We sat in rows listening to your poems being read at your funeral. I heard them as you would have read them. He's not dead, he could never die, I said to myself. This stuff's not for funerals, whoever you are, reading from the pulpit in a priest's garb. You are dead wrong, the man still is with us, bleating his lines. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A FAVOURITE SCENE; RECALLED ON LOOKING AT BIRKET FOSTER'S LANDSCAPE by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN THE WESTERN ROAD by EDWIN JAMES BRADY SPRING SONG IN THE CITY by ROBERT WILLIAMS BUCHANAN DESERTED FARMS by RICHARD EUGENE BURTON WAR NOTES: 1. 'EXTRAS' by RICHARD EUGENE BURTON RAISING HUBBARD SQUASH IN VERMONT by DANIEL LEAVENS CADY |