THE Spirit of Earth with still, restoring hands, Mid ruin moves, in glimmering chasm gropes, And mosses mantle and the bright flower opes; But Death the Ploughman wanders in all lands, And to the last of Earth his furrow stands. The grave is never hidden: fearful hopes Follow the dead upon the fading slopes, And there wild memories meet upon the sands. When willows fling their banners to the plain, When rumor of winds and sound of sudden showers Disturb the dream of winter, all in vain The grasses hurry to the graves, the flowers Toss their wild torches on their windy towers; Yet are the bleak graves lonely in the rain. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...HOUSES OF DREAMS by SARA TEASDALE THE PLAYERS ASK FOR A BLESSING ON THE PSALTERIES AND ON THEMSELVES by WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS A CHILD'S PRAYER [OR, HYMN] by MATILDA BARBARA BETHAM-EDWARDS EPITAPH ON AN ARMY OF MERCENARIES by ALFRED EDWARD HOUSMAN A ST. HELENA LULLABY by RUDYARD KIPLING ON A FLY DRINKING FROM HIS CUP by WILLIAM OLDYS VERSES ON SEEING THE SPEAKER ASLEEP IN HIS CHAIR by WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED |