When those we love die, Not for what was, fall Desolate tears. No, our hearts bleed worse For days in which we to them Hoped to be better Than ever we were. Death, like a wordling, Robs the poor future, Not the rich past, Drains lure and glamour from Hours that were coming on, Gay with fond glances Good with long talks. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TO FLUSH, MY DOG by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING TWO WITCHES: 2. THE PAUPER WITCH OF GRAFTON by ROBERT FROST TO THE MEMORY OF MY BELOVED MASTER WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE by BEN JONSON MACGREGOR'S GATHERING by WALTER SCOTT HOLYHEAD, SEPTEMBER 25, 1727 by JONATHAN SWIFT THE ROSE I GREW by JULIA S. ANDERSON |