All men, the preacher saith, whate'er or whence Their increase walking through this world has been, Both those that gather out, or after glean, Or hold in simple fee of harvests dense, Though but perhaps a flowerless barren green, Barren with spots of sorrel, knot grass, spurge: Yet to one end their differing paths converge And all must render answer, here or hence. Lo! Death is at the doors, he crieth, with blows, But what to him unto whose feverish sense The stars tick audibly, and the wind's low surge In the pine, attended, tolls and throngs and grows On the dread ear, a thunder too profound For bearing, a Niagara of sound! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...LINES WRITTEN TO HIS WIFE [WHILE ON A VISIT TO UPPER INDIA] by REGINALD HEBER MOUNTAIN LAUREL by ALFRED NOYES THE AUTHOR'S EPITAPH, MADE BY HIMSELF by WALTER RALEIGH ODE TO THE PAST by WILLIAM EDMONSTOUNE AYTOUN THE OUTLAW'S SONG by JOANNA BAILLIE THE WEAVER by CHARLES GRANGER BLANDEN SONGS FOR MY MOTHER: 1. HER CLOTHES by ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH |