

and when they are all gone

I should like to be buried in a summer forest

where the dark steps

blindfold, on cat foot-pads,

with the dawn almost touching it.

Helen Dunmore (1952–)

‘I would not have a god come in’

I would not have a god come in

To shield me suddenly from sin,

And set my house of life to rights;

Nor angels with bright burning wings

Ordering my earthly thoughts and things;

Rather my own frail guttering lights

Wind blown and nearly beaten out;

Rather the terror of the nights

And long, sick groping after doubt;

Rather be lost than let my soul

Slip vaguely from my own control –

Of my own spirit let me be

In sole though feeble mastery.

Sara Teasdale (1884–1933)