LORD of the living, when my race is run, Will that I pass beneath the risen sun; Suffer my sight to dim upon some scene Of Thy good green. Let my last pillow be the earth I love, With fair infinity of blue above; And fleeting, purple shadow of a cloud My only shroud. A little lark, above the Morning Star, Shall shrill the tidings of my end afar; The muffled music of a lone sheep-bell Shall be my knell. And where stone heroes trod the moor of old, Where bygone wolf howled round a granite fold, Hide Thou, beneath the heather's newborn light, My endless night. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...PARAPHRASE ON THOMAS A KEMPIS by ALEXANDER POPE A DUTCH PROVERB by MATTHEW PRIOR ESTRANGEMENT by WILLIAM WATSON PEARLS OF THE FAITH: 12. THE CREATOR by EDWIN ARNOLD THE LAY OF MR. COLT by WILLIAM EDMONSTOUNE AYTOUN COLONIAL SET by ALFRED GOLDSWORTHY BAILEY |