COOL, and palm-shaded from the torrid heat, The young brown tenor puts his singing by, And sets the twin pipe to his lips to try Some air of bulrush-glooms where lovers meet; O swart musician, time and fame are fleet, Brief all delight, and youth's feet fain to fly! Pipe on in peace! To-morrow must we die? What matter, if our life to-day be sweet! Soon, soon, the silver paper-reeds that sigh Along the Sacred River will repeat The echo of the dark-stoled bearers' feet, Who carry you, with wailing, where must lie Your swathed and withered body, by-and-by, In perfumed darkness with the grains of wheat. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TO AN UNBORN PAUPER CHILD by THOMAS HARDY STEADFASTNESS; THE LOVER BESEECHETH HIS MISTRESS by THOMAS WYATT LOVE: AN ELEGY by MARK AKENSIDE ON THE PASSING OF THE LAST FIRE HORSE FROM MANHATTAN ISLAND by KENNETH SLADE ALLING THE NEW ANTHEM by NORMAN BOLKER |