Some hand, that never meant to do thee hurt, Has crush'd thee here between these pages pent; But thou hast left thine own fair monument, Thy wings gleam out and tell me what thou wert: Oh! that the memories, which survive us here, Were half as lovely as these wings of thine! Pure relics of a blameless life, that shine Now thou art gone. Our doom is ever near: The peril is beside us day by day; The book will close upon us, it may be, Just as we lift ourselves to soar away Upon the summer-airs, But, unlike thee, The closing book may stop our vital breath, Yet leave no lustre on our page of death. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...AUSPEX by JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL JOURNEY by EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY TO - (1) by PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY THE INNER VISION by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH THE POET TO HIS GARRET by PIERRE JEAN DE BERANGER A THOUGHT FROM SCHILLER by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN |