DEATH, thou'rt a cordial old and rare: Look how compounded, with what care! Time got his wrinkles reaping thee Sweet herbs from all antiquity. David to thy distillage went, Keats, and Gotama excellent, Omar Khayyam, and Chaucer bright, And Shakespeare for a king-delight. Then, Time, let not a drop be spilt: Hand me the cup whene'er thou wilt; 'T is thy rich stirrup-cup to me; I'll drink it down right smilingly. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ROBINSON CRUSOE ['S STORY, OR ISLAND] by CHARLES EDWARD CARRYL A VALEDICTION: OF MY NAME IN THE WINDOW by JOHN DONNE THE PHANTOM KISS by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR MY CREED by HOWARD ARNOLD WALTER THE PRETTY REDHEAD by GUILLAUME APOLLINAIRE AMONG THE MOUNTAINS by EDMUND JOHN ARMSTRONG |