Murder Poems | Famous Murder Poems


    Prayer Before Birth Poem by Louis Macneice

    I am not yet born; O hear me.
    Let not the bloodsucking bat or the rat or the stoat or the
    club-footed ghoul come near me.

    I am not yet born, console me.
    I fear that the human race may with tall walls wall me,
    with strong drugs dope me, with wise lies lure me,
    on black racks rack me, in blood-baths roll me.

    I am not yet born; provide me
    With water to dandle me, grass to grow for me, trees to talk
    to me, sky to sing to me, birds and a white light
    in the back of my mind to guide me.

    I am not yet born; forgive me
    For the sins that in me the world shall commit, my words
    when they speak me, my thoughts when they think me,
    my treason engendered by traitors beyond me,
    my life when they murder by means of my
    hands, my death when they live me.

    I am not yet born; rehearse me
    In the parts I must play and the cues I must take when
    old men lecture me, bureaucrats hector me, mountains
    frown at me, lovers laugh at me, the white
    waves call me to folly and the desert calls
    me to doom and the beggar refuses
    my gift and my children curse me.

    I am not yet born; O hear me,
    Let not the man who is beast or who thinks he is God
    come near me.

    I am not yet born; O fill me
    With strength against those who would freeze my
    humanity, would dragoon me into a lethal automaton,
    would make me a cog in a machine, a thing with
    one face, a thing, and against all those
    who would dissipate my entirety, would
    blow me like thistledown hither and
    thither or hither and thither
    like water held in the
    hands would spill me.

    Let them not make me a stone and let them not spill me.
    Otherwise kill me.



    A Refusal To Mourn The Death, By Fire, Of A Child In London Poem by Dylan Thomas

    Never until the mankind making
    Bird beast and flower
    Fathering and all humbling darkness
    Tells with silence the last light breaking
    And the still hour
    Is come of the sea tumbling in harness

    And I must enter again the round
    Zion of the water bead
    And the synagogue of the ear of corn
    Shall I let pray the shadow of a sound
    Or sow my salt seed
    In the least valley of sackcloth to mourn

    The majesty and burning of the child’s death.
    I shall not murder
    The mankind of her going with a grave truth
    Nor blaspheme down the stations of the breath
    With any further
    Elegy of innocence and youth.

    Deep with the first dead lies London’s daughter,
    Robed in the long friends,
    The grains beyond age, the dark veins of her mother,
    Secret by the unmourning water
    Of the riding Thames.
    After the first death, there is no other.



    Helen Of Troy Does Countertop Dancing Poem by Margaret Atwood

    The world is full of women
    who’d tell me I should be ashamed of myself
    if they had the chance. Quit dancing.
    Get some self-respect
    and a day job.
    Right. And minimum wage,
    and varicose veins, just standing
    in one place for eight hours
    behind a glass counter
    bundled up to the neck, instead of
    naked as a meat sandwich.
    Selling gloves, or something.
    Instead of what I do sell.
    You have to have talent
    to peddle a thing so nebulous
    and without material form.
    Exploited, they’d say. Yes, any way
    you cut it, but I’ve a choice
    of how, and I’ll take the money.

    I do give value.
    Like preachers, I sell vision,
    like perfume ads, desire
    or its facsimile. Like jokes
    or war, it’s all in the timing.
    I sell men back their worse suspicions:
    that everything’s for sale,
    and piecemeal. They gaze at me and see
    a chain-saw murder just before it happens,
    when thigh, ass, inkblot, crevice, tit, and nipple
    are still connected.
    Such hatred leaps in them,
    my beery worshippers! That, or a bleary
    hopeless love. Seeing the rows of heads
    and upturned eyes, imploring
    but ready to snap at my ankles,
    I understand floods and earthquakes, and the urge
    to step on ants. I keep the beat,
    and dance for them because
    they can’t. The music smells like foxes,
    crisp as heated metal
    searing the nostrils
    or humid as August, hazy and languorous
    as a looted city the day after,
    when all the rape’s been done
    already, and the killing,
    and the survivors wander around
    looking for garbage
    to eat, and there’s only a bleak exhaustion.
    Speaking of which, it’s the smiling
    tires me out the most.
    This, and the pretence
    that I can’t hear them.
    And I can’t, because I’m after all
    a foreigner to them.
    The speech here is all warty gutturals,
    obvious as a slab of ham,
    but I come from the province of the gods
    where meanings are lilting and oblique.
    I don’t let on to everyone,
    but lean close, and I’ll whisper:
    My mother was raped by a holy swan.
    You believe that? You can take me out to dinner.
    That’s what we tell all the husbands.
    There sure are a lot of dangerous birds around.

