LITTLE feet too young and soft to walk, Little lips too young and pure to talk, Little faded grass-tufts, root and stalk. I lie alone here, utterly alone, Amid pure ashes my wild ashes mingle; A drowned man, with a name, unknown, A drifting waif, flung by the drifting shingle. Oh, plotting brain, and restless heart of mine, What strange fate brought you to so strange a shrine? Sometimes a woman comes across the grass, Bare-footed, with pit-patterings scarcely heard, Sometimes the grazing cattle slowly pass, Or on my turf sings loud some mating bird. Oh, plotting brain, and restless heart of mine, What strange fate brought you to so strange a shrine? Little feet too young and soft to walk, Little lips too young and pure to talk, Little faded grass-tufts, root and stalk. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE CORNUCOPIA OF RED AND GREEN COMFITS by AMY LOWELL THE PLACE OF PEACE by EDWIN MARKHAM EARTH'S IMMORTALITIES: LOVE by ROBERT BROWNING STARTING FROM PAUMANOK by WALT WHITMAN REMEMBER OR FORGET by C. HAMILTON AIDE THE GODODDIN: CONAN by ANEIRIN SONNETS OF MANHOOD: 30. CHRIST AND WOMAN by GEORGE BARLOW (1847-1913) |