NO round boy-satyr, racing from the mere, Shakes on the mountain-lawn his dripping head This many a May, your sister being dead, Ye Christian folk! your sister great and dear. To breathe her name, to think how sad-sincere Was all her searching, straying, dreaming, dread, How of her natural night was Plato bred, A star to keep the ways of honor clear, Who will not sigh for her? who can forget Not only unto camped Israel, Nor martyr-maids that as a bridegroom met The Roman lion's roar, salvation fell? To Him be most of praise that He is yet Your God thro' gods not inaccessible. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE CARD-DEALER by DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI NOCTURNE IN A DESERTED BRICKYARD by CARL SANDBURG THE OLD BUFFALO TRAIL by ISABEL ANDERSON TO MY TOTEM by HENRY CHARLES BEECHING THE THREE SORROWS by JULIEN AUGUSTE PELAGE BRIZEUX DELIVER US FROM ... by AMELIA JOSEPHINE BURR |