There let us often wend our pensive way, There often pausing celebrate the past; For though indeed our BRASH be dead at last, Perchance his spirit, in some minor way, Nor pure immortal nor entirely dead, Contrives upon the farther shore of death To pick a rank subsistence, and for breath Breathes ague, and drinks creosote of lead, There, on the way to that infernal den, Where burst the flames forth thickly, and the sky Flares horrid through the murk methinks he doles Damned liquors out to Hellward-faring souls, And as his impotent anger ranges high Gibbers and gurgles at the shades of men. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TO-MORROW TO FRESH WOODS AND PASTURES NEW' by AMY LOWELL DR. SCUDDER'S CLINICAL LECTURE by EDGAR LEE MASTERS A NORTHERN SUBURB by JOHN DAVIDSON A THUNDER-STORM (2ND VERSION) by EMILY DICKINSON LINES; SUGGESTED BY GRAVES TWO ENGLISH SOLDIERS ON CONCORD by JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL |