WHETHER his loves were many or but two, Whether his heart grew strong or bled to waste, Whether he toyed with words as idlers do Or some unseasoned lines betray his haste, We enter here as to an empty house.. As pale folk from a far-off clime and date Peep into pictured halls, where the carouse Of mummied kings once mocked their certain fate. We gaze at signs he saw, but only guess How he read what we read...not bloom to fruit, Meal to moth's wing, sight to blind eye is less Recoverable! Time treads life underfoot: Black, dead, these words can warm us but as coal, Once, forest leaves, they murmured round his soul. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ASPATIA'S SONG, FR. THE MAID'S TRAEGDY by JOHN FLETCHER HEART'S-EASE by WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR TO A CYCLAMEN by WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR KNOW THYSELF by WILLIAM ARBUTHNOT FALLING STARS by PIERRE JEAN DE BERANGER THE GHOST OF ABEL; A RELATION IN THE VISIONS OF JEHOVAH by WILLIAM BLAKE |