ALAS! 'tis death consoles and makes us live; Death, life's sole aim--sole hope of man's estate, Which, like a dram, can cheer, intoxicate, And lend us heart till eve to plod and strive. Through storm, frost, snow, some gleam it still can give Our black horizon to illuminate; 'Tis the famed inn, where rest, sleep, food await. So read we, all tired pilgrims, who arrive. It is an angel, whose magnetic hand Gives quiet sleep, and dreams of ecstasy, And strews a bed for naked folk and poor. 'Tis the god's prize, the mystic granary, The poor man's purse, and his old native land, And of the unknown skies the opening door. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...LE MEDECIN MALGRE LUI by WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS THE FLOOD OF YEARS by WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT WILLIAM AND HELEN by GOTTFRIED AUGUST BURGER A COMPARISON by WILLIAM COWPER SUNSET AND SUNRISE by EMILY DICKINSON THE NEWLY WEDDED by WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED SING-SONG; A NURSERY RHYME BOOK: 20 by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI SESTET SENT TO A FRIEND WITH A VOLUME OF TENNYSON by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH |