AS the spark flares red in the ember Before the flame has fled, So the leaves in late September Flash fire ere they are dead; Earth spurns the thought of sighing, But shouts through all her nerves And in the hour of dying Summons her rich reserves. Thus may it be when weakly Upon my bed I lie, I would not leave it meekly As babe or bird might die, But telling love's old story Fast with my falling breath, In rich reserves of glory Oh, let me swoon in death. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE MASK by CLARISSA SCOTT DELANY OLD BLACK MEN by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON SONG OF THE SILENT LAND by JOHANN GAUDENZ VON SALIS-SEEWIS THE SHADOWS by FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN AGAMEMNON: CHORUS by AESCHYLUS TO HIS WIFE by DECIMUS MAGNUS AUSONIUS THE BABY-HOUSE by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD |