I shall walk down the road; I shall turn and feel upon my feet The kisses of Death, like scented rain. For Death is a black slave with little silver birds Perched in a sleeping wreath upon his head. He will tell me, his voice like jewels Dropped into a satin bag, How he has tip-toed after me down the road, His heart made a dark whirlpool with longing for me. Then he will graze me with his hands, And I shall be one of the sleeping, silver birds Between the cold waves of his hair, as he tip-toes on. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE SUNFLOWER, FR. SONGS OF EXPERIENCE by WILLIAM BLAKE EPITAPH: FOR MY GRANDMOTHER by COUNTEE CULLEN THE WELCOME by FARID OD-DIN MOHAMMAD EBN EBRAHIM ATTAR PAN AND LUNA by ROBERT BROWNING THE WANDERER: 4. IN SWITZERLAND: THE HEART AND NATURE by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON SKETCH - PORTRAIT OF CREECH THE BOOKSELLER by ROBERT BURNS |