THIS is all that is left -- this letter and this rose! And do you, poor dreaming things, for a moment suppose That your little fire shall burn for ever and ever on, And this great fire be, all but these ashes, gone? Flower! of course she is -- but is she the only flower? She must vanish like all the rest at the funeral hour, And you that love her with brag of your all conquering thew, What, in the eyes of the gods, tall though you be, are you? You and she are no more -- yea! a little less than we; And what is left of our loving is little enough to see; Sweet the relics thereof -- a rose, a letter, a glove -- That in the end is all that remains of the mightiest love. Six-foot two! what of that? for Death is taller than he; And, every moment, Death gathers flowers as fair as she; And nothing you two can do, or plan or purpose or dream, But will go the way of the wind and go the way of the stream. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE CHIMNEY SWEEPER, FR. SONGS OF EXPERIENCE by WILLIAM BLAKE LULLABY by CHARLES LUTWIDGE DODGSON THE INDIAN BURYING GROUND by PHILIP FRENEAU THE NEW EZEKIEL by EMMA LAZARUS BEAUTIFUL MEALS by THOMAS STURGE MOORE THE IDLER'S CALENDAR; MAY: THE LONDON SEASON by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT HAYMAKERS' SONG, FR. KING RENE'S HONEYMOON by GORDON BOTTOMLEY |