Let you not say of me when I am old, In pretty worship of my withered hands Forgetting who I am, and how the sands Of such a life as mine run red and gold Even to the ultimate sifting dust, "Behold, Here walketh passionless age!" -- for there expands A curious superstition in these lands, And by its leave some weightless tales are told. In me no lenten wicks watch out the night; I am the booth where Folly holds her fair; Impious no less in ruin than in strength, When I lie crumbled to the earth at length, Let you not say, "Upon this reverend site The righteous groaned and beat their breasts in prayer." | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ON DIGITAL EXTREMITIES by FRANK GELETT BURGESS BETSY'S BATTLE FLAG by MINNA IRVING PARADISE LOST: BOOK 4 by JOHN MILTON VERSES OCCASIONED BY THE SUDDEN DRYING UP..ST.PATRICK'S WELL by JONATHAN SWIFT PEARLS OF THE FAITH: 98. AL-RASCHID by EDWIN ARNOLD |