LET down the bars, O Death! The tired flocks come in Whose bleating ceases to repeat, Whose wandering is done. Thine is the stillest night, Thine the securest fold; Too near thou art for seeking thee, Too tender to be told. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TO THE MEMORY OF THE BRAVE AMERICANS UNDER GENERAL GREENE by PHILIP FRENEAU A VISION UPON [THIS CONCEIT] OF THE FAERIE QUEENE (2) by WALTER RALEIGH AN ALPINE DESCENT by SAMUEL ROGERS MONNA INNOMINATA, A SONNET OF SONNETS: 14 by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI |