ALAS! 'tis death consoles and makes us live; Death, life's sole aim--sole hope of man's estate, Which, like a dram, can cheer, intoxicate, And lend us heart till eve to plod and strive. Through storm, frost, snow, some gleam it still can give Our black horizon to illuminate; 'Tis the famed inn, where rest, sleep, food await. So read we, all tired pilgrims, who arrive. It is an angel, whose magnetic hand Gives quiet sleep, and dreams of ecstasy, And strews a bed for naked folk and poor. 'Tis the god's prize, the mystic granary, The poor man's purse, and his old native land, And of the unknown skies the opening door. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE STATE OF WYOMING by KAREN SWENSON THE GHOSTS OF THE BUFFALOES by NICHOLAS VACHEL LINDSAY GARDEN DAYS: 7. THE GARDENER by ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON A PENNY'S WORTH OF POESY by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS DUNCAN WEIR by ALEXANDER ANDERSON THE STRING AROUND MY FINGER by JOHN GARDINER CALKINS BRAINARD |