THEY came, you know, and told me you were dead, Those little men who never dreamed of pain, "There's not much racing news to-day," I said, I said, "I hope it will be fine again." And then, I think, I climbed a certain hill And saw two plough-shares and a rusty bin, And further on, beyond John Farmer's mill, A fence in which five rails had fallen in; But sixty-two I counted upright still. And all the time my feet were saying "dead," Beating it slowly, beating through my head. I saw it all. I saw the little room In which, they said, they laid you; to and fro I heard the creeper rustling, and the boom Of some old hornet on the lawn below. I saw "The Stag at Evening" by the door, And, though I struggled hard, my eye was drawn On past those old, red ink-stains on the floor, On past the table, and "The Wounded Fawn," To that bright hair . . . . No, I was wrong before. Look at those railings, there are sixty-three. I missed the one beyond laburnum-tree. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...DOWN THE BROOK by ROBERT FROST THE RAT by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON ACCOMPLISHED FACTS by CARL SANDBURG BEFORE THE FLOWERS OF FRIENDSHIP FADED FADED: 21 by GERTRUDE STEIN THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD: PASTORAL 3. THE HAPPY COUNTRYMAN by NICHOLAS BRETON JOHN KEATS (1) by GEORGE GORDON BYRON |