WHAT, comrade of a night, No sooner meet than fight? Before the word, the blow? Well, be it so. Yet think not Thou I yield, Lost on a lonely field. Lo! to my fainting breath, My champion, Death! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...OCTAVES: 2 by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON LINES WRITTEN IN KENSINGTON GARDENS by MATTHEW ARNOLD COUSIN NANCY by THOMAS STEARNS ELIOT THE LOVE SONG OF J. ALFRED PRUFROCK by THOMAS STEARNS ELIOT IN HOSPITAL: 23. MUSIC by WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY SESTINA OF THE TRAMP ROYAL by RUDYARD KIPLING |