WHEN a lover clasps his fairest, Then be our dread sport the rarest. Their caresses were like the chaff In the tempest, and be our laugh His despair -- her epitaph! When a mother clasps a child, Watch till dusty Death has piled His cold ashes on the clay; She has loved it many a day -- She remains, -- it fades away. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A POEM FROM THE EDGE OF AMERICA by JAMES GALVIN WE CAN'T WRITE OURSELVES INTO ETERNAL LIFE by DAVID IGNATOW A MAN CHILD IS BORN (1809) by EDGAR LEE MASTERS CLOSING TIME AT THE SAN DIEGO ZOO by KAREN SWENSON THE KINGS by LOUISE IMOGEN GUINEY PEARLS OF THE FAITH: 83. YA MALIK by EDWIN ARNOLD |