I SHALL not care for it, I'm sure, The being dead, you know, my dears, And hanging primly on the wall— Just looking on for years and years! Ah, no, I'm sure I shall not like To be imprisoned there in paint; I, who love being up-to-date, Shall never care for being—quaint! Of course I'll do the proper thing, And hang serenely in my place Beside your great-great grandpapa— A wifely smile upon my face! And you will all look up to me— Believe, no doubt, I was a saint, For all my faults, of course, will be Quite blotted out by time and—paint! No doubt your honored parents, dears, Will point my portrait out and say: "Your great-great granny would be shocked— Things were so different in her day!" And I'll not say a word, nor smile— I'll look demure, show no suprise— But, dears, if you seek sympathy, I think you'll find it in my eyes! And if you stand and look at me, And, wistful, wonder if I knew The pain, the passion and the stress Of life, as they are felt by you— Come closer, dears, and never tell— To you a secret I'll entrust: @3Your flaming hearts have caught their fire From your great-great grandmother's dust!@1 | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SONGS OF EXPERIENCE: INTRODUCTION by WILLIAM BLAKE THE OLD VICARAGE, GRANTCHESTER by RUPERT BROOKE COUNTING THE BEATS by ROBERT RANKE GRAVES SONNET: 17. TO SIR HENRY VANE THE YOUNGER by JOHN MILTON TO EMMA by SOPHIA (RAYMOND) BURRELL IN THE GRASS by RICHARD EUGENE BURTON |