Let you not say of me when I am old, In pretty worship of my withered hands Forgetting who I am, and how the sands Of such a life as mine run red and gold Even to the ultimate sifting dust, "Behold, Here walketh passionless age!" -- for there expands A curious superstition in these lands, And by its leave some weightless tales are told. In me no lenten wicks watch out the night; I am the booth where Folly holds her fair; Impious no less in ruin than in strength, When I lie crumbled to the earth at length, Let you not say, "Upon this reverend site The righteous groaned and beat their breasts in prayer." | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE IRISH RAPPAREES; A PEASANT BALLAD OF 1691 by CHARLES GAVAN DUFFY EXHORTATION TO PRAYER by MARGARET MERCER SOJOURN IN THE WHALE by MARIANNE MOORE PICTURE-SHOW by SIEGFRIED SASSOON AFTER SUNSET by WILLIAM ALLINGHAM PENTRIDGE BY THE RIVER by WILLIAM BARNES THE HUNTER'S SONG by WILLIAM BASSE YESTERDAY by CHARLES GRANGER BLANDEN ON THE LATE CAPT. GROSE'S PEREGRINATIONS THRO' SCOTLAND by ROBERT BURNS |