At the round earth's imagined corners, blow Your trumpets, angels, and arise, arise From death, you numberless infinities Of souls, and to your scattered bodies go, All whom the flood did, and fire shall, o'erthrow, All whom war, dearth, age, agues, tyrannies, Despair, law, chance, hath slain, and you whose eyes Shall behold God, and never taste death's woe. But let them sleep, Lord, and me mourn a space, For, if above all these, my sins abound, 'Tis late to ask abundance of thy grace, When we are there; here on this lowly ground, Teach me how to repent; for that's as good As if thou hadst sealed my pardon, with thy blood. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: THE UNKNOWN by EDGAR LEE MASTERS LA NOCHE TRISTE by ROBERT FROST SMALL COUNTRIES by JAMES GALVIN TO HENRY LINCOLN JOHNSON - LAWYER by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON DEAF HOUSE AGENT by KATHERINE MANSFIELD RICHARD BOOTH TO HIS SON JUNIUS BRUTUS by EDGAR LEE MASTERS PICKING AND CHOOSING by MARIANNE MOORE TO WHISTLER, AMERICAN; ON LOAN EXHIBIT OF PAINTINGS AT TATE GALLERY by EZRA POUND |