WHERE is the boyish Poet Who used with you to write? Alas! his songs are ended: I dug his grave last night. Beneath a flowering myrtle, His face against the East, I buried him at midnight; Without a book or priest. He had grown older, graver, -- The iron hand of Time Had chilled the early laughter That rippled in his rhyme. He had grown graver, sadder, Before the darkening years; His voice, once clear and joyous, Took evermore of tears. What should he do but dwindle, What should he do but go? He could not sing the summer, He would not sing the snow. His lyre was carved for pleasure, His lot was cast in pain; Till this gray world grow brighter, He may not rise again! So, 'neath a flowering myrtle Without a book or priest, I buried him at midnight, His face against the East. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...MADRIGAL: 109 by MICHELANGELO BUONARROTI AN EPILOGUE TO THE STEALING OF DIONYSOS: IACHOS SPEAKING by GORDON BOTTOMLEY BRITANNIA'S PASTORALS: BOOK 1. THE THIRD SONG by WILLIAM BROWNE (1591-1643) MUSINGS by MICHAEL J. CAMPIONE A TWILIGHT MOTH by MADISON JULIUS CAWEIN SEVEN SONNETS ON THE THOUGHT OF DEATH: 4 by ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH |