Whoever comes to shroud me, do not harm Nor question much That subtle wreath of hair, which crowns my arm; The mystery, the sign you must not touch, For 'tis my outward soul, Viceroy to that, which then to heaven being gone, Will leave this to control, And keep these limbs, her provinces, from dissolution. For if the sinewy thread my brain lets fall Through every part, Can tie those parts, and make me one of all; These hairs which upward grew, and strength and art Have from a better brain, Can better do it; except she meant that I By this should know my pain, As prisoners then are manacled, when they are condemned to die. Whate'er she meant by it, bury it with me, For since I am Love's martyr, it might breed idolatry, If into others' hands these relics came; As 'twas humility To afford to it all that a soul can do, So, 'tis some bravery, That since you would save none of me, I bury some of you. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A MONA LISA by ANGELINA WELD GRIMKE THE SONG OF HIAWATHA: HIAWATHA AND MUDJEKEEWIS by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW CURIOUSLY EVANESCENT by EVA K. ANGLESBURG AND THE DREAMERS OF DREAMS by JOHN OSCAR BECK THE GUEST OF PHINEUS by WILLIAM ROSE BENET BEHIND THE LINE by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN ON THE RANGE by BARCROFT HENRY BOAKE |