AROUND the vase of Life at your slow pace He has not crept, but turned it with his hands, And all its sides already understands. There, girt, one breathes alert for some great race; Whose road runs far by sands and fruitful space; Who laughs, yet through the jolly throng has pass'd; Who weeps, nor stays for weeping; who at last, A youth, stands somewhere crowned, with silent face. And he has filled this vase with wine for blood, With blood for tears, with spice for burning vow, With watered flowers for buried love most fit; And would have cast it shattered to the flood, Yet in Fate's name has kept it whole; which now Stands empty till his ashes fall in it. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN: THE FIRST DAY: ROBERT OF SICILY by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW THREE FRIENDS OF MINE: 5; SONNET by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW THE HOUSE OF LIFE: 31. HER GIFTS by DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI SAINT BRIDE'S LULLABY by WILLIAM SHARP TO MY TOTEM by HENRY CHARLES BEECHING A LUNCHEON (THOMAS HARDY ENTERTAINS THE PRINCE OF WALES) by HENRY MAXIMILIAN BEERBOHM AFTER HARVEST by WILLIAM STANLEY BRAITHWAITE SUMMING UP ITALY; INSCRIBED TO INTELLIGENT PUBLICS OUT OF IT by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING |