My days are but the tombs of buried hours; Which tombs are hidden in the piled years; But from the mounds there spring up many flowers, Whose beauty well repays their cost of tears. Time, like a sexton, pileth mould on mould, Minutes on minutes till the tombs are high; But from the dust there fall some grains of gold, And the dead corpse leaves what will never die -- It may be but a thought, the nursling seed Of many thoughts, of many a high desire; Some little act that stirs a noble deed, Like breath rekindling a smouldering fire: They only live who have not lived in vain, For in their works their life returns again. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A DISCRETE LOVE POEM by JAMES GALVIN DRIVING INTO LARAMIE by JAMES GALVIN GEOMETRY IS THE MIND OF GOD by JAMES GALVIN SURFACES AND MASKS; 12 by CLARENCE MAJOR IS YOUR TOWN NINEVEH? by MARIANNE MOORE A BALLAD OF WHITECHAPEL by ISAAC ROSENBERG |