Shelley is dead, and Keats is dead,—and who Will take to-day the poet's harp and sing? Whose voice shall make the mountain-summits ring Or sound at night beneath the moon-lit blue?— Great souls are dead. Must English song die too, Die out and perish,—while our sea-waves bring Still their same ceaseless chant, and ceaseless spring Robes the sweet English flower-filled vales anew? Ah! while one English rose blooms red at morn Still shall fresh English deathless song be born, Pure and untrammelled as the English skies: And while one English woman still is fair, Music shall sound upon the English air:— Song is not dead, till the last woman dies. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...IN MEMORIAM A.H.H.: 67 by ALFRED TENNYSON THE CAPTAIN; A LEGEND OF THE NAVY by ALFRED TENNYSON THE COMPLAINT OF THE FAIR ARMOURESS by FRANCOIS VILLON MYSELF by HARRIET ELLEN (GRANNIS) AREY HYMN OF FREEDDOM by MICHAEL JOSEPH BARRY THE ANVIL OF SOULS by WILLIAM ROSE BENET NIMROD: 7 by ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH TO HIS WORTHY FRIEND AND INGENIOUS FRIEND, THE AUTHOR by WILLIAM BROWNE (1591-1643) |