WHEN we had met within the fields of pain, Odorous of roses in the falling rain, "Since old is become new, The sword for me," said you. When we had heard the lute that sings of death, The aching sweetness of its underbreath, "Regret is better dead; The sword for me," I said. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TO HIS WIFE ON THE 16TH ANNIVERSARY OF HER WEDDING DAY, WITH A RING by SAMUEL BISHOP THE PRAIRIES by WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT ON THE DAY OF THE DESTRUCTION OF JERUSALEM BY TITUS by GEORGE GORDON BYRON TO THOMAS MOORE (1) by GEORGE GORDON BYRON THE SISTERS by MARY REYNOLDS ALDIS |