'This house is worth a thousand pounds, You'll not be very poor; My pictures and my books,' said I — 'May fetch a thousand more.' But I, who thought to see her smile, With nothing strange or wild, Turned round to find her limp and cold, And crying like a child. It seems that I, a living man, Though life was but a linger — Was worth a thousand cold, dead hands With a fortune for each finger. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...WATERS OF BABYLON by LOUIS UNTERMEYER PUTTIN' THE BABY AWAY by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR AN APPEAL TO CATS IN THE BUSINESS OF LOVE; SONG by THOMAS FLATMAN SONNET: TO SLEEP by JOHN KEATS THE FALL OF HYPERION; A DREAM by JOHN KEATS TO ALTHEA, FROM PRISON by RICHARD LOVELACE SONNETS OF MANHOOD: 26. BEYOND by GEORGE BARLOW (1847-1913) |