OUR night repast was ended: quietness Return'd again: the boys were in their books; The old man slept, and by him slept his dog: My thoughts were in the dream-land of tomorrow: A knock is heard; anon the maid brings in A black-seal'd letter that some over-work'd Late messenger leaves. Each one looks round and scans, But lifts it not, and I at last am told To read it. "Died here at his house this day" -- Some well-known name not needful here to print, Follows at length. Soon all return again To their first stillness, but the old man coughs, And cries, "Ah, he was always like the grave, And still he was but young!" while those who stand On life's green threshold smile within themselves, Thinking how very old he was to them, And what long years, what memorable deeds, Are theirs in prospect! Little care have they What old man dies, what child is born, indeed; Their day is coming, and their sun shall shine! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...WHAT SHALL IT PROFIT? by WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS THE HAUNTED PALACE by EDGAR ALLAN POE IN AN ARTIST'S STUDIO by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI WHEN by SARAH CHAUNCEY WOOLSEY TO A GIPSY CHILD BY THE SEA-SHORE by MATTHEW ARNOLD DESPISED AND REJECTED by KATHARINE LEE BATES |