LIKE burnt-out torches by a sick man's bed Gaunt cypress-trees stand round the sun-bleached stone; Here doth the little night-owl make her throne, And the slight lizard show his jewelled head. And, where the chaliced poppies flame to red, In the still chamber of yon pyramid Surely some Old-World Sphinx lurks darkly hid, Grim warder of this pleasaunce of the dead. Ah! sweet indeed to rest within the womb Of Earth, great mother of eternal sleep, But sweeter far for thee a restless tomb In the blue cavern of an echoing deep, Or where the tall ships founder in the gloom Against the rocks of some wave-shattered steep. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A WIFE IN LONDON by THOMAS HARDY ODE ON MELANCHOLY by JOHN KEATS ARIEL'S SONG (2), FR. THE TEMPEST by WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE LAURENCE BLOOMFIELD IN IRELAND: 8. THE EVICTION by WILLIAM ALLINGHAM SONNETS OF MANHOOD: SONNET 25. 'SOMETHING WAS WANTING' by GEORGE BARLOW (1847-1913) A STRANGER IN SEYTHOPOLIS by KATHARINE LEE BATES |