    Not that anyone here
    but you would understand.
    The rest of them would like to watch me
    and feel nothing. Reduce me to components
    as in a clock factory or abattoir.
    Crush out the mystery.
    Wall me up alive
    in my own body.
    They’d like to see through me,
    but nothing is more opaque
    than absolute transparency.
    Look–my feet don’t hit the marble!
    Like breath or a balloon, I’m rising,
    I hover six inches in the air
    in my blazing swan-egg of light.
    You think I’m not a goddess?
    Try me.
    This is a torch song.
    Touch me and you’ll burn.



    The 21st Century’s Murder And Massacre Poem by Muzahidul Reza

    Ongoing the 21st century’s free style massacre
    The horrible morning has started there in Myanmar,
    Satan is tormented by theses and has come down
    To learn the massacring styles in special gown,
    But no one has yet directly protested the bestiality
    So the massacrers gigantically speed up in cruelty;

    So long the morning! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !
    The massacrers are devouring the breakfast for long
    With soft bloody flesh and red soup again and again
    And preserving the rest for the future want in time;

    I don’t know when and where will be the noon?
    And then when and where will be the evening?
    And then when and where will be the cursed night?
    For the final maelstrom and the devastating fight
    Or shall the morning cover the whole day only?
    And then when will a morning start peacefully?



    The Phoenix Strangler Poem by Chinedu Dike

    With promise of job,
    he lured her into a cane field.
    His gentleness a veil of sanity.
    Lurking in his mind,
    a perversion of sex instinct:
    ‘Bind her! Torture her! Kill her! ‘

    Deep within comfort zone
    suddenly brandishing his bludgeon,
    countenance wearing mercilessness –
    sight of which imported terror into her spine.
    Desperate plea for mercy fueling his excitement.
    Menacingly, her clothes he demanded.

    Hissing in agony like pine tree,
    gnashing her teeth before the incubus, she stripped.
    Her nudity assaulting his senses,
    eyes flaming with lust,
    he took stock of the bared flesh:
    ‘Beautiful! Submissive! Horrified! ‘

    Bound and gagged,
    fantasy translating into reality,
    all hell broke loose…
    Urge gratified,
    with her undergarment around her neck,
    he sealed her fate.

    Sixteenth victim of the unhinged mind:
    Single mother of two horrendously maimed.
    Not quite long,
    no sooner had he got home
    than long arm of the law tapped his shoulders:
    DNA found on victims had matched his.

    Karma forced to be lenient,
    he lives albeit in confinement.
    No Death Penalty In Mzansi.



    A Case Of Murder Poem by Vernon Scannell

    They should not have left him there alone,
    Alone that is except for the cat.
    He was only nine, not old enough
    To be left alone in a basement flat,
    Alone, that is, except for the cat.
    A dog would have been a different thing,
    A big gruff dog with slashing jaws,
    But a cat with round eyes mad as gold,
    Plump as a cushion with tucked-in paws—
    Better have left him with a fair-sized rat!
    But what they did was leave him with a cat.
    He hated that cat; he watched it sit,
    A buzzing machine of soft black stuff,
    He sat and watched and he hated it,
    Snug in its fur, hot blood in a muff,
    And its mad gold stare and the way it sat
    Crooning dark warmth: he loathed all that.
    So he took Daddy’s stick and he hit the cat.
    Then quick as a sudden crack in glass
    It hissed, black flash, to a hiding place
    In the dust and dark beneath the couch,
    And he followed the grin on his new-made face,
    A wide-eyed, frightened snarl of a grin,
    And he took the stick and he thrust it in,
    Hard and quick in the furry dark.
    The black fur squealed and he felt his skin
    Prickle with sparks of dry delight.
    Then the cat again came into sight,
    Shot for the door that wasn’t quite shut,
    But the boy, quick too, slammed fast the door:
    The cat, half-through, was cracked like a nut
    And the soft black thud was dumped on the floor.
    Then the boy was suddenly terrified
    And he bit his knuckles and cried and cried;
    But he had to do something with the dead thing there.
    His eyes squeezed beads of salty prayer
    But the wound of fear gaped wide and raw;
    He dared not touch the thing with his hands
    So he fetched a spade and shovelled it
    And dumped the load of heavy fur
    In the spidery cupboard under the stair
    Where it’s been for years, and though it died
    It’s grown in that cupboard and its hot low purr
    Grows slowly louder year by year:
    There’ll not be a corner for the boy to hide
    When the cupboard swells and all sides split
    And the huge black cat pads out of it.



    Cleared Poem by Rudyard Kipling

    Help for a patriot distressed, a spotless spirit hurt,
    Help for an honourable clan sore trampled in the dirt!
    From Queenstown Bay to Donegal, O listen to my song,
    The honourable gentlemen have suffered grievous wrong.

    Their noble names were mentioned — O the burning black disgrace! —
    By a brutal Saxon paper in an Irish shooting-case;
    They sat upon it for a year, then steeled their heart to brave it,
    And ‘coruscating innocence’ the learned Judges gave it.

    Bear witness, Heaven, of that grim crime beneath the surgeon’s knife,
    The honourable gentlemen deplored the loss of life!
    Bear witness of those chanting choirs that burk and shirk and snigger,
    No man laid hand upon the knife or finger to the trigger!

    Cleared in the face of all mankind beneath the winking skies,
    Like ph]oenixes from Ph]oenix Park (and what lay there) they rise!
    Go shout it to the emerald seas — give word to Erin now,
    Her honourable gentlemen are cleared — and this is how: —

    They only paid the Moonlighter his cattle-hocking price,
    They only helped the murderer with counsel’s best advice,
    But — sure it keeps their honour white — the learned Court believes
    They never gave a piece of plate to murderers and thieves.

    They never told the ramping crowd to card a woman’s hide,
    They never marked a man for death — what fault of theirs he died? —
    They only said ‘intimidate’, and talked and went away —
    By God, the boys that did the work were braver men than they!

    Their sin it was that fed the fire — small blame to them that heard —
    The ‘bhoys’ get drunk on rhetoric, and madden at a word —
    They knew whom they were talking at, if they were Irish too,
    The gentlemen that lied in Court, they knew, and well they knew.

    They only took the Judas-gold from Fenians out of jail,
    They only fawned for dollars on the blood-dyed Clanna-Gael.
    If black is black or white is white, in black and white it’s down,
    They’re only traitors to the Queen and rebels to the Crown.

    ‘Cleared’, honourable gentlemen! Be thankful it’s no more: —
    The widow’s curse is on your house, the dead are at your door.
    On you the shame of open shame, on you from North to South
    The hand of every honest man flat-heeled across your mouth.

    ‘Less black than we were painted’? — Faith, no word of black was said;
    The lightest touch was human blood, and that, you know, runs red.
    It’s sticking to your fist to-day for all your sneer and scoff,
    And by the Judge’s well-weighed word you cannot wipe it off.

    Hold up those hands of innocence — go, scare your sheep together,
    The blundering, tripping tups that bleat behind the old bell-wether;
    And if they snuff the taint and break to find another pen,
    Tell them it’s tar that glistens so, and daub them yours again!

    ‘The charge is old’? — As old as Cain — as fresh as yesterday;
    Old as the Ten Commandments — have ye talked those laws away?
    If words are words, or death is death, or powder sends the ball,
    You spoke the words that sped the shot — the curse be on you all.

    ‘Our friends believe’? — Of course they do — as sheltered women may;
    But have they seen the shrieking soul ripped from the quivering clay?
    They! — If their own front door is shut,
    they’ll swear the whole world’s warm;
    What do they know of dread of death or hanging fear of harm?

    The secret half a county keeps, the whisper in the lane,
    The shriek that tells the shot went home behind the broken pane,
    The dry blood crisping in the sun that scares the honest bees,
    And shows the ‘bhoys’ have heard your talk — what do they know of these?

    But you — you know — ay, ten times more; the secrets of the dead,
    Black terror on the country-side by word and whisper bred,
    The mangled stallion’s scream at night, the tail-cropped heifer’s low.
    Who set the whisper going first? You know, and well you know!

    My soul! I’d sooner lie in jail for murder plain and straight,
    Pure crime I’d done with my own hand for money, lust, or hate,
    Than take a seat in Parliament by fellow-felons cheered,
    While one of those ‘not provens’ proved me cleared as you are cleared.

    Cleared — you that ‘lost’ the League accounts — go, guard our honour still,
    Go, help to make our country’s laws that broke God’s law at will —
    One hand stuck out behind the back, to signal ‘strike again’;
    The other on your dress-shirt-front to show your heart is clane.

    If black is black or white is white, in black and white it’s down,
    You’re only traitors to the Queen and rebels to the Crown.
    If print is print or words are words, the learned Court perpends: —
    We are not ruled by murderers, but only — by their friends.



    Christmas Eve Poem by Anne Sexton

    Oh sharp diamond, my mother!
    I could not count the cost
    of all your faces, your moods-
    that present that I lost.
    Sweet girl, my deathbed,
    my jewel-fingered lady,
    your portrait flickered all night
    by the bulbs of the tree.

    Your face as calm as the moon
    over a mannered sea,
    presided at the family reunion,
    the twelve grandchildren
    you used to wear on your wrist,
    a three-months-old baby,
    a fat check you never wrote,
    the red-haired toddler who danced the twist,
    your aging daughters, each one a wife,
    each one talking to the family cook,
    each one avoiding your portrait,
    each one aping your life.

    Later, after the party,
    after the house went to bed,
    I sat up drinking the Christmas brandy,
    watching your picture,
    letting the tree move in and out of focus.
    The bulbs vibrated.
    They were a halo over your forehead.
    Then they were a beehive,
    blue, yellow, green, red;
    each with its own juice, each hot and alive
    stinging your face. But you did not move.
    I continued to watch, forcing myself,
    waiting, inexhaustible, thirty-five.

    I wanted your eyes, like the shadows
    of two small birds, to change.
    But they did not age.
    The smile that gathered me in, all wit,
    all charm, was invincible.
    Hour after hour I looked at your face
    but I could not pull the roots out of it.
    Then I watched how the sun hit your red sweater, your withered neck,
    your badly painted flesh-pink skin.
    You who led me by the nose, I saw you as you were.
    Then I thought of your body
    as one thinks of murder-

    Then I said Mary-
    Mary, Mary, forgive me
    and then I touched a present for the child,
    the last I bred before your death;
    and then I touched my breast
    and then I touched the floor
    and then my breast again as if,
    somehow, it were one of yours.



    Fears In Solitude Poem by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

    A green and silent spot, amid the hills,
    A small and silent dell ! O’er stiller place
    No singing sky-lark ever poised himself.
    The hills are heathy, save that swelling slope,
    Which hath a gay and gorgeous covering on,
    All golden with the never-bloomless furze,
    Which now blooms most profusely : but the dell,
    Bathed by the mist, is fresh and delicate
    As vernal corn-field, or the unripe flax,
    When, through its half-transparent stalks, at eve,
    The level sunshine glimmers with green light.
    Oh ! ’tis a quiet spirit-healing nook !
    Which all, methinks, would love ; but chiefly he,
    The humble man, who, in his youthful years,
    Knew just so much of folly, as had made
    His early manhood more securely wise !
    Here he might lie on fern or withered heath,
    While from the singing lark (that sings unseen
    The minstrelsy that solitude loves best),
    And from the sun, and from the breezy air,
    Sweet influences trembled o’er his frame ;
    And he, with many feelings, many thoughts,
    Made up a meditative joy, and found
    Religious meanings in the forms of Nature !
    And so, his senses gradually wrapt
    In a half sleep, he dreams of better worlds,
    And dreaming hears thee still, O singing lark,
    That singest like an angel in the clouds !

    My God ! it is a melancholy thing
    For such a man, who would full fain preserve
    His soul in calmness, yet perforce must feel
    For all his human brethren–O my God !
    It weighs upon the heart, that he must think
    What uproar and what strife may now be stirring
    This way or that way o’er these silent hills–
    Invasion, and the thunder and the shout,
    And all the crash of onset ; fear and rage,
    And undetermined conflict–even now,
    Even now, perchance, and in his native isle :
    Carnage and groans beneath this blessed sun !
    We have offended, Oh ! my countrymen !
    We have offended very grievously,
    And been most tyrannous. From east to west
    A groan of accusation pierces Heaven !
    The wretched plead against us ; multitudes
    Countless and vehement, the sons of God,
    Our brethren ! Like a cloud that travels on,
    Steamed up from Cairo’s swamps of pestilence,
    Even so, my countrymen ! have we gone forth
    And borne to distant tribes slavery and pangs,
    And, deadlier far, our vices, whose deep taint
    With slow perdition murders the whole man,
    His body and his soul ! Meanwhile, at home,
    All individual dignity and power
    Engulfed in Courts, Committees, Institutions,
    Associations and Societies,
    A vain, speach-mouthing, speech-reporting Guild,
    One Benefit-Club for mutual flattery,
    We have drunk up, demure as at a grace,
    Pollutions from the brimming cup of wealth ;
    Contemptuous of all honourable rule,
    Yet bartering freedom and the poor man’s life
    For gold, as at a market ! The sweet words
    Of Christian promise, words that even yet
    Might stem destruction, were they wisely preached,
    Are muttered o’er by men, whose tones proclaim
    How flat and wearisome they feel their trade :
    Rank scoffers some, but most too indolent
    To deem them falsehoods or to know their truth.
    Oh ! blasphemous ! the Book of Life is made
    A superstitious instrument, on which
    We gabble o’er the oaths we mean to break ;
    For all must swear–all and in every place,
    College and wharf, council and justice-court ;
    All, all must swear, the briber and the bribed,
    Merchant and lawyer, senator and priest,
    The rich, the poor, the old man and the young ;
    All, all make up one scheme of perjury,
    That faith doth reel ; the very name of God
    Sounds like a juggler’s charm ; and, bold with joy,
    Forth from his dark and lonely hiding-place,
    (Portentious sight !) the owlet Atheism,
    Sailing on obscene wings athwart the noon,
    Drops his blue-fringéd lids, and holds them close,
    And hooting at the glorious sun in Heaven,
    Cries out, `Where is it ?’

    [Image][Image][Image] Thankless too for peace,
    (Peace long preserved by fleets and perilous seas)
    Secure from actual warfare, we have loved
    To swell the war-whoop, passionate for war !
    Alas ! for ages ignorant of all
    Its ghastlier workings, (famine or blue plague,
    Battle, or siege, or flight through wintry snows,)
    We, this whole people, have been clamorous
    For war and bloodshed ; animating sports,
    The which we pay for as a thing to talk of,
    Spectators and not combatants ! No guess
    Anticipative of a wrong unfelt,
    No speculation on contingency,
    However dim and vague, too vague and dim
    To yield a justifying cause ; and forth,
    (Stuffed out with big preamble, holy names,
    And adjurations of the God in Heaven,)
    We send our mandates for the certain death
    Of thousands and ten thousands ! Boys and girls,
    And women, that would groan to see a child
    Pull off an insect’s wing, all read of war,
    The best amusement for our morning meal !
    The poor wretch, who has learnt his only prayers
    From curses, and who knows scarcely words enough
    To ask a blessing from his Heavenly Father,
    Becomes a fluent phraseman, absolute
    And technical in victories and defeats,
    And all our dainty terms for fratricide ;
    Terms which we trundle smoothly o’er our tongues
    Like mere abstractions, empty sounds to which
    We join no feeling and attach no form !
    As if the soldier died without a wound ;
    As if the fibres of this godlike frame
    Were gored without a pang ; as if the wretch,
    Who fell in battle, doing bloody deeds,
    Passed off to Heaven, translated and not killed ;
    As though he had no wife to pine for him,
    No God to judge him ! Therefore, evil days
    Are coming on us, O my countrymen !
    And what if all-avenging Providence,
    Strong and retributive, should make us know
    The meaning of our words, force us to feel
    The desolation and the agony
    Of our fierce doings ?

    [Image][Image][Image] Spare us yet awhile,
    Father and God ! O ! spare us yet awhile !
    Oh ! let not English women drag their flight
    Fainting beneath the burthen of their babes,
    Of the sweet infants, that but yesterday
    Laughed at the breast ! Sons, brothers, husbands, all
    Who ever gazed with fondness on the forms
    Which grew up with you round the same fire-side,
    And all who ever heard the sabbath-bells
    Without the infidel’s scorn, make yourselves pure !
    Stand forth ! be men ! repel an impious foe,
    Impious and false, a light yet cruel race,
    Who laugh away all virtue, mingling mirth
    With deeds of murder ; and still promising
    Freedom, themselves too sensual to be free,
    Poison life’s amities, and cheat the heart
    Of faith and quiet hope, and all that soothes,
    And all that lifts the spirit ! Stand we forth ;
    Render them back upon the insulted ocean,
    And let them toss as idly on its waves
    As the vile sea-weed, which some mountain-blast
    Swept from our shores ! And oh ! may we return
    Not with a drunken triumph, but with fear,
    Repenting of the wrongs with which we stung
    So fierce a foe to frenzy !

    [Image][Image][Image][Image] I have told,
    O Britons ! O my brethren ! I have told
    Most bitter truth, but without bitterness.
    Nor deem my zeal or factious or mistimed ;
    For never can true courage dwell with them,
    Who, playing tricks with conscience, dare not look
    At their own vices. We have been too long
    Dupes of a deep delusion ! Some, belike,
    Groaning with restless enmity, expect
    All change from change of constituted power ;
    As if a Government had been a robe,
    On which our vice and wretchedness were tagged
    Like fancy-points and fringes, with the robe
    Pulled off at pleasure. Fondly these attach
    A radical causation to a few
    Poor drudges of chastising Providence,
    Who borrow all their hues and qualities
    From our own folly and rank wickedness,
    Which gave them birth and nursed them. Others, meanwhile,
    Dote with a mad idolatry ; and all
    Who will not fall before their images,
    And yield them worship, they are enemies
    Even of their country !

    [Image] [Image] [Image] Such have I been deemed–
    But, O dear Britain ! O my Mother Isle !
    Needs must thou prove a name most dear and holy
    To me, a son, a brother, and a friend,
    A husband, and a father ! who revere
    All bonds of natural love, and find them all
    Within the limits of thy rocky shores.
    O native Britain ! O my Mother Isle !
    How shouldst thou prove aught else but dear and holy
    To me, who from thy lakes and mountain-hills,
    Thy clouds, thy quiet dales, thy rocks and seas,
    Have drunk in all my intellectual life,
    All sweet sensations, all ennobling thoughts,
    All adoration of God in nature,
    All lovely and all honourable things,
    Whatever makes this mortal spirit feel
    The joy and greatness of its future being ?
    There lives nor form nor feeling in my soul
    Unborrowed from my country ! O divine
    And beauteous island ! thou hast been my sole
    And most magnificent temple, in the which
    I walk with awe, and sing my stately songs,
    Loving the God that made me !–

    [Image][Image][Image][Image][Image] May my fears,
    My filial fears, be vain ! and may the vaunts
    And menace of the vengeful enemy
    Pass like the gust, that roared and died away
    In the distant tree : which heard, and only heard
    In this low dell, bowed not the delicate grass.

    But now the gentle dew-fall sends abroad
    The fruit-like perfume of the golden furze :
    The light has left the summit of the hill,
    Though still a sunny gleam lies beautiful,
    Aslant the ivied beacon. Now farewell,
    Farewell, awhile, O soft and silent spot !
    On the green sheep-track, up the heathy hill,
    Homeward I wind my way ; and lo ! recalled
    From bodings that have well-nigh wearied me,
    I find myself upon the brow, and pause
    Startled ! And after lonely sojourning
    In such a quiet and surrounded nook,
    This burst of prospect, here the shadowy main,
    Dim tinted, there the mighty majesty
    Of that huge amphitheatre of rich
    And elmy fields, seems like society–
    Conversing with the mind, and giving it
    A livelier impulse and a dance of thought !
    And now, belovéd Stowey ! I behold
    Thy church-tower, and, methinks, the four huge elms
    Clustering, which mark the mansion of my friend ;
    And close behind them, hidden from my view,
    Is my own lowly cottage, where my babe
    And my babe’s mother dwell in peace ! With light
    And quickened footsteps thitherward I tend,
    Remembering thee, O green and silent dell !
    And grateful, that by nature’s quietness
    And solitary musings, all my heart
    Is softened, and made worthy to indulge
    Love, and the thoughts that yearn for human kind.



    The Flea Poem by John Donne

    Mark but this flea, and mark in this,
    How little that which thou deny’st me is;
    It sucked me first, and now sucks thee,
    And in this flea, our two bloods mingled be;
    Thou knowest that this cannot be said
    A sin, nor shame, nor loss of maidenhead.
    Yet this enjoys before it woo,
    And pampered, swells with one blood made of two,
    And this, alas, is more than we would do.
    Oh stay, three lives in one flea spare,
    Where we almost, yea, more than married are.
    This flea is you and I, and this
    Our marriage bed, and marriage temple is;
    Though parents grudge, and you, we are met
    And cloistered in these living walls of jet.
    Though use make you apt to kill me,
    Let not to that self murder added be,
    And sacrilege, three sins in killing three.
    Cruel and sudden, hast thou since
    Purpled thy nail in blood of innocence?
    Wherein could this flea guilty be
    Except in that drop which it sucked from thee?
    Yet thou triumph’st, and sayest that thou
    Find’st not thyself, nor me, the weaker now.
    ‘Tis true, then learn how false fears be;
    Just so much honor, when thou yieldst to me,
    Will waste, as this flea’s death took life from thee.