To the lean, clean land, to the last cold height, You shall come with a whickering breath, From the depths of despair or the depths of delight, Stript stark to the wind of death. And whether you're sinless, or whether you've sinned, It's useless to whimper and whine; For the lean, clean blade of the cut-throat wind Will slit your weasand, and mine. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...YOU SAY YOU SAID by MARIANNE MOORE PICTURES FROM APPLEDORE: 5 by JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL ROBIN REDBREAST by MOTHER GOOSE ON THE DEATH OF DR. SWIFT by JONATHAN SWIFT TO A GIRL by ASCLEPIADES OF SAMOS POEM, READ THE SOLDIERS' WELCOME, FRANKLIN, NEW YORK, AUG. 5, 1865 by B. H. BARNES RECALLED by WILLIAM ROSE BENET |