Of many things adulterate: No penny, yet the friend of fate; Power enough but naught of will, Thus free and yet a prisoner still. Full hearted, yet without full spirit, A breast for friends–no comrade near it; Imagination—no ideas, Love, without the lip that cheers. Idleness, but no repose. In him virtue wore vice's clothes. Blasé although insatiate, Dead, though not cured of living yet. Spoiler of life, inopportune; Parched body, head a tipsy moon. Hoping, the future he'd deny; Deceased while waiting life to try He lived while waiting but to die. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...WATERS OF BABYLON by LOUIS UNTERMEYER THE PARTING OF THE WAYS by JOSEPH BENSON GILDER CYNTHIA SPORTING by PHILIP AYRES THE UNITED STATES SUPREME COURT by HARRY RANDOLPH BLYTHE SONNETS OF SEVEN CITIES: NEW YORK by BERTON BRALEY EPIGRAM ON THE FEUDS BETWEEN HANDEL AND BONONCINI by JOHN BYROM |