This is the man who classified the bits Of his friends' hells into a pigeonhole - He hung each disparate anguish on the spits Parboiled and roasted in his own withering soul. God give him peace! He gave none other peace. His conversation glided on the brain Like a razor honing in promise of one's decease - Smooth like cold steel, yet feeling without pain; And as his art, disjected from his mind, Was utterly a tool, so it possessed him; A passionate devil, informed in humankind, It turned on him - he's dead. Shall we detest him? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...HOLY POEMS: 2 by GEORGE BARKER THOSE VARIOUS SCALPELS by MARIANNE MOORE THE CAVALIER'S SONG by WILLIAM MOTHERWELL THE HORSE AND HIS RIDER by JOANNA BAILLIE MY GARDEN by KATHARINE CANBY BALDERSTON THE BABY-HOUSE by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD |