'This house is worth a thousand pounds, You'll not be very poor; My pictures and my books,' said I — 'May fetch a thousand more.' But I, who thought to see her smile, With nothing strange or wild, Turned round to find her limp and cold, And crying like a child. It seems that I, a living man, Though life was but a linger — Was worth a thousand cold, dead hands With a fortune for each finger. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...OLD TRAILS by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON EARTH'S IMMORTALITIES: FAME by ROBERT BROWNING THE CHRONICLE; A BALLAD by ABRAHAM COWLEY NO BABY IN THE HOUSE by CLARA G. DOLLIVER SARRAZINE'S SONG, FR. CHAITIVEL by MARIE DE FRANCE |