The swallow leaves her nest, The soul my weary breast; But therefore let the rain On my grave Fall pure; for why complain? Since both will come again O'er the wave. The wind dead leaves and snow Doth hurry to and fro; And, once, a day shall break O'er the wave, When a storm of ghosts shall shake The dead, until they wake In the grave. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...LAUGHTER (YOUTH SPEAKS TO HIS OWN OLD AGE) by CONRAD AIKEN SCHOOLS OF LITTLE FISH by MARVIN BELL TO A DEAD LOVER by LOUISE BOGAN CAVE PAINTING by HAYDEN CARRUTH REGARDING CHAINSAWS by HAYDEN CARRUTH |