AH, Postumus, we all must go: This keen North-Easter nips my shoulder; My strength begins to fail; I know You find me older; I've made my Will. Dear, faithful friend -- My Muse's friend and not my purse's! Who still would hear and still commend My tedious verses, -- How will you live -- of these deprived? I've learned your candid soul. The venal, -- The sordid friend had scarce survived A test so penal; But you -- Nay, nay, 'tis so. The rest Are not as you: you hide your merit; You, more than all, deserve the best True friends inherit; -- Not gold, -- that hearts like yours despise; Not 'spacious dirt' (your own expression), No; but the rarer, dearer prize -- The Life's Confession! You catch my thought? What! Can't you guess? You, you alone, admired my Cantos; -- I've left you, P., my whole MS., In three portmanteaus! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...DEATH OF THE DAY by WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR VENICE; SONNET by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW NEXT DAY; IN THE TRAIN by LAWRENCE ALMA-TADEMA LINES ON EXODUS 3:14 by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD PSALM 128 by OLD TESTAMENT BIBLE GIVE NOT WITH YOUR HANDS by MACKNIGHT BLACK |