HE WHO hath seen his grain-fields gather blight Heeds not the withering of the garden flowers; He grieves not at the day's withdrawing light Who in a dungeon numbers his dim hours; He feareth not the storm upon his head, Whose garments with the rough salt wave are soaked, And he whose fire within his house is dead, Into the outer air will go uncloaked! So he whose life some weak, loved hand has taken, Flies not the shaft of banded myrmidon, Nor trembles when his citadel is shaken: Foretasting all, he hath no more to shun; The Night, the Cold, the Dearth, the Wound obscure, That men call Death, unmoved he shall endure! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...CUDDLE DOON by ALEXANDER ANDERSON A DEATH SCENE by EMILY JANE BRONTE DANIEL WEBSTER by OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES NO LONGER COULD I DOUBT HIM TRUE by WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR SONNET: 67 by WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE |