They say wild creatures hide themselves. And seek a quiet place to die: Would that my end were such as theirs, So strange, so wild a thing am I. Let no man sneer at me, and say – 'We know this poet hides with care; Inside the Abbey's sacred walls He hides himself – if anywhere.' I, who have lived for Nature's love, Think nothing of your sculptured stones – Who sees a dingle lined with moss, And one small row of clean, white bones? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SUGGESTED BY THE COVER OF A VOLUME OF KEATS'S POEMS by AMY LOWELL CHILD MARGARET by CARL SANDBURG THE SLEEP by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING AN OLD WOMAN OF THE ROADS by PADRAIC COLUM SONGS ON THE VOICES OF BIRDS; SEA-MEWS IN WINTER TIME by JEAN INGELOW |