Bid the dawn come; the moonlight is too pale; Shadows are tiring me; the night is long. Shabby the lures of life, and they all fail, Nor is there music for a farewell song. Death has prepared the most authentic thrill; I hear the whisper of his winding sheet, And, lo! he brings me over one lone hill New-cut gardenias for my head and feet. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE MAN CHRIST by THERESE (KARPER) LINDSEY FOR A DEAD LADY by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON THE MAID VAR MY BRIDE by WILLIAM BARNES FRAGMENTS INTENDED FOR DEATH'S JEST-BOOK: SAD AND CHEERFUL SONGS by THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES |