Samuel Taylor Coleridge Quotes on Death
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Hast thou a charm to stay the morning star In his steep course?
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The knight's bones are dust, And his good sword rust; His soul is with the saints, I trust.
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Beneath this sod A poet lies, or that which once seemed he - Oh, lift a thought in prayer for S.T.C! That he, who many a year, with toil of breath, Found death in life, may here find life in death.
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About, about, in reel and rout The death fires danced at night.
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Her lips were red, her looks were free, Her locks were yellow as gold: Her skin was as white as leprosy, The Night-Mare Life-in-Death was she, Who thicks man's blood with cold.
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'The game is done! I've won, I've won!' Quoth she, and whistles thrice.
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The many men, so beautiful! And they all dead did lie: And a thousand thousand slimy things Lived on; and so did I.
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An orphan's curse would drag to Hell A spirit from on high; But oh! more horrible than that Is a curse in a dead man's eye! Seven days, seven nights, I saw that curse, And yet I could not die.
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The self-same moment I could pray; And from my neck so free The Albatross fell off, and sank Like lead into the sea.
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We were a ghastly crew.
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The man hath penance done, And penance more will do.
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Like one that on a lonesome road Doth walk in fear and dread, And having once turned round walks on, And turns no more his head; Because he knows, a frightful fiend Doth close behind him tread.
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I am dying, but without expectation of a speedy release. Is it not strange that very recently by-gone images, and scenes of early life, have stolen into my mind, like breezes blown from the spice-islands of Youth and Hope - those twin realities of this phantom world! I do not add Love, - for what is Love but Youth and Hope embracing, and so seen as one? I say realities; for reality is a thing of degrees, from the Iliad to a dream.
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How many of our virtues originate in the fear of Death - & that while we flatter ourselves that we are melting in Christian Sensibility over the sorrows of our human Brethren and Sisteren, we are in fact, tho' perhaps unconsciously, moved at the prospect of our own End - for who sincerely pities Sea-sickness, Toothache, or a fit of the Gout in a lusty Good-liver of 50?