Sonnet 71 - No Longer Mourn for Me When I am Dead (W.Shakespeare)

No longer mourn for me when I am dead
Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell
Give warning to the world that I am fled
From this vile world with vilest worms to dwell.
Nay if you read this line, remember not
The hand that writ it, for I love you so
That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot
If thinking on me then should make you woe.
O, if, I say, you look upon this verse,
When I perhaps compounded am with clay,
Do not so much as my poor name rehearse,
But let your love even with my life decay,
Lest the wise world should look into your moan
And mock you with me after I am gone.

Blind - Lifehouse

I was young but I wasn't naive
I watched helpless as he turned around to leave,
and still I have the pain I have to carry
a past so deep that, even you could not bury if you tried.

After all this time
I never thought we'd be here
never thought we'd be here
when my love for you was blind
but I couldn't make you see it
couldn't make you see it

I would fall asleep
only in hopes of dreaming
that everything would be like it was before
but nights like this it seems are slowly fleeting
they disappear as reality is crashing to the floor

after all this time
I never thought we'd be here
never thought we'd be here
when my love for you was blind
but I couldn't make you see it
couldn't make you see it
that I loved you more than you'll ever know
a part of me died when I let you go

after all this while
would you ever wanna leave it
maybe you could not believe it
that my love for you is blind
but I couldn't make you see it
couldn't make you see it
that I loved you more than you will ever know
a part of me died when I let you go
and I loved you more than you'll ever know
a part of me died when I let you go


- The lyricist wrote this song with his dad in mind. I just thought the lyrics are beautiful and teens from broken homes would probably relate themselves with this song. :)

My Mother on Her Sickbed -Yehuda Amichai

My mother on her sickbed with the lightness
and hollowness of a person
Who has already said goodbye at an airport
In the beautiful and quiet area
Between parting and takeoff.

My mother on her sickbed.
All she had in her life is now
Like empty bottles in front of the door
That will show once more with colored labels
What filled them with joy and sadness.

Her last words, Take the flowers out of the room,
She said seven days before her death,
Then she closed herself for seven days,
Like the seven days of mourning.

But even her death created in her room
A warm hominess
With her sleeping face and the cup with its teaspoon
And the towel and the book and the glasses,
And her hand on the blanket, the same
hand that felt my forehead, in childhood.

Posted by,
Lynn