Of many things adulterate: No penny, yet the friend of fate; Power enough but naught of will, Thus free and yet a prisoner still. Full hearted, yet without full spirit, A breast for friends–no comrade near it; Imagination—no ideas, Love, without the lip that cheers. Idleness, but no repose. In him virtue wore vice's clothes. Blasé although insatiate, Dead, though not cured of living yet. Spoiler of life, inopportune; Parched body, head a tipsy moon. Hoping, the future he'd deny; Deceased while waiting life to try He lived while waiting but to die. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...INEVITABLY (1) by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: THE VILLAGE ATHEIST by EDGAR LEE MASTERS CINQUAIN: MOON-SHADOWS by ADELAIDE CRAPSEY ON MAN by WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR ON A GRAVE AT GRINDELWALD by FREDERICK WILLIAM HENRY MYERS THE SHEPHEARDES CALENDER: MARCH by EDMUND SPENSER MANASSAS [JULY 21, 1861] by CATHERINE ANNE WARFIELD |