THE wheat while still unripe the sickle spares, No vat the tender vine through summer fears, And drinks the morning dews. And I, as lovely and as young as he, Although some present pain and grief may be, To die so soon refuse. Is it for me to die who peaceful sleep And peaceful wake? who never learned to weep As yet by night or day; Whose very sight made all beholders glad, And in this dismal place brows dark and sad Can almost change to gay. So far is life's glad journey from the end, That the first tree of all that o'er it bend, Its shade still round me throws. Scarce has begun for me life's joyous feast, My eager lips have scarce the goblet pressed, Which in my hand o'erflows. O death! you need not haste; begone! begone! Go solace hearts that shame and fear have known, And hopeless woes beset. Still Pales has for me his grassy ways, Love has its kisses, and the Muse her lays-- I will not die as yet. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...EPISTLE TO AUGUSTA by GEORGE GORDON BYRON CHRISTMAS CAROL by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR THE GRASSHOPPER; TO MY NOBLE FRIEND MR. CHARLES COTTON by RICHARD LOVELACE TO GIOVANNI DA PISTOIA ON THE PAINTING OF THE SISTINE CHAPEL, 1509 by MICHELANGELO BUONARROTI SOJOURN IN THE WHALE by MARIANNE MOORE THE SLEEPING BEAUTY by SAMUEL ROGERS A ROW IN AN OMNIBUS BOX; A LEGEND OF THE HAYMARKET by RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM |