LORD of the living, when my race is run, Will that I pass beneath the risen sun; Suffer my sight to dim upon some scene Of Thy good green. Let my last pillow be the earth I love, With fair infinity of blue above; And fleeting, purple shadow of a cloud My only shroud. A little lark, above the Morning Star, Shall shrill the tidings of my end afar; The muffled music of a lone sheep-bell Shall be my knell. And where stone heroes trod the moor of old, Where bygone wolf howled round a granite fold, Hide Thou, beneath the heather's newborn light, My endless night. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...INTERRACIAL by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON UNWANTED MEMORY by CLARENCE MAJOR DEMOS by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON OCTAVES: 2 by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON REMBRANDT TO REMBRANDT by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON VILLANELLE OF CHANGE by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON |