Peace, peace! I know 'twas brave, But this coarse fleece I shelter in, is slave To no such piece. When I am gone, I shall no wardrobes leave To friend, or son But what their own homes weave, 2 Such, though not proud, nor full, May make them weep, And mourn to see the wool Outlast the sheep; Poor, pious wear! Hadst thou been rich, or fine Perhaps that tear Had mourned thy loss, not mine. 3 Why then these curled, puffed points, Or a laced story? Death sets all out of joint And scorns their glory; Some love a @3Rose@1 In hand, some in the skin; But cross to those, I would have mine @3within@1. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SIMON LEGREE: NEGRO SERMON; MEMORIAL TO BOOKER T. WASHINGTON by NICHOLAS VACHEL LINDSAY THE SONG OF HIAWATHA: HIAWATHA'S WOOING by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW RESIGNATION by AUGUSTE ANGELLIER MAIDEN'S CHOICE by CAROLYN M. BARBER PARLEYINGS WITH CERTAIN PEOPLE OF IMPORTANCE: CHARLES AVISON by ROBERT BROWNING IN RETROSPECT by MARGARET E. BRUNER VERSES: THE FOURTH BOY by JOHN BYROM THE LIMNAD by MADISON JULIUS CAWEIN RESOLUTION OF A POETICAL QUESTION CONCERNING FOUR RURAL SISTERS: 3 by CHARLES COTTON |