When this young Land has reached its wrinkled prime, And we are gone and all our songs are done, And naught is left unchanged beneath the sun. What other singers shall the womb of Time Bring forth to reap the sunny slopes of rhyme ? For surely till the thread of life be spun The world shall not lack poets, though but one Make lonely music like a vesper chime Above the heedless turmoil of the street. What new strange voices shall be given to these, What richer accents of melodious breath ? Yet shall they, baffled, lie at Nature's feet Searching the volume of her mysteries, And vainly question the fixed eyes of Death. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE FIRST PROCLAMATION OF MILES STANDISH [NOVEMBER 23, 1620] by MARGARET JUNKIN PRESTON THE FLIGHT OF LOVE by PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY HE WONDERS WHETHER TO PRAISE OR TO BLAME HER by RUPERT BROOKE THE RUBY THROAT by RUTH BUTLER BROWN HOPE AND TEARS by JOHN VANCE CHENEY POEM OF CIRCUMSTANCE by JEAN COCTEAU |