WHEN Abraham Lincoln was shoveled into the tombs, he forgot the copperheads and the assassin ... in the dust, in the cool tombs. And Ulysses Grant lost all thought of con men and Wall Street, cash and collateral turned ashes ... in the dust, in the cool tombs. Pocahontas' body, lovely as a poplar, sweet as a red haw in November or a pawpaw in May, did she wonder? does she remember? ... in the dust, in the cool tombs? Take any streetful of people buying clothes and groceries, cheering a hero or throwing confetti and blowing tin horns ... tell me if the lovers are losers ... tell me if any get more than the lovers ... in the dust ... in the cool tombs. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SOUVENIR by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON MOTHER AND SON by KAREN SWENSON TO A CHILD DURING SICKNESS by JAMES HENRY LEIGH HUNT SEVEN TIMES SEVEN [- LONGING FOR HOME] by JEAN INGELOW THE HERITAGE by JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL EXILED by EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY MONNA INNOMINATA, A SONNET OF SONNETS: 14 by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI |