LET down the bars, O Death! The tired flocks come in Whose bleating ceases to repeat, Whose wandering is done. Thine is the stillest night, Thine the securest fold; Too near thou art for seeking thee, Too tender to be told. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE LOVER COMFORTETH HIMSELF WITH THE WORTHINESS OF HIS LOVE by HENRY HOWARD THE CAPTAINS OF THE YEARS by ARTHUR RAYMOND MACDOUGALL JR. FAREWELL TO THE FARM by ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON TO HIM THAT WAS CRUCIFIED by WALT WHITMAN ODES: BOOK 1. ODE 1. PREFACE by MARK AKENSIDE WOMEN'S WAR THOUGHTS by MARY HUNTER AUSTIN |