When the wind storms by with a shout, and the stern sea-caves Rejoice in the tramp and the roar of onsetting waves, Then, then, it comes home to the heart that the top of life Is the passion that burns the blood in the act of strife -- Till you pity the dead down there in their quiet graves. But to drowse with the fen behind and the fog before, When the rain-rot spreads, and a tame sea mumbles the shore, Not to adventure, none to fight, no right and no wrong, Sons of the Sword heart-sick for a stave of your sire's old song -- O, you envy the blessed dead that can live no more! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ON THE SLAIN AT CHICKAMAUGA by HERMAN MELVILLE MANHATTAN ARMING by WALT WHITMAN A JEWISH FAMILY; IN A SMALL VALLEY OPPOSITE ST. GOAR by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH BUBBLING WINE by ABU ZAKARIYYA THE FLIGHT OF THE WAR-EAGLE by OBADIAH CYRUS AURINGER CAELIA: SONNETS: 5 by WILLIAM BROWNE (1591-1643) |