Mourn, for with him we lose our last Chance to redeem the errors of the past. No more with dull assurance can we meet, Pointing to him, our critics-in-the-street. O friends, our chief art-oracle is mute: Mourn for the horse of living flesh and blood, The prototype by which we could refute All criticism while he stood. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ON THE DEATH OF MRS. (NOW LADY) THROCKMORTON'S BULLFINCH by WILLIAM COWPER KEATS; SONNET by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW THE GIANTESS by CHARLES BAUDELAIRE HIS ALLY by WILLIAM ROSE BENET THE RIVAL CELESTIAL by WILLIAM ROSE BENET GRIEVE NOT, LADIES by ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH COMFORTERS by ABBIE FARWELL BROWN THE WANDERER: 5. IN HOLLAND: BLUEBEARD by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON |