'TIS true—then why should I repine To see my life so fast decline? But why obscurely here alone, Where I am neither loved nor known? My state of health none care to learn; My life is here no soul's concern. And those with whom I now converse Without a tear will tend my hearse; Removed from kind Arbuthnot's aid, Who knows his art but not his trade, Preferring his regard for me Before his credit or his fee. Some formal visits, looks, and words, What mere humanity affords, I meet perhaps from three or four, From whom I once expected more; Which those who tend the sick for pay Can act as decently as they. But no obliging, tender friend To help at my approaching end; My life is now a burthen grown To others, ere it be my own. Ye formal weepers for the sick, In your last offices be quick; And spare my absent friends the grief To hear, yet give me no relief; Expired today, entombed tomorrow, When known, will save a double sorrow. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...LINES ON CARMEN SYLVA by EMMA LAZARUS FLUTE-PRIEST SONG FOR RAIN; CEREMONIAL AT THE SUN SPRING by AMY LOWELL SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: HILDRUP TUBBS by EDGAR LEE MASTERS GRACE FOR CHILDREN by ROBERT HERRICK STRANGE MEETINGS: 10 by HAROLD MONRO MUSIC IN CAMP by JOHN REUBEN THOMPSON |