He that lies here was mortal olde, All but a hundred, if truth be told. His pinpricke eyes, his hairless pate, Crutch in hand, his shambling gaite -- All spake of Time: and Time's slow stroke, That fells at length the stoutest Oke. Of yeares so many now he is gone There's nought to tell except this stone. His name was Parr: decease did he In Seventeen Hundred Sixty Three. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...BUCOLIC COMEDY: THE DOLL by EDITH SITWELL FETES GALANTES: PANYOMIME by PAUL VERLAINE THE VISION OF JUDGEMENT by GEORGE GORDON BYRON THE EVENING STAR by THOMAS CAMPBELL JOHN BURNS OF GETTYSBURG by FRANCIS BRET HARTE THE BALLAD OF THE OYSTERMAN by OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES VENICE; SONNET by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW |