So I shall never hear from his own lips That things had gone too ill with him awhile Nor ever see again, but in eclipse, The brown precision of his smile. It does not seem his way at all, To shoot no firecracker to a friend But to make the usual interval Unusual and finite and an end. It is not hushed, like other deaths, nor grim, Nor tragic nor heroic news, But more as if we had not noticed him Go by on lightly squeaking shoes And down the coffins of the race Tiptoe and stumble till he found his own, Then clear his throat and decorate his face With the consummate silence of a stone. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A NET TO SNARE THE MOONLIGHT by NICHOLAS VACHEL LINDSAY THE MISTRESS; A SONG by JOHN WILMOT IMAGES: 5 by RICHARD ALDINGTON CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS by JOANNA BAILLIE ON A LADY'S WRITING by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD RAMBLE OF THE GODS THROUGH BIRMINGHAM, SELECTION by JAMES BISSET |