I AM the mown grass, dying at your feet, The pale grass, gasping faintly in the sun. I shall be dead, long, long ere day is done, That you may say: "The air, to-day, was sweet." I am the mown grass, dying at your feet. I am the white syringa, falling now, When some one shakes the bough. What matter if I lose my life's brief noon? You laugh, "A snow in June!" I am the white syringa, falling now. I am the waning lamp that flickers on, -- Trying to give my old, unclouded light Among the rest that make your garden bright. Let me still burn till all my oil is gone. I am the waning lamp that flickers on. I am your singer, singing my last note. Death's fingers clutch my throat. New grass will grow, new flowers bloom and fall; New lamps blaze out against your garden wall: I am your singer, singing my last note. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...HERITAGE by GWENDOLYN B. BENNETT CASSANDRA by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON THIS COMPOST: 1. by WALT WHITMAN TO HARTLEY COLERIDGE; SIX YEARS OLD by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH LOST AT SEA by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH THE SNARE OF THE FOWLER by WILLIAM ROSE BENET |