We lay red roses on his grave, speak sorrowfully of him as if he were but newly dead. And so it seems to us this raw spring day, though years before we two were born he was a young poet dead. Poet of our youth is cri du coeur our own, his verses "in a broken tongue" beguiling as an elder brother's antic lore. Their sad blackface lilt and croon survive him like the happy look (subliminal of victim, dying man) a summer's tintypes hold. The roses flutter in the wind; we weight their stems with stones, then drive away. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...WAITING - BOTH by THOMAS HARDY TO ATHENA by ALCAEUS OF MYTILENE FOR THE MASTER'S SAKE by MINNIE MASON BEEBE THE YOUNG BROTHER by WILLIAM ROSE BENET PSALM 27. DOMINIUS ILLUMINATO by OLD TESTAMENT BIBLE THE FOUR ZOAS: NIGHTS THE SEVENTH AND EIGHTH by WILLIAM BLAKE |