"Listen, the last stroke of death's noon has struck -- The plague is come," a gnashing Madman said, And laid him down straightway upon his bed. His writhed hands did at the linen pluck; Then all is over. With a careless chuck Among his fellows he is cast. How sped His spirit matters little: many dead Make men hard-hearted. -- "Place him on the truck. Go forth into the burial-ground and find Room at so much a pitful for so many. One thing is to be done; one thing is clear: Keep thou back from the hot unwholesome wind, That it infect not thee." Say, is there any Who mourneth for the multitude dead here? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE DAY OF JUDGEMENT by JONATHAN SWIFT THERE WILL COME SOFT RAINS' by SARA TEASDALE HOMAGE TO QUINTUS SEPTIMIUS FLORENTIS CHRISTIANUS: TROY by AGATHIAS SCHOLASTICUS THE BABY-HOUSE by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD ROMANCE OF BRUNETTES AND BLONDES by JACQUES BARON |