Trees die of thirst or cold or when the limit's reached; in the hole in the elm the wood is soft and punky - it smells of the water of a vase after the flowers are dumped. You were so old we could not weep; only the blood of the young, those torn off earth in a night's sickness, the daughter lying beside you who became nothing so long ago - she moves us to terror. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON FIFTH AVENUE-SPRING AFTERNOON by LOUIS UNTERMEYER CHANSON D'AUTOMNE by PAUL VERLAINE IMITATIONS OF SHAKESPEARE: PROGNE'S DREAM by JOHN ARMSTRONG SHRODON FEAR: THE REST O'T by WILLIAM BARNES CHANGING MOON by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN |