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Digging Poems – Poems About Digging

Digging up the ground can be for many things. It could be that you are digging to find a treasure, digging to prepare the soil for seed planting, digging to bury something, or digging to put to rest the body of a deceased loved one. Regardless of the reason why you are digging there must be a reason for your effort and of course, it would take tremendous courage to do the searching, digging, and letting go. Take the time to gather up the strength and courage to do the digging to seek, to find, to plant and wait for harvest, to bury and forget, and to let go and find healing.

Here at 1Love Poems you will find plenty of poems to gather the courage and strength to seek, find, and let go.

Ah, Are You Digging On My Grave? – Poem by Thomas Hardy

“Ah, are you digging on my grave,
My loved one? — planting rue?”
— “No: yesterday he went to wed
One of the brightest wealth has bred.
‘It cannot hurt her now,’ he said,
‘That I should not be true.'”
“Then who is digging on my grave,
My nearest dearest kin?”
— “Ah, no: they sit and think, ‘What use!
What good will planting flowers produce?
No tendance of her mound can loose
Her spirit from Death’s gin.'”
“But someone digs upon my grave?
My enemy? — prodding sly?”
— “Nay: when she heard you had passed the Gate
That shuts on all flesh soon or late,
She thought you no more worth her hate,
And cares not where you lie.
“Then, who is digging on my grave?
Say — since I have not guessed!”
— “O it is I, my mistress dear,
Your little dog , who still lives near,
And much I hope my movements here
Have not disturbed your rest?”
“Ah yes! You dig upon my grave…
Why flashed it not to me
That one true heart was left behind!
What feeling do we ever find
To equal among human kind
A dog’s fidelity!”
“Mistress, I dug upon your grave
To bury a bone, in case
I should be hungry near this spot
When passing on my daily trot.
I am sorry, but I quite forgot
It was your resting place.”

Digging 2 – Poem by Edward Thomas

To-day I think
Only with scents, – scents dead leaves yield,
And bracken, and wild carrot’s seed,
And the square mustard field;
Odours that rise
When the spade wounds the root of tree,
Rose, currant, raspberry, or goutweed,
Rhubarb or celery;
The smoke’s smell, too,
Flowing from where a bonfire burns
The dead, the waste, the dangerous,
And all to sweetness turns.
It is enough
To smell, to crumble the dark earth,
While the robin sings over again
Sad songs of Autumn mirth.

Digging – Poem by Edward Thomas

What matter makes my spade for tears or mirth,
Letting down two clay pipes into the earth?
The one I smoked, the other a soldier
Of Blenheim, Ramillies, and Malplaquet
Perhaps. The dead man’s immortality
Lies represented lightly with my own,
A yard or two nearer the living air
Than bones of ancients who, amazed to see
Almighty God erect the mastodon,
Once laughed, or wept, in this same light of day.

The Digging Skeleton – Poem by Charles Baudelaire

In the anatomical plates
displayed on the dusty quays
where many a dry book sleeps
mummified, as in ancient days,
drawings to which the gravity
and skill of some past artist,
despite the gloomy subject
have communicated beauty,
you’ll see, and it renders those
gruesome mysteries more complete,
flayed men, and skeletons posed,
farm-hands, digging the soil at their feet.
Peasants, dour and resigned,
convicts pressed from the grave,
what’s the strange harvest, say,
for which you hack the ground,
bending your backbones there,
flexing each fleshless sinew,
what farmer’s barn must you
labour to fill with such care?
Do you seek to show – by that pure,
and terrible, emblem of too hard
a fate! – that even in the bone-yard
the promised sleep’s far from sure:
that even the Void’s a traitor:
that even Death tells us lies,
that in some land new to our eyes,
we must, perhaps, alas, forever,
and ever, and ever, eternally,
wield there the heavy spade,
scrape the dull earth, its blade
beneath our naked, bleeding feet?

Digging – Poem by Douglas Alan Stromback

in my head i’m digging deep
i’m going down and it’s steep
i’m here,
but i’m there
i’m down i’m way under
and i wonder
i’m searching, i’m looking
my mind is boiling over it’s cooking
i’m digging a hole
looking for a treasure
and it fulfills my soul
there’s no way to measure
that’s why i left this place
but you can still see my face
but i’m there, and i’m here
and i’m digging and digging
and dirt is flying
and i’m wigging
and sighing
i’m onto something
it’s occupying my mind
and onto it does sing
it does grind
to this thing
it must find
people are standing over the hole
and they wonder what i do
what’s my role
and they look at me
and what do they see
they see my face
but i’m digging for a new place
i’m here, but i’m there
and they wonder
and they start throwing rocks and words to get my attention down under
and i feel their assault
and insult
but i can’t dropp the shovel because i’m busy
time is running out
you see
no doubt
and i hit the tip of the treasure
that you can’t measure
and i have to find its core
its door
so i can’t stop
till i find it or dead do i drop
so i’m there, but i’m here
and i can’t stop
i can’t come back to the ground
no matter how big the rock or sound
so when you are talking to me
i’m there
you see
but i’m here

Source: Poemhunter

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