Quick, get him into his grave, he was a gambler and a waster, indifferent to pain in others, forty years of it, his wife made ill of it, his children blighted, lives a jumble and a toss. He lived to see one die of it. Rich, brown loam wasted on his coffin. What could grow from it? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...CONTRA MORTEM: THE STONE by HAYDEN CARRUTH THE DAY OF THE DEAD SOLDIERS; MARY 30, 1869 by EMMA LAZARUS READING WHITMAN IN A TOILET STALL by TIMOTHY LIU MONODY ON THE DEATH OF WILLIAM MARION REEDY by EDGAR LEE MASTERS IMPRESSIONS OF FRANCOIS-MARIE AROUET (DE VOLTAIRE) by EZRA POUND COOPER SQUARE by KAREN SWENSON I LOOK IN MY HEART by SARA TEASDALE |