AH, when the Body, round which in love we clung, Is chilled by death, does mutual service fail? Is tender pity then of no avail? Are intercessions of the fervent tongue A waste of hope? -- From this sad source have sprung Rites that console the Spirit, under grief Which ill can brook more rational relief: Hence, prayers are shaped amiss, and dirges sung For Souls whose doom is fixed! The way is smooth For Power that travels with the human heart: Confession ministers the pang to soothe In him who at the ghost of guilt doth start. Ye holy Men, so earnest in your care, Of your own mighty instruments beware! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...CHRISTMAS EVERYWHERE by PHILLIPS BROOKS THE THREE FISHERS by CHARLES KINGSLEY THE JACQUERIE: SONG. THE HOUND by SIDNEY LANIER FLOWERS by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW WINTER SUNSET by EVA K. ANGLESBURG THE KNIGHTS: DEMOS REJUVENATED by ARISTOPHANES |