No more the white refulgent streets, Never the dry hollows of the mind Shall he in fine courtesy walk Again, for death is not unkind. A civil war cast on his fame, The four years' odium of strife Unbodies his dust; love cannot warm His tall corpuscles to this life. What will we gain? What did we lose? Be still: grief for the pious dead Suspires from bosoms of kind souls Lavender-wise, propped up in bed. Our loss put six feet under ground Is measured by the magnolia's root; Our gain's the intellectual sound Of death's feet round a weedy tomb. In the back chambers of the State (Just preterition for his crimes) We curse him to our busy sky Who's busy in a hell of a hundred times A day, though profitless his task, Heedless what Belial may say - He who wore out the perfect mask Orestes fled in night and day. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE IRISH MOTHER'S LAMENT by CECIL FRANCES ALEXANDER EPIGRAM by DECIMUS MAGNUS AUSONIUS HINC LACHRIMAE; OR THE AUTHOR TO AURORA: 11 by WILLIAM BOSWORTH CONQUERING EAGLES by RICHARD EUGENE BURTON OUR OLD CENTER-TOWN VERMONT MEETINGHOUSE by DANIEL LEAVENS CADY ACROSS THE DELAWARE by WILLIAM MCKENDREE CARLETON PASTORAL by REGINALD MCINTOSH CLEVELAND SEVEN SONNETS ON THE THOUGHT OF DEATH: 2 by ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH |