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Joy, Shipmate, Joy!

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For an adventurerNon-religious Outdoorsy Plain English Uplifting

Walt Whitman · 1871

Joy, Shipmate, Joy!

Walt Whitman · 1871

Joy, shipmate, Joy! (Pleas'd to my soul at death I cry,) Our life is closed, our life begins, The long, long anchorage we leave, The ship is clear at last, she leaps! She swiftly courses from the shore, Joy, shipmate, joy.

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What Serany thinks about this poem

For an adventurerNon-religious Outdoorsy Plain English Uplifting

Background

Whitman published it in 1871. He kept it in Leaves of Grass for the rest of his life, among the poems he gathered together under leaving and goodbyes.

Meaning

Dying is a ship finally casting off. The life you had is finished and the next thing has already started, and he is pleased about it.

Who's it for

A sailor, or anyone who was happiest setting off somewhere new. Right for a family who want something glad said out loud at the funeral.

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Afterwards

This poem is for someone who noticed things other people walked straight past. Right for a gardener, a birdwatcher, or anyone who was kind to animals.

GentleNon-religious

1917

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When the Present has latched its postern behind my tremulous stay, And the May month flaps its glad green leaves like wings, Delicate-filmed as new-spun silk, will the neighbours say, "He was a man who used to notice such things"? If it be in the dusk when, like an eyelid's soundless blink, The dewfall-hawk comes crossing the shades to alight Upon the wind-warped upland thorn, a gazer may think, "To him this must have been a familiar sight." If I pass during some nocturnal blackness, mothy and warm, When the hedgehog travels furtively over the lawn, One may say, "He strove that such innocent creatures should come to no harm, But he could do little for them; and now he is gone"? If, when hearing that I have been stilled at last, they stand at the door, Watching the full-starred heavens that winter sees, Will this thought rise on those who will meet my face no more, "He was one who had an eye for such mysteries"? And will any say when my bell of quittance is heard in the gloom, And a crossing breeze cuts a pause in its outrollings, Till they rise again, as they were a new bell's boom, "He hears it not now, but used to notice such things"?

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Barter

This poem is for a person who got a lot out of being alive: weather, music, food, their children's faces. Right where a family want the funeral to be about the living they did.

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1917

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Life has loveliness to sell, All beautiful and splendid things, Blue waves whitened on a cliff, Soaring fire that sways and sings, And children's faces looking up Holding wonder like a cup. Life has loveliness to sell, Music like a curve of gold, Scent of pine trees in the rain, Eyes that love you, arms that hold, And for your spirit's still delight, Holy thoughts that star the night. Spend all you have for loveliness, Buy it and never count the cost; For one white singing hour of peace Count many a year of strife well lost, And for a breath of ecstasy Give all you have been, or could be.

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Crossing the Bar

This poem is for someone who had a long life and was ready. Especially right for anyone who went to sea, or just loved being near it.

A classicA long life

1889

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Sunset and evening star, And one clear call for me! And may there be no moaning of the bar, When I put out to sea, But such a tide as moving seems asleep, Too full for sound and foam, When that which drew from out the boundless deep Turns again home. Twilight and evening bell, And after that the dark! And may there be no sadness of farewell, When I embark; For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place The flood may bear me far, I hope to see my Pilot face to face When I have crost the bar.

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Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep

This poem is for almost anyone, honestly. It's best of all for someone who was always outside: out walking, in the garden, never in the house.

A classicComforting

1932

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I strove with none

This poem is for someone who reached a good age and stayed out of other people's arguments. Right for a person who loved being outdoors or worked with their hands, and was content by the end.

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Requiem

This poem is for someone who travelled, or worked outdoors, or just loved a big view. Right for a person who was happy with the life they got.

A classicNon-religious

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Trees

This poem is for a gardener, a farmer, or anyone who planted things that are still growing. It also fits a believer who found God outdoors rather than indoors.

A classicGentle

1913

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I think that I shall never see A poem lovely as a tree. A tree whose hungry mouth is prest Against the earth's sweet flowing breast; A tree that looks at God all day, And lifts her leafy arms to pray; A tree that may in Summer wear A nest of robins in her hair; Upon whose bosom snow has lain; Who intimately lives with rain. Poems are made by fools like me, But only God can make a tree.

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Warm Summer Sun

This poem is for someone who died young, and a family who want something very short and very tender. Right where a longer reading would be more than anyone could manage.

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With rue my heart is laden

This poem is for a friend, which is the one it is really for, and anyone who died young. Right for someone who was good company and quick on their feet.

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Woodland Burial

This poem is for someone who wanted a natural burial, or would have if anyone had asked. Right for a gardener, a walker, anyone who'd rather be under a tree than a headstone.

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A Psalm of Life

This poem is for someone who never sat still and left things behind them: a business, a trade, a houseful of people they taught. Right for a life spent being useful.

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1838

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Tell me not, in mournful numbers, Life is but an empty dream! For the soul is dead that slumbers, And things are not what they seem. Life is real! Life is earnest! And the grave is not its goal; Dust thou art, to dust returnest, Was not spoken of the soul. Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Is our destined end or way; But to act, that each to-morrow Find us farther than to-day. Art is long, and Time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave. In the world's broad field of battle, In the bivouac of Life, Be not like dumb, driven cattle! Be a hero in the strife! Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant! Let the dead Past bury its dead! Act,--act in the living Present! Heart within, and God o'erhead! Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime, And, departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sands of time;-- Footprints, that perhaps another, Sailing o'er life's solemn main, A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, Seeing, shall take heart again. Let us, then, be up and doing, With a heart for any fate; Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labor and to wait.

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Barter

This poem is for a person who got a lot out of being alive: weather, music, food, their children's faces. Right where a family want the funeral to be about the living they did.

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Death, be not proud

This poem is for a believer, and a family who want something with some fight in it rather than a quiet goodbye. It suits a person who argued back all their life.

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1633

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Death, be not proud, though some have callèd thee Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so: For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow Die not, poor Death; nor yet canst thou kill me. From Rest and Sleep, which but thy picture be, Much pleasure, then from thee much more must flow; And soonest our best men with thee do go-- Rest of their bones and souls' delivery! Thou'rt slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men, And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell; And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well And better than thy stroke. Why swell'st thou then? One short sleep past, we wake eternally, And Death shall be no more: Death, thou shalt die!

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Hope is the thing with feathers

This poem is for someone who stayed hopeful without ever making a show of it, and kept other people going by it.

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It is not growing like a tree

This poem is for anyone who died young, and a family who need to hear that a short life was still a whole one. Right for a person who packed a lot in.

ComfortingGone too soon

1640

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No coward soul is mine

This poem is for a person whose faith was entirely their own and who had no time for churches. Right for someone nobody could frighten.

ReligiousStoic

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No coward soul is mine, No trembler in the world's storm-troubled sphere: I see Heaven's glories shine, And faith shines equal, arming me from fear. O God within my breast, Almighty, ever-present Deity! Life--that in me has rest, As I--undying Life--have power in Thee! Vain are the thousand creeds That move men's hearts: unutterably vain; Worthless as wither'd weeds, Or idlest froth amid the boundless main, To waken doubt in one Holding so fast by Thine infinity; So surely anchor'd on The steadfast rock of immortality. With wide-embracing love Thy Spirit animates eternal years, Pervades and broods above, Changes, sustains, dissolves, creates, and rears. Though earth and man were gone, And suns and universes cease to be, And Thou were left alone, Every existence would exist in Thee. There is not room for Death, Nor atom that his might could render void: Thou--Thou art Being and Breath, And what Thou art may never be destroyed.

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On Death

This poem is for a family who want hope without a particular religion behind it. Right for someone curious about everything, who wasn't frightened of what came next.

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For what is it to die but to stand naked in the wind and to melt into the sun? And what is it to cease breathing, but to free the breath from its restless tides, that it may rise and expand and seek God unencumbered? Only when you drink from the river of silence shall you indeed sing. And when you have reached the mountain top, then you shall begin to climb. And when the earth shall claim your limbs, then shall you truly dance.

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Prospice

This poem is for someone who fought their illness all the way and wanted to know exactly what was happening. Also right for a person going back to a husband or wife who died first.

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Fear death?--to feel the fog in my throat, The mist in my face, When the snows begin, and the blasts denote I am nearing the place, The power of the night, the press of the storm, The post of the foe; Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a visible form, Yet the strong man must go: For the journey is done and the summit attained, And the barriers fall, Though a battle's to fight ere the guerdon be gained, The reward of it all. I was ever a fighter, so--one fight more, The best and the last! I would hate that death bandaged my eyes, and forbore, And bade me creep past. No! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers The heroes of old, Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's arrears Of pain, darkness and cold. For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave, The black minute's at end, And the elements' rage, the fiend-voices that rave, Shall dwindle, shall blend, Shall change, shall become first a peace out of pain, Then a light, then thy breast, O thou soul of my soul! I shall clasp thee again, And with God be the rest!

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She Is Gone

This poem is for a mother or a grandmother, and a family trying to turn back towards living. Right for someone who'd have wanted everyone to get on with it.

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The beautiful thing about dying is this

This poem is for almost any funeral. Especially right for a family who are frightened of forgetting.

ComfortingModern

2025

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We are not licensed to show this poem here. You can still read it aloud at a funeral.

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When I go from hence

This poem is for someone grateful and curious, who found something holy without needing a church for it. Right for a person who reckoned they had had the better of the bargain.

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When I go from hence let this be my parting word, that what I have seen is unsurpassable. I have tasted of the hidden honey of this lotus that expands on the ocean of light, and thus am I blessed—let this be my parting word. In this playhouse of infinite forms I have had my play and here have I caught sight of him that is formless. My whole body and my limbs have thrilled with his touch who is beyond touch; and if the end comes here, let it come—let this be my parting word.

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Afterwards

This poem is for someone who noticed things other people walked straight past. Right for a gardener, a birdwatcher, or anyone who was kind to animals.

GentleNon-religious

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Barter

This poem is for a person who got a lot out of being alive: weather, music, food, their children's faces. Right where a family want the funeral to be about the living they did.

Non-religiousNot about death

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chasing ceremony/convincing myself

This poem is for somebody who loved them and cannot be in the room. Right where a brother is abroad, a sister is too ill to travel, or the person who knew them longest is the one who has to watch on a screen.

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Death stands above me

This poem is for a family who do not believe in anything particular and would rather not pretend they do. Right for someone who was not afraid at the end.

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Dirge Without Music

This poem is for a family who are angry about it and would rather not pretend otherwise. Right for a death that makes no sense to anyone who knew them.

ModernNon-religious

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I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground. So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind: Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely. Crowned With lilies and with laurel they go; but I am not resigned. Lovers and thinkers, into the earth with you. Be one with the dull, the indiscriminate dust. A fragment of what you felt, of what you knew, A formula, a phrase remains,—but the best is lost. The answers quick and keen, the honest look, the laughter, the love,— They are gone. They are gone to feed the roses. Elegant and curled Is the blossom. Fragrant is the blossom. I know. But I do not approve. More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses of the world. Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind; Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave. I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.

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Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep

This poem is for almost anyone, honestly. It's best of all for someone who was always outside: out walking, in the garden, never in the house.

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We are not licensed to show this poem here. You can still read it aloud at a funeral.

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Epitaph on a Friend

This poem is for a best friend, especially one who died young. Right for a family who would rather the grief were said out loud than smoothed over.

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Oh, Friend! for ever lov'd, for ever dear! What fruitless tears have bathed thy honour'd bier! What sighs re-echo'd to thy parting breath, Whilst thou wast struggling in the pangs of death! Could tears retard the tyrant in his course; Could sighs avert his dart's relentless force; Could youth and virtue claim a short delay, Or beauty charm the spectre from his prey; Thou still hadst liv'd to bless my aching sight, Thy comrade's honour and thy friend's delight. If yet thy gentle spirit hover nigh The spot where now thy mouldering ashes lie, Here wilt thou read, recorded on my heart, A grief too deep to trust the sculptor's art. No marble marks thy couch of lowly sleep, But living statues there are seen to weep; Affliction's semblance bends not o'er thy tomb, Affliction's self deplores thy youthful doom. What though thy sire lament his failing line, A father's sorrows cannot equal mine! Though none, like thee, his dying hour will cheer, Yet other offspring soothe his anguish here: But, who with me shall hold thy former place? Thine image, what new friendship can efface? Ah, none!--a father's tears will cease to flow, Time will assuage an infant brother's woe; To all, save one, is consolation known, While solitary Friendship sighs alone.

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Funeral Blues

This poem is for someone who was everything to one person. It's for a mourner who doesn't want cheering up yet, and there's nothing better for a partner.

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We are not licensed to show this poem here. You can still read it aloud at a funeral.

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Grief poem

This poem is for a family still doing everything right and feeling none of it. Right for the first few weeks, when everybody is more tired than sad.

GentleModern

2023

35 sec

We are not licensed to show this poem here. You can still read it aloud at a funeral.

Hear Lucas Jones read it on TikTok.

More about this poem →

I Shall Not Care

This poem is for someone who was their own person and never needed anyone's approval. Right for a woman who did things her own way and would have hated a fuss.

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25 sec

I strove with none

This poem is for someone who reached a good age and stayed out of other people's arguments. Right for a person who loved being outdoors or worked with their hands, and was content by the end.

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Invictus

This poem is for someone who got dealt a hard hand and never let it decide who they were. The person others called stubborn and you would call brave.

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Out of the night that covers me, Black as the Pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be For my unconquerable soul. In the fell clutch of circumstance I have not winced nor cried aloud. Under the bludgeonings of chance My head is bloody, but unbowed. Beyond this place of wrath and tears Looms but the Horror of the shade, And yet the menace of the years Finds, and shall find, me unafraid. It matters not how strait the gate, How charged with punishments the scroll, I am the master of my fate: I am the captain of my soul.

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