The swallow leaves her nest, The soul my weary breast; But therefore let the rain On my grave Fall pure; for why complain? Since both will come again O'er the wave. The wind dead leaves and snow Doth hurry to and fro; And, once, a day shall break O'er the wave, When a storm of ghosts shall shake The dead, until they wake In the grave. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ON EXPLORATION by JAMES GALVIN AGAINST THEM WHO LAY UNCHASTITY TO THE SEX OF WOMAN by WILLIAM HABINGTON TO THE VIRGINS, TO MAKE MUCH OF TIME by ROBERT HERRICK AULD ROBIN GRAY by ANNE LINDSAY CASEY AT THE BAT (2) by ERNEST LAWRENCE THAYER TO MY FRIEND MR. THOMAS FLATMAN, ON THE PUBLISHING OF THESE HIS POEMS by FRANCIS BARNARD (D. 1698) |