To the lean, clean land, to the last cold height, You shall come with a whickering breath, From the depths of despair or the depths of delight, Stript stark to the wind of death. And whether you're sinless, or whether you've sinned, It's useless to whimper and whine; For the lean, clean blade of the cut-throat wind Will slit your weasand, and mine. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TWO WITCHES: 1. THE WITCH OF COOS by ROBERT FROST IN MEMORIAM A.H.H.: 5 by ALFRED TENNYSON TASTE, AN EPISTLE TO A YOUNG CRITIC by JOHN ARMSTRONG THERE IS NO LOVING AFTER DEATH by ASCLEPIADES OF SAMOS LINES WRITTEN ... ONE WHO HAD WATCHED .. AMERICAN & FRENCH REVOLUTIONS by THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES |