How little do they know of sorrow, they Who in the early months of death and dust In vain commiseration feel they must Guide their friend's thoughts from what had passed away, So torturingly fearful lest they say Aught to remind. -- Aught to remind of death! -- As if with every pulse, with every breath, Death were not talking to him night and day! But then, when time has led him by the hand Some kindly footsteps from the grave, and he Begins at last to look about the land, Then, witless of the subtle irony, They name old things and torture him again, Raking to fire the buried coals in brain. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...L.E.L. by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI CARTOONS OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION by STIRLING BOWEN AN OCCASIONAL PROLOGUE by GEORGE GORDON BYRON THE CAUCASUS MOUNTAINS by GEORGE GORDON BYRON AS I CAME OVER THE GREY, GREY HILLS by JOSEPH CAMPBELL SONGS OF THE SEA CHILDREN: 94 by BLISS CARMAN |