LANCE, shield, and sword relinquished, at his side A bead-roll, in his hand a clasped book, Or staff more harmless than a shepherd's crook, The war-worn Chieftain quits the world -- to hide His thin autumnal locks where Monks abide In cloistered privacy. But not to dwell In soft repose he comes: within his cell, Round the decaying trunk of human pride, At morn, and eve, and midnight's silent hour, Do penitential cogitations cling; Like ivy, round some ancient elm, they twine In grisly folds and strictures serpentine; Yet, while they strangle, a fair growth they bring, For recompence -- their own perennial bower. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SHELTERED GARDEN by HILDA DOOLITTLE WHERE SHALL THE BABY'S DIMPLE BE? by JOSIAH GILBERT HOLLAND THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE AT [OR AFTER] CORUNNA by CHARLES WOLFE TO THE KING OF THULE by HENRI ALLORGE ON A JUNIPER-TREE, CUT DOWN TO MAKE BUSKS by APHRA BEHN |