WHAT think you the dead are? Why, dust and clay, What should they be? 'Tis the last hour of day. Look on the west, how beautiful it is Vaulted with radiant vapors! The deep bliss Of that unutterable light has made The edges of that cloud fade Into a hue, like some harmonious thought, Wasting itself on that which it had wrought, Till it dies and between The light hues of the tender, pure, serene, And infinite tranquillity of heaven. Ay, beautiful! but when our ... Perhaps the only comfort which remains Is the unheeded clanking of my chains, The which I make, and call it melody. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE DESERTED GARDEN by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING CANE: NOVEMBER COTTON FLOWER by JEAN TOOMER INSCRIPTIONS: 8 by MARK AKENSIDE FEBRUARY THAW by KENNETH SLADE ALLING NURSERY REMINISCENCES by RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM THE GOLDEN ODES OF PRE-ISLAMIC ARABIA: TARAFA by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT TO MARY SINTON LEITCH, POET AND FRIEND by WILLIAM STANLEY BRAITHWAITE |