DEATH, thou'rt a cordial old and rare: Look how compounded, with what care! Time got his wrinkles reaping thee Sweet herbs from all antiquity. David to thy distillage went, Keats, and Gotama excellent, Omar Khayyam, and Chaucer bright, And Shakespeare for a king-delight. Then, Time, let not a drop be spilt: Hand me the cup whene'er thou wilt; 'T is thy rich stirrup-cup to me; I'll drink it down right smilingly. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TO E. L., ON HIS TRAVELS IN GREECE by ALFRED TENNYSON THE DAY OF JUDGEMENT; AN ODE ATTEMPTED IN ENGLISH SAPPHIC by ISAAC WATTS TO THE RAILROAD MEN by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS TANGLED TRAILS by GLADYS NAOMI ARNOLD LINES ADAPTED TO A FAVOURITE MILITARY AIR by JAMES HAY BEATTIE |