IN the grim dead end he lies, with passionless filmy eyes, English Ned, with a hole in his head, Staring up at the skies. The engine driver swore as often he swore before — "I whistled him back from the flamin' track, An' I couldn't do no more." The gaffer spoke through the 'phone "Platelayer Seventy-one Got killed to-day on the six-foot way, By a goods on the city run. "English Ned was his name, No one knows whence he came, He didn't take mind of the road behind And none of us is to blame." They turned the slag in the bed To cover the clotted red, Washed the joints and the crimsoned points, And buried poor English Ned. @3In the drear dead end he lies, With the earth across his eyes, And a stone to say, How he passed away To a shift beyond the skies@1. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...EPITAPH FOR A SOLDIER by DAVID IGNATOW A FAREWELL TO FOLLY: CONTENT by ROBERT GREENE AGAINST THEM WHO LAY UNCHASTITY TO THE SEX OF WOMAN by WILLIAM HABINGTON TACKING SHIP OFF SHORE by WALTER MITCHELL FIRST CYCLE OF LOVE POEMS: 4 by GEORGE BARKER THE RELAPSE by JOSEPH BEAUMONT |