Nor is my Number full, till I inscribe Thee sprightly Soame, one of my righteous Tribe: A Tribe of one Lip; Leven, and of One Civil Behaviour, and Religion. A Stock of Saints; where ev'ry one doth weare Among which Holies, be Thou ever known, Brave Kinsman, markt out with the whiter stone: Which seals Thy Glorie; since I doe prefer Thee here in my eternall Calender. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A MUSICAL INSTRUMENT by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS by WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT THE HOUSE OF LIFE: 51. WILLOWWOOD (3) by DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI THE BRIGHT ASSASSIN by WILLIAM ROSE BENET ON TURNING A STONE by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN THE TIME IS GONE by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN |