HERE lie I, once a witty fair, Ill-loving and ill-loved; Whose heedless beauty was my snare, Whose wit my folly proved. Reader, should any curious stay To ask my luckless name, Tell them the grave that hides my clay Conceals me from my shame. Tell them I mourned for guilt of sin More than for pleasure spent: Tell them, whate'er my morn had been, My noon was penitent. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE WANDERER: A ROCOCO STUDY (FIRST VERSION) by WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS BY THE ALMA RIVER by DINAH MARIA MULOCK CRAIK THE AMERICAN FLAG by JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE MINIVER CHEEVY by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON THE OLD BURYING-GROUND by JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER THE COMMON LOT by ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH |