We lay red roses on his grave, speak sorrowfully of him as if he were but newly dead. And so it seems to us this raw spring day, though years before we two were born he was a young poet dead. Poet of our youth is cri du coeur our own, his verses "in a broken tongue" beguiling as an elder brother's antic lore. Their sad blackface lilt and croon survive him like the happy look (subliminal of victim, dying man) a summer's tintypes hold. The roses flutter in the wind; we weight their stems with stones, then drive away. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A VALEDICTION: OF MY NAME IN THE WINDOW by JOHN DONNE THE MESSAGE, FR. THE FAIR MAID OF THE EXCHANGE by THOMAS HEYWOOD ASTROPHEL AND STELLA: 83 by PHILIP SIDNEY LINES FROM A PLUTOCRATIC POETASTER TO A DITCH-DIGGER by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS NOCTURNE by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH MORTAL JEALOUSY by PHILIP AYRES HINC LACHRIMAE; OR THE AUTHOR TO AURORA: 2 by WILLIAM BOSWORTH |