I remember rooms that have had their part In the steady slowing down of the heart. The room in Paris, the room at Geneva, The little damp room with the seaweed smell, And that ceaseless maddening sound of the tide- Rooms where for good or for ill-things died. But there is the room where we (two) lie dead, Though every morning we seem to wake and might just as well seem to sleep again As we shall somewhere in the other quieter, dustier bed Out there in the sun-in the rain. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...DEAF HOUSE AGENT by KATHERINE MANSFIELD SONNET - REALITIES: 1 by EDWARD ESTLIN CUMMINGS MARY'S LAMB by SARAH JOSEPHA BUELL HALE ULTIMA THULE: THE CHAMBER OVER THE GATE by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW THE ORIGIN OF DIDACTIC POETRY by JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL THE AEOLIAN HARP; AT THE SURF INN by HERMAN MELVILLE TO SENECA LAKE by JAMES GATES PERCIVAL |