IMMORTAL Ben is dead; and as that ball On Ida toss'd, so is his crown by all The infantry of wit. Vain priests! that chair Is only fit for his true son and heir. Reach here the laurel. Randolph, 'tis thy praise: Thy naked skull shall well become the bays. See Daphne courts thy ghost: and, spite of fate, Thy poems shall be poet-laureate. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...COMING DOWN TO THE DESERT AT LORDBURG, N.M. by HAYDEN CARRUTH DOWN THE BROOK by ROBERT FROST A REPUBLIC! by EDGAR LEE MASTERS NORTH WIND TO DUTIFUL BEAST MIDWAY BETWEEN DIAL & FOOT OF GARDEN CLOCK by MARIANNE MOORE HOMAGE TO SEXTUS PROPERTIUS: 9 by EZRA POUND |