Death

is one of the most feared things by humans. Whether it's for selfish reasons (you have a whole slew of plans, goals, and ideas to carry out before you even think about an eternal nap), or perhaps it's that timeless classic of all fears--- fear of the unknown.

Regardless, there a two things in my entire life that have made me feel mildly alright with death.
This Poem is the second most comforting thing I've come across after losing someone close to me. If you haven't lost someone that you're close to yet you won't know what I mean until that day.

The first thing that anyone had ever told me that made a lick of sense in terms of now, and not once I reach the eternal goddamn land of bliss in the sky, involved something someone said to me after my grandfather's funeral. I was relatively young, and therefore I believed this to be a very unique idea which I soon found out was rather cliche. Nonetheless it was a wholesome, unoriginal thought that I found made a tremendous amount of sense compared to the " Don't be sad, he will be waiting for you in heaven with our savior" stuff I had been hearing for several hours at his wake and funeral.

I am not afraid to admit that I was the biggest sniveling ass at that funeral, and someone had taken notice. Their condolence was something offered in passing, and one that I could tell they were saying just to say something to help me. That, I believe, was an admirable act in its own right, but I don't think this person ever imagined that what they said that day would stay with me for so long.

Simply put, they explained that my grandfather is gone physically, but is still living on through all of us. What we've learned from him and the stories he told us will be passed down, and so he will never really be gone completely.
Damn, that's deep Aunt Jeanie!--but really, something in my mind clicked at that moment and there was an immediate sense of relief.

This poem is the only other time I remember that feeling returning to me...

Thanatopsis

TO him who in the love of Nature holds

Communion with her visible forms, she speaks

A various language; for his gayer hours

She has a voice of gladness, and a smile

And eloquence of beauty, and she glides

Into his darker musings, with a mild

And healing sympathy, that steals away

Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts

Of the last bitter hour come like a blight

Over thy spirit, and sad images

Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,

And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,

Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart;--

Go forth, under the open sky, and list

To Nature's teachings, while from all around--

Earth and her waters, and the depths of air--

Comes a still voice--Yet a few days, and thee

The all-beholding sun shall see no more

In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground,

Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears,

Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist

Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim

Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again,

And, lost each human trace, surrendering up

Thine individual being, shalt thou go

To mix for ever with the elements,

To be a brother to the insensible rock

And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain

Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak

Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould.

Yet not to thine eternal resting-place

Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish

Couch more magnificient. Thou shalt lie down

With patriarchs of the infant world--with kings,

The powerful of the earth--the wise, the good

Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,

All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills

Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun,--the vales

Stretching in pensive quietness between;

The venerable woods--rivers that move

In majesty, and the complaining brooks

That make the meadow green; and, poured round all,

Old Ocean's gray and melancholy waste,--

Are but the solemn decorations all

Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun,

The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,

Are shining on the sad abodes of death,

Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread

The globe are but a handful to the tribes

That slumber in its bosom.--Take the wings

Of morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness,

Or lose thyself in the continuous woods

Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound,

Save his own dashings--yet the dead are there:

And millions in those solitudes, since first

The flight of years began, have laid them down

In their last sleep--the dead reign there alone.

So shalt thou rest, and what if thou withdraw

In silence from the living, and no friend

Take note of thy departure? All that breathe

Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh

When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care

Plod on, and each one as before will chase

His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave

Their mirth and their employments, and shall come

And make their bed with thee. As the long train

Of ages glide away, the sons of men,

The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes

In the full strength of years, matron and maid,

The speechless babe, and the gray-headed man--

Shall one by one be gathered to thy side

By those, who in their turn shall follow them.

So live, that when thy summons comes to join

The innumerable caravan, which moves

To that mysterious realm, where each shall take

His chamber in the silent halls of death,

Thou go not, like a quarry-slave at night,

Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed

By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave,

Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch

About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.




William Cullen Bryant