WHEN Arria to her Paetus had bequeath'd The sword in her chaste bosom newly sheath'd; Trust me (quoth she) My own wound feels no smart; 'Tis thine (My Paetus) grieves and kills my heart. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...PRIDE by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON JOHANNA PEDERSEN by KAREN SWENSON TO AN AEOLIAN HARP by SARA TEASDALE EPITAPHS OF THE WAR, 1914-18: COMMON FORM by RUDYARD KIPLING A GLASS OF BEER by JAMES STEPHENS |