THEY come, sweet maids and men with shining tribute, Garlands and gifts, cymbals and songs of praise. ... How can they know I have been dead, Beloved, These many mournful days? Or that my delicate dreaming soul lies trampled Like crushed ripe fruit, chance-trodden of your feet, And how you flung the throbbing heart that loved you To serve wild dogs for meat? They bring me saffron veils and silver sandals Rich crowns of honour to adorn my head— For none save you may know the tragic secret, O Love, that I am dead! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE FLOATING MORMON by KAREN SWENSON DICKENS IN CAMP by FRANCIS BRET HARTE EPITAPH ON THE TOMB OF SIR EDWARD GILES AND HIS WIFE by ROBERT HERRICK TO A YOUNG FRIEND LEARNING TO PLAY THE FLUTE by JOHN GARDINER CALKINS BRAINARD THE ENDLESS BATTLE by BERTON BRALEY KING PHILIP'S MEN by AUDREY ALEXANDRA BROWN